Hence the pilgrimage of the little Siykulan. Provided with what might best be described as a brainmeter, or intelligence-tester, he had roamed the spaceways in his golden ship searching for a race with a modicum of intelligence, but not too much.
Steve put out his cigarette.
"It's been a very interesting story, Peachy," he said, "if not very complimentary, but I'm sorry we can't oblige you. We have a date on Jupiter."
"Yes," said Myra. "We're sorry to have to chase you out like this, but we must be getting on. Drop in to see us again any time you're in the neighborhood."
Although there was no change in the demeanor of the Siykulan, or in the inflection of the voice that came from him through the black box, he seemed to them suddenly stern and, ridiculous though it seemed in one his size, awesome.
"You must do what I say. You don't seem to understand that upon you rests the fate of five hundred million people...."
"... like you," said Myra scornfully.
"Like me," said Peachy proudly. "They are depending on me, and I shall not fail them. You need have no fear of not being compensated—"
"It's not compensation," said Steve. "I don't know what your life span is, but ours is roughly a hundred years, and we aren't anxious to waste any of it on a trip to Centauri."
"So!" said Peachy triumphantly, "since that is your only objection, you will—"