“We are now in subspace, thanks to you,” the Admiral said. “We all have minor injuries as a result of the transfer, but there were only two fatalities, I’m happy to say. And naturally, the ship is now out of danger.”
“What gets me, Grange,” the President said, “is how you managed to work those controls. What the devil do you know about sub-space, my boy?”
“The two fatalities,” the Admiral said, “were Ackerman Boone and the man he had killed.” Then the Admiral grinned. “Can’t you see, Mr. President, that he’s not paying any attention to us? I think, at the moment, the hero of the hour only has eyes for Miss Kelly here.”
“Begging your pardons, sirs, yes,” Larry said happily.
Nodding and smiling, the President of the Galactic Federation and Admiral Stapleton left the dispensary room—with the doctor.
“Well, hero,” Sheila said, and smiled.
Larry realized—quite suddenly—that, inside himself, he was alone. Mayhem had done his job—and vanished utterly.
“You know,” Sheila said, “it’s as if you—well, I hope this doesn’t get you sore at me—as if you grew up overnight.”
Before he kissed her Larry said: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’ll tell you about it someday. But you’d never believe me.”
THE END