"Boy," I thought, "this is going to put the skids under that scientific theory about parabolite's imperviousness. Parabolic molecules, ha! Well, it was a good theory while it lasted; it fit the known facts, at least. Hell, the stuff even has the wrong name! It ought to be called Elasto-plast, or some such euphonic label."
Clatclit paused in his climb up the tunnel slope, and turned a querying stare on me.
"Was I talking aloud?" I asked.
Curious nod.
"Sorry, it's nothing," I said, indicating that he should proceed with our journey. "Just the salesman in me coming to life. You can't have public interest without catchy trade-names. Once an ad man, always an ad man."
Clatclit looked positively bewildered.
"Sorry. Business talk," I explained.
He shrugged and continued his upward climb, with me tagging after the bobbing pink taillight.
As secure as the maximum-security Security prison was supposed to be, we got in with no trouble. The planet must be a regular yarn-ball of those rocky tubes. If you know the layout, you can apparently get anywhere from anywhere.