“Like what?” asked Moe, fearing the worst.
“Athletic events,” said Miss Perkins.
“Tin shinny, maybe,” suggested Moe, trying to be sarcastic.
She missed the sarcasm. “Or spelling contests,” she said.
“Them fellow can’t spell,” insisted Moe.
“Games of some sort, then. Competitive games.”
“Now you’re talking,” Moe enthused. “They take to games. Seven-toed Pete with the deuces wild.”
The inner door of the entrance lock grated open and a spacesuited figure limped into the room. The spacesuit visor snapped up and a brush of grey whiskers spouted into view.
It was Gus Hamilton.
He glared at Moe. “What in tarnation is all this foolishness?” he demanded. “Got your message, I did, and here I am. But it better be important.”