One thousand.
"He's a misfit here," said Lonny slowly. "He comes from Umbriel, or one of the other moons. On his own world he was used to great activity. Uranus hasn't affected him—acting upon his nerves—as it has the rest of us. But he's a misfit here. He expects the normal activity of his own satellite upon Uranus. That just isn't possible. I think he'd like it on earth."
"You mean—" began Lana, just as the mud-submarine broke the surface and began bobbing to a rest. Lonny followed Raeburn up the hatchway, watched him open it. The upper mists broke in damply, sending heavy white furlers about their faces. Link Raeburn looked glum and defeated as he donned the heavy mud-shoes and slogged away into the mist.
Lonny Higgens closed the hatchway and yawned. He was beginning to feel dog-tired again—a normal sensation on Uranus—but a grim decision had taken shape in his mind.
"Sure," he said, in answer to the question in her gleaming eyes. "I'm going to get out of here. I'm going to send an S. O. S. If that doesn't work I'll get a straight call through to earth, charter a space yacht, and have it sent to pick us up."
"Lonny, you mean, that—" began Lana, moving toward him with her lips invitingly close.
But Lonny Higgens evaded her. He turned his back and sat down in a chair, then yawned again. Uranus had him! Old rocking chair had him! Something had him, as long as he was on this blasted planet.
Lovely as Lana was, it would take more energy than he could assimilate to make love to her on this muddy world.
"I guess you'll have to save it," he sighed regretfully. "But you'd not be safe to try those tactics again—once we get back on earth."