"But say—listen—what's this all about, anyway?" Kinnison demanded.
"Never mind; you'll learn soon enough," from Lacy, and:
"Kinnison, you are very urgently invited to attend a meeting of the Galactic Council tomorrow afternoon," from Haynes.
"Huh? What's up now?" Kinnison protested. His arm tightened about the girl's supple waist and she snuggled closer, a trace of foreboding beginning to dim the eagerness in her eyes.
"Promotion. We want to make you something—galactic co-ordinator, director, something like that—the job hasn't been named yet. In plain language, the big shot of the Second Galaxy, formerly known as Lundmark's Nebula."
"But, Klono's brazen claws! Chief, I can't swing it—I haven't got jets enough!"
"You always yelp about a deficiency of jets whenever a new job is mentioned, but we notice that you usually deliver the goods. Think it over for a minute. Who else could we wish such a job as that onto?"
"Worsel," Kinnison declared without hesitation. "He's—"
"Balloon juice!" snorted the older man.
"Well, then ... ah ... er—" He stopped. Clarrissa opened her mouth; then shut it, ridiculously, without having uttered a word.