"Well, Mr. Drill better mind his p's and q's. I'll call up his mother and—"
Mink went to the door. "We're having trouble with guys like Pete Britz and Dale Jerrick. They're growing up. They make fun. They're worse than parents. They just won't believe in Drill. They're so snooty, cause they're growing up. You'd think they'd know better. They were little only a coupla years ago. I hate them worst. We'll kill them first."
"Your father and I, last?"
"Drill says you're dangerous. Know why? Cause you don't believe in Martians! They're going to let us run the world. Well, not just us, but the kids over in the next block, too. I might be queen." She opened the door. "Mom?"
"Yes?"
"What's—lodge ... ick?"
"Logic? Why, dear, logic is knowing what things are true and not true."
"He mentioned that," said Mink. "And what's im—pres—sion—able?" It took her a minute to say it.
"Why, it means—" Her mother looked at the floor, laughing gently. "It means—to be a child, dear."
"Thanks for lunch!" Mink ran out, then stuck her head back in. "Mom, I'll be sure you won't be hurt, much, really!"