"Please sir," the rockette squeaked, "I'll bring you a sedative."
"Hugens will hear about this," he shouted, writhing in the engineer's brawny arms. But then he sobbed: "I sent her up there. My fault, my idea, she didn't want to go. She was worried about the time and I told her there was plenty of time."
As he gulped the sedative he looked like a punctured balloon.
"I don't want a sedative," he shouted. But he had just swallowed it. He sagged again. "My fault. I told her there was plenty of time." He rubbed his sleeve across his nose.
After they had settled him groggily in his seat, the rockette drew the engineer aside. Her pretty little brow wrinkled.
"Dan, I can't figure it. Why does he think it's his fault? Gee, when we were in the powder-room together she asked me about why the clocks told different times, and I explained how we figure time by positions of stars instead of the earth and sun and all that stuff. You'd think she'd understood. She talked bright enough."
The giant squeezed her arm affectionately. Lucky Webley, sap Commish, bright dame. Forty-two days and an alibi.
He chuckled and walked his fingers up her arm.
"Carol, you can't ever tell. All dames don't have the same amount of brightness you do."
She giggled and shivered a little at his hand. "We learned all about time in rockette school."