TUBEMONKEY
By JEROME BIXBY
Radiations had shorted his brilliant pilot's
brain, left him an aimless, childish hulk. Yet
Rhiannon had his moments—when he needed them.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Winter 1949.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Echoed by the sloping, sun-drenched concrete walls, booming above the high, bony clatter of monorail cranes, shaming the entire fuming, metallic hubbub of Boat Bed 52, the sound might have been the cavernous indignation of some giant beast being dragged zoo-ward from a Bio-Institute boat. It was, however, a voice, singing:
Oh-h-h, the boats come in
An' the boats go out
An' we clean 'em an' screen 'em an' preen 'em.
We fix their fins