"Yeah, but nobody with sense would take ad-writer's copy for anything but guff."
Outside, a bomb burst with an ear-splitting racket. A stentorian voice thundered, "X Minus Five Minutes!"
"Ye Gods, you're really going through with this madman's publicity scheme?"
Gramer smiled. "Sure. It's just to Venus; but you can bet your life that every kid that sees this take-off on video or here on the field will be dreaming of the fabulous adventures you'll be having. Those kids know this is for real, Dusty."
"Include me elsewhere," mumbled Dusty. He started for the spacelock.
"You can't let those kids down!" roared Gramer.
Dusty paused at the sill of the spacelock. "Gramer," he said cynically, "I'm not letting anybody down. I'm just keeping the hide of Dusty Britton in one unscarred piece."
"But the public—"
"That's what you've got press agents for, Gramer. So you can get your high-priced publicity men to run a few miles of paper explaining how I happen to have left this shooting star four minutes before take-off!"
"Dusty, you're a no-good louse."