"Dodo?" laughed McBride. "That was a mythical critter that went around dead, I think. It was so dead, even when alive, that when it really died, it was really dead."
"You'd better stick to alphatrons," laughed Hammond.
"Speaking of the equipment, have you tried to get a replacement on Pluto?"
"Nothing didding. About our only chance is to haywire something together. But remember, we still have to make a landing, somewhere, and that means a safety factor is somewhat to be desired."
"Not at all. If we can take off safely, we're in!"
"Explain. As I was taught in school, anyone can fly a spaceship, but it takes a pilot to land one."
"Sure, but remember you'll be stopping off at the Lens. We've got replacements there that will enable you to make space repairs and go on from there in safety."
"Didn't think of that. Well, here's the mess!"
McBride needed no close inspection to see that the alphatron was definitely defunct. A foul smell, faint, ephemerally pungent, permeated the room. It was the smell of burned synthetic coil dope and field-winding varnish which has been described as smelling something like a frying toupee.
"Not only dead," was his cryptic remark, "but dead and sutteed!"