By now, I had begun to gather what she meant, and hastily asserted that such a procedure would be unnecessary.
"Well, Doc, I'm solid sender, see? Hep with the jet.... Right out of this world."
"Yes?"
"That's just the trouble. I been right out of this world."
"You have dreams?"
"I dunno. Lemme explain. I'm opening next week after a layoff on Earth, see? Them Earthmen are gettin' sorta tame, but we figure these Venusians will appreciate what I got to offer when they come in after a long, muggy day at them cold uranium mines, see?"
I commented that I had made some notations about the working conditions of the native Venusians comparing them, especially atmospherically, to the phenomenon of what is known on Earth as ACM—ancient, California smog.
"Yeah, sure, sure, Doc. Well, they got the whole show at the Little Venus Theater built around my number. I got my whole new wardrobe, with the special anti-gravity zippers, some classy plastic bubbles, and a special arrangement cooked up by Ziggy, the trumpeter from Mercury. They're billing me tops, and I figured out a routine that's a sure sensation. I been practicing it all during my vacation.
"I even been holding off Luigi so I could practice," Miss LaTour said.
"Luigi—that's your boy friend's name?"