"Give me an hour to get things cleaned up and I'll be on the beam."
"Right."
"I'll pack you a bag," said Enid. "Have any preferences?"
"Shirts, shoes, socks, and shaving kit, mostly."
"Want your dinner clothing?"
"Oh sure. And pack my swimming suit, too. Also my tennis racket, and see that the golf bag has plenty of spare balls. Have Timmy wax the skis and sharpen my skates, and I'll also take along the shotgun, a pup tent, the oil stove, a fur coat, a quart of whiskey, six lemons, an orange, a lime, and a bottle of Angostura. Might pack me a light lunch, too."
"Don't bother, Enid. We've got most of that stuff with us," laughed Hammond.
"All right," chuckled Enid. "He'll get one shirt and a bar of soap; one pair of socks, and a bar of soap; and so on—with a bar of soap. Well, keep 'em coasting, Steve, and see that he doesn't run off with any red-headed witches."
"If we see any, I'll bring 'em back for me," laughed Steve. "See you later."
McBride was not as abrupt as he sounded. His business clean-up consisted of dictating a letter, putting all things in the hands of his chief assistant. The rest of the time he spent with Enid, saying good-by. Whatever transpired, whatever they discussed, whatever plans they made—and they must have talked of many things and made many plans, for in spite of the familiarity of running all over the solar system, this was a big step, indeed, since for the first time in history, man and wife would be light-years apart—they did it well enough in private so that their parting was simple and quick.