One thing you had to admit about her books. They may have been dime novels, but they weren't synthetic. If Annabella C. Flowers wrote a novel, and the locale was the desert of Mars, she packed her carpet bag and hopped a liner for Craterville. If she cooked up a feud between two expeditions on Callisto, she went to Callisto.
She was the most completely delightful crackpot I had ever known.
"What happened to Guns for Ganymede?" I asked. "That was the title of your last, wasn't it?"
Grannie spilled a few shreds of Martian tobacco onto a paper and deftly rolled herself a cigarette.
"It wasn't Guns, it was Pistols; and it wasn't Ganymede, it was Pluto."
I grinned. "All complete, I'll bet, with threats against the universe and beautiful Earth heroines dragged in by the hair."
"What else is there in science fiction?" she demanded. "You can't have your hero fall in love with a bug-eyed monster."
Up on the wall a clock chimed the hour. The old woman jerked to her feet.
"I almost forgot, Billy-boy. I'm due at the Satellite Theater in ten minutes. Come on, you're going with me."