"I know," I told him. "I already sent it. To Joe Marlowe at Lunar III. Caltech VI is oh-oh under the nose. The Pegasus is preparing to land, and the situation is—"
"Ain't you the smart little numbskull?" snorted the skipper. "Remind me to use your brain for mattress stuffin'. No, dimwit, we ain't landin'. I ain't goin' to set down on this here outlaw planet till I learn what I'm landin' on. The Pegasus ain't goin' to be number four on the missin' list." He beamed complacently. "Me, I'm smart, I am."
Well, so is sunburn. But who loves it. Anyway, I said, "Well, if we're not going to land on Caltech, what's that big thing looming in the visiplate? Green cheese?"
Bowman took one squint through the perilens and let loose a howl that frightened its own echoes. "He's landin'! The damn fool's settin' us down!"
He made a dive for the door. I grabbed his flying coat-tails long enough to squawk, "Who?" and the answer came Dopplering back, "Larkin! The space-crazy idiot!"
I moved, too. Sheer suction pulled me along as we hit the ramp, charged through the corridors, scrambled up the Jacob's-ladder and bore down on the control room. At the door I managed to pant, "Who—who's in there with him?"
"Who do you think?"
"That's what I thought. What is this? A spaceship or a mushroom?"
Then we were inside, and it was just like I thought it would be. Larkin was seated in the pilot's chair, pushing the buttons that eased the Pegasus to terra firma, and hovering over him like a halo around a saint's occipital was his ever-loving bride.