"The men?" Jerry asked blankly.
"Oh, come, come!" the platinum blonde breathed throatily into his ear. "Don't pretend to be so innocent! You must have heard of the simply terrific reputation Earthmen have acquired on other planets as masterful lovers!"
"It's news to me," Jerry admitted, "but it sounds like a good drawing card. I'll try to work something like that into our ads."
"Always thinking about business, aren't you? Why don't you think of something else, for a change? Me, for instance. Don't you feel a little bit sorry for a girl like me, with nothing but perfectly civilized men to go home to?" the girl pouted invitingly.
Jerry found himself, by imperceptible stages, being backed into a corner. Well, well, he thought. Perhaps he'd been too harsh in judging that racetrack tout.
"Since you mention it," Jerry said, "I'm not averse to playing the role of Galactic beachboy."
"What does a beachboy do?"
"I'd blush to explain it verbally to a girl unaccustomed to primitive Earth customs, but I'm pretty good at sign language. How about dinner tonight?"
"Well ... if you'll let me pay the check. I do so adore this amazing Earth custom of exchanging food for little slips of paper."
"The pleasure is all yours, sister. See you at the Ritz main dining room—eight o'clock. Soup and fish. Afterward, we'll look at my photo-murals. Now toddle along, baby, if you want to catch the bus to see those hoboes."