"A mucker, I think would be low enough; and, from your build, and obvious physical strength, the logical job."
"Mucker?"
"One who skoufers ore in the mine. Nor can we make any exception in your case as to the routines of induction and transportation."
"Of course not."
"Take this slip to Mr. Calkins, in Room 6217. He will run you through the mill."
And that night, in an obscure boarding-house, Mr. George Washington Jones, after a meticulous Service Special survey in every direction, reached a large and somewhat grimy hand into a screened receptacle in his battered suitcase and touched a Lens.
"Clio?" The lovely mother of their wonderful children appeared in his mind. "Made it, sweetheart, no suspicion at all. No more Lensing for a while—not too long, I hope—so ... so-long, Clio."
"Take it easy, Spud darling, and be careful." Her tone was light, but she could not conceal a stark background of fear. "Oh, I wish I could go, too!"
"I wish you could, Tootie." The linked minds flashed back to what the two had done together in the red opacity of Nevian murk; on Nevia's mighty, watery globe—but that kind of thinking would not do. "But the boys will keep in touch with me and keep you posted. And besides, you know how hard it is to get a baby-sitter!"