"But a whole one. And let me tell you this, Gramer, you're less worried about the state of youthful morals than you are about losing the thread of a good, high-selling series. So I'm going to sail out of here as though I was scared to death of rockets—which I sure as hell am—and you're going to tell some bright explainist to get busy earning the dough you pay him. And when the smoke is all cleared away, I'll be safe and you'll be safe, and Dusty Britton will continue to go rolling along and the box office will continue to come rolling in. Spend a few short months in space? Not while the geegees are running at Hialeah!"
"But Dusty—"
"Space? Bah! Nothing, floating gently from vacuum to void and back again. Not for Dusty Britton!"
Dusty paused long enough to run splayed fingers through his hair and then he headed for the spacelock with a determined step.
"Wait!" roared Gramer.
Dusty paused.
"The least you could do is to go out of here not looking like Dusty Britton. Don't be an ass! I'll cover for you, but you've got to help!"
"All right but—" Outside another bomb racketed and the amplifier announced laconically, "X Minus Three Minutes!" and startled Dusty with the realization that he did not have much time. "—make it quick!"
"You—there!"
A technician coming up the ladder looked startled.