"You not only gotta navigate," I replied, "you gotta navigate well."
"Now listen—"
"Now listen, nothing," I screeched. "Not only will this bust up Dear Old Dudley's beer combine but it will also be a wonderful, beautiful, perfect demonstration of—"
"Of what?" asked Outhouse enticingly.
"Never mind," I said cunningly, "we'll let that take care of itself when the time comes."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," said Listless, who got his name because he's lazy, though he says it's because he can hold his liquor, "he's got another half throttled idea which means I'll be back to work at the old slipstick."
"That's the trouble with you, Listless," I said haughtily. "You're limited to the depth of an astroplex navigator. Now take the thoughts of a real scientist." Here I strutted a bit. "You never could understand anything deeper than Arctic Nights. But a brain—like me—" I added modestly. "People will stand and point in awe when—"
"The model scientist," sneered Lomack, "meaning of course, a small imitation of the real thing."
I let out a howl and went for him. We were all set for a nice scrap when Murphy broke it up.
"Now," he said, "if you two specimens of would-be manhood are going to shower and dress, get to it. I gotta date."