Later, at the U.S.S.F. headquarters, he was prepared to argue grimly. Words were in his mind: A vital matter of supply... Without an escort, we'll still have to try to get through, alone. You have been informed, therefore, if anything happens, you will be responsible...
He didn't have to say anything like this. They knew. Maybe an old bitterness had made him misjudge the U.S.S.F. A young colonel smiled tiredly.
"This has been happening," he said. "We have limited facilities for this purpose. The U.N.S.F. even less. However, an escort is due in, now. We can move out again, with you, in seven hours."
"Thank you, sir," Nelsen responded.
Gimp Hines had the better part of the supplies to be purchased already lined up at the warehouses.
Nelsen counted the money he had left. "Figuring losses and gains, I have no idea how much I owe J. John—if anything," he laughed. "So I'll make it a grand—build up my ego... But we owe old Paul more than dough."
"All right, I'm another idiot—I'll mail J. John a similar draft," Ramos gruffed. "Paul's a problem. He can use money, but he never lived for it. And you can't buy a friend. We'll have to rig something."
"Yeah—we will," Gimp said. "Couple of times I forgot J. John. But I lost my shirt on those loads that were lifted off you boneheads. The Kuzaks reimbursed me for half. Do you two want to cover the other half? Aw—forget it! Who's got time to figure all this? That old coot doped himself out a nice catch-dollar scheme, making us promise. Or was it a leg pull on a highly elusive proposition, where big sums and the vastness of space seem to match? Hell—I'm getting mixed up again..."
Dave Lester had wandered off embarrassedly, there in the [p. 103] warehouse. But now he returned, clearing his throat for attention.
"Fellas," he said. "Helen and I want you to come out to our apartment, now, for dinner."