"That's why we've called on you," Conrad said.
"Waters," Sir Manly said, "the world rests on your shoulders."
"You have every qualification," M. Tourneau put in.
"Your brilliant theories in symbolic logic and theoretical mathematics," said Sir Manly.
"Chess champion of the world," Moskov added respectfully.
"Your contributions to astrophysics," Conrad said.
"And don't you guys ferget—he won the decathlon when he was just a high school kid. He'll murder them bums!"
Joe smiled. "Don't mind my pugnacious friend."
"You are, so far as we know, the finest representative the world could have." Moskov looked serious, and Joe became aware suddenly of the awful burden involved. What use intellectual ability or athletic prowess, compared to Jovian standards? Wasn't there someone—even a science-fiction writer, perhaps—better qualified to handle a situation as fantastic as this? Apparently not.
"When's the funeral?" Joe asked drily.