"Hush, dear," he grinned. "Papa's in the money."
Myra sat up and smoothed her satin-leather jumper. She looked again at the meteor they were pursuing. "What a funny color!" she exclaimed.
"The Primary Color," said Steve. "It's a flying goldmine. I think we're gaining on it."
"What are you going to do when you catch up with it?"
"Lasso it," replied her husband. "In half an hour," he paused impressively, "—we'll be Horns of plenty."
Myra made a face at his back. "Bless your heart, darling," she said. "If there were another man closer than Jupiter I'd divorce you."
"I'm captain here," said Steve Horn, "with power of life, death and divorce. You'll do no such thing. Grab the keyboard while I trip up our quarry."
Myra slipped into his seat while Steve jumped to a boxlike affair that jutted from the floor on a pedestal. It was one of the "accessories optional at slight additional cost" which Myra had insisted they could do without—a Netaction wireless-grapple capable of exerting a magnetic pull on objects up to half a mile distant.
Myra fell into the spirit of the chase. She accelerated their little craft until they were within snaring distance of the meteor.
"Take it easy," advised Steve. "Don't get too close. You might dent it."