Rick thanked him and hung up. "All set," he reported. "But we'll get little sleep tonight."
"It's only about eight," Steve pointed out. "You could go to bed right away." He managed to say it with a straight face.
"We could," Scotty agreed. "But we won't. How about a little television tonight?"
Steve waved a hand. "Take your pick. Medical drama, crime drama, western drama."
"The purpose of television drama," Rick declared, "is to provide an escape from the real world into the world of fantasy. So no crime drama for us because that's the real world. We will watch a medical-type show."
"Western," Scotty said. "Trot-trot, bang-bang."
"Medical." Rick held out a hand dramatically. "Scalpel! Sponge! Quick, nurse, tighten the frassen-stat! The patient is going into nurbeling aspoxium!"
"Western." Scotty crouched, hand curved at his thigh. "Make your play, Brant!"
"Medical." Rick tapped an imaginary stethoscope on his palm. "I regret that you have all the symptoms of thickus headus, Mr. Scott."
Steve held up both hands. "Whoa, Mr. Scott. You too, Dr. Brant. As the only impartial participant, I will select. We will improve your minds by finding a panel show about the problems of agriculture in Basutoland."