They sat, staring at the monsters for about a minute. Hathaway felt funny about something; didn't know what. Something about these monsters and Gunther and—
"Which one will you be having?" asked Irish, casually. "A red one or a blue one?"
Hathaway laughed nervously. "A pink one with yellow ruffles—Good God, now you've got me doing it. Joking in the face of death."
"Me father taught me; keep laughing and you'll have Irish luck."
That didn't please the photographer. "I'm an Anglo-Swede," he pointed out.
Marnagan shifted uneasily. "Here, now. You're doing nothing but sitting, looking like a little boy locked in a bedroom closet, so take me a profile shot of the beasties and myself."
Hathaway petted his camera reluctantly. "What in hell's the use? All this swell film shot. Nobody'll ever see it."
"Then," retorted Marnagan, "we'll develop it for our own benefit; while waitin' for the U.S. Cavalry to come riding over the hill to our rescue!"
Hathaway snorted. "U.S. Cavalry."