"I don't understand."
"We have arranged with the Mayor of New York that the winner will ride with Captain Jack Harmon tomorrow in the big parade celebrating his return from Mars. And Miss Manson is the star in a hilarious hit about space. What could be better?"
"To stop the whole damn foolishness altogether," said George gloomily and ignored the hurt look on the press agent's face.
They were getting up to leave when the door burst open and slammed against the wall. A tall, beautifully dressed and shaped brunette brushed aside a little man who was trying to talk to her and strode into the room. Her green eyes narrowed like a cat's after a bird.
"Which of you is the geneticist?" she demanded, and then to George, "You ... you must be ... you aren't dressed like a business man. Your suit is five years out of style."
Abashed, George looked at himself. "What's wrong with it?"
"You'd never understand and I haven't time to tell you. What I want to know is, who gave you the right to use my name in this silly Mother America contest. And you," she turned on the Dee Lish agent, "quit gawping at me. I'm not going to blast off. Who are you anyway?"
"Miss Manson, please!" The little man was in front of her again. "If the reporters hear about this ..."
"Oh shut up, Harry! All right, Doctor, what's your excuse?"