* * * * *
Well, to make a short story longer, that happened the first day out
of Long Island Spaceport. Tempus, as the old Romans liked to remark,
fidgetted. I spent the working hours of the next two days trying to
get that confounded instrument of mine operating; I spent my off hours
shuttling back and forth between the bridge and the brig.
I had the pleasure--and, boy! you'd better know I mean it--of meeting
Diane Hanson. She was a rag, a bone of contention and a hank of hair,
but if she'd snapped her fingers I would have jumped out the spacelock
and brought her back a handful of galaxies. She had a voice that made
me feel like my backbone was charging .30 amps, and when my eyes met
hers my knees went all wobbly.
But her heart belonged to the baddy in the hoosegow. And she didn't
care who knew it--except the Old Man. She asked me, "He's all right,
Sparks, he's comfortable?"
"He's comfortable enough," I told her. "But he's as restless as a
squirrel in a petrified forest. He's been pacing his room so much that
he's not only got corns, but he's got corns on his corns."
She said wistfully, "If Dad would only be reasonable. Sparks, do you
think that if I went to him and told him everything--?"