"Oh, _that_," said Vern. "Yeah. Just a little, uh, something to do
with the ship. Say, Major, here's the bar. Real scotch, see? Look at
the label!"
The Major glanced at him with faint contempt--well, he'd had the pick
of the greatest collection of high-priced liquor stores in the world
for ten years, so no wonder. But he allowed Vern to press a drink on
him.
And the typewriter kept rattling:
LOOKS LIKE RAIN ANY MINUTE NOW HOO BOY IM GLAD I WONT BE IN THOSE
WHIRLYBIRDS WHEN THE STORM STARTS SAY VERN WHY DONT YOU EVER ANSWER ME
Q Q ISNT IT ABOUT TIME TO TAKE OFF XXX I MEAN GET UNDER WEIGH Q Q
Some of the "clerks, typists, domestic personnel and others"--that was
the way they were listed on the T/O; it was only coincidence that the
Major had married them all--were staring at the typewriter.
"Drinks!" Vern called nervously. "Come on, girls! Drinks!"
* * * * *
The Major poured himself a stiff shot and asked: "What _is_ that
thing? A teletype or something?"
"That's right," Vern said, trailing after him as the Major wandered
over to inspect it.
I GIVE THOSE BOILERS ABOUT TEN MORE MINUTES SAM WELL WHAT ABOUT IT Q Q
READY TO SHOVE OFF Q Q
The Major said, frowning faintly: "Ah, that reminds me of something.
Now what is it?"
"More scotch?" Vern cried. "Major, a little more scotch?"
The Major ignored him, scowling. One of the "clerks, typists" said:
"Honey, you know what it is? It's like that pross you had, remember?
It was on our wedding night, and you'd just got it, and you kept
asking it to tell you limericks."
The Major snapped his fingers. "Knew I'd get it," he glowed. Then
abruptly he scowled again and turned to face Vern and me. "Say--" he
began.