But before he could bring a hand down resoundingly on the curvature of taut coveralls, Randall drifted in on the scene.
Still laughing, Carol straightened and announced, "Saved—by the great, white-haired protector."
Randall grinned benignly, lighted his pipe and stared out the port. "Couldn't help hearing your conversation about the horror of warfare. I've seen all the documentary tapes. It was rough."
"Thank God it's a closed book," Carol said seriously.
"But, is it? There's still a large and articulate school that regards armed conflict as an instinctive human mechanism."
"We've had no war in two hundred years," Stewart said.
"Only because political subdivisions haven't had time for one. The instinct is blurred as a result of our expanding into a vacuum."
"I see." Carol's eyes strained with disillusionment. "And the question is—what happens when we run out of galaxy?"
"Fat chance." Stewart laughed. "We've got a few billion years to go before we find ourselves short on worlds."