"Never mind, Reba," Four said evenly. "It was just what I was going to suggest myself. It's the one really logical solution."
"Fwiend," said Fweep gently.
The land of the Fweep turned like a fat old man toasting himself in front of an open fire, and Junior sat at the computer's keyboard swearing in a steady monotone.
"Junior!" said Joyce, shocked.
Junior swung around impatiently. "Sorry, Mother, but this damned thing won't work."
"I'm sure that calling it names won't help, and besides, you shouldn't expect a machine to do something that we can't do. And if it did work, it would only say that the logical answer is the one I sug—"
"Mother!" Junior warned. "We decided not to talk about it any more. Four is strange enough without encouraging him to think like a martyr. It's out of the question. If that's the only way we can leave this planet, we'll stay here until Four has a beard as white as Grampa's!"
"Well!" Joyce said in a stiff, offended tone and sat back in her chair.
Grampa lowered the nippled bottle from his lips and chortled. "Junior, I apologize for all the mean things I ever said about you. Maybe you got the makings of a Peppergrass yet."