I took another satisfying drag on the cigar, then went on. "I tried lettuce, cabbage, corn, string-beans—everything in fact that the hydroponic tanks on Mars could supply in the way of earth type food. None of it worked."
"What in hell are you talking about?" Marks blurted.
I ignored him. "Finally it came to me. Lettuce and the other vegetables I offered would be too light for them. I tried walnut hulls and then peach pits, and that worked like a charm."
"You must be insane."
"You don't seem to understand, Marks," I told him. "There was no other way of getting a zloor on board an earth bound rocket, so I made pets of a couple of them. They love peach pits—regular delicacy for them." I added reflectively. "You'd be surprised how well trained I've got Frankie and Johnny; I'll hate to give them up."
I tapped the ash of the cigar off on his heavy carpet and said, "However, business is business. Let's see, by our contract you owe me five credits for each month I've been gone, plus a seven hundred credit bonus for bringing back two live zloors, then there's that thousand credit wager we made."
He snapped on his inter-office communicator and growled instructions to his secretary to find whether or not I had brought back two live zloors in the Mars rocket. We sat there silently while she checked. I puffed on the cigar with appreciation and dropped the ashes, pointedly, on the floor. He was irritated, but wouldn't give me the satisfaction of complaining.
I knew I was being childish, but I loved it.
The inter-office communicator buzzed and he listened to his secretary's report, then reached down into his desk for a checkbook.
He said while he was writing it, "I'm sure you'll be pleased to know, Prescott, that in spite of this sum I'm giving you, I'll still make a considerable profit on this deal."