They stood on a small reviewing stand, Dusty Britton and the Group Command that had come through the thicket of trees in time to steer their blinded Commander away from the flaring barytrine generator. Dusty's face and hands were a super-sunburned red, and his eyes were still puffy but open enough to see.
From a sheet of paper he read:
"It is not within my power to grant a medal that is worth the tin it is made of. But for the diligence and their quick action I do hereby grant and guarantee them full scholarships in White Sands University, which by the time they graduate will have become a full Space Academy. So I here hand them their Certificates of Entry, and to the President of White Sands University I deliver a certified check to be held in trust and used for their education.
"I salute the future Commanders of The Space Patrol and step down from my position to leave it open for them!"
There came a roar from the crowd that thundered across the field as Dusty stepped from the platform into a spaceport jeep and was hustled out to Gant Nerley's flagship. Inside there were a number of men waiting.
"Now see here, Dusty, you can't go galaxy-hopping when we've got plans for you."
Dusty eyed Martin Gramer with a grunt. "Last time we met in a place like this you had me all scheduled to take a space hop when I had other plans for myself. No dice, Gramer."
"But look at the money—"
"I'll make millions out of this clear-channel idea, according to Gant, here."
"That's right," said Gant.