Cliff, after the full hour had ticked off, said: "I'm thinking of the cat that got a neuropsychosis over mice because one came out of the hole and kicked him in the face."
"Think it's wise?"
"Never was very fond of cats," admitted Lane glumly. "I find them even more obnoxious when I see them employing intelligence. That makes it worse—"
"But just going out—?"
"D'ye want to sit here for months?"
"Think they would?"
"Probably. At least, long enough to have us tearing out each other's hair."
"But—"
"But nothing. Have we got the planet-analysis yet?"
The aide pawed through the delivery basket on Lane's desk and came up with a sheet of paper. He read: "Pressure sixteen point three. Temperature eight-one, humidity thirty-seven. Air: Oxy twenty-one, nitrogen all the rest—with a trace, of course, of CO2. Pollen count not too bad, bacteria count about normal, but the spore count is zero."