The fact is, the Earth blew up. What a sight. The whole thing, whirling one minute like the globe in Miss Fogarty's geography supply closet—the next minute, whamo!
"Gee," said Ugh, soberly. "Guess we're lucky, huh?"
"... Well," said Brad. He hadn't said anything else for days, but he didn't seem well at all. Funny, he thought. They promise you if you go on working, work hard and don't fool around, don't ask questions, just do your job, everything'll come your way. The next thing they're all dead, and there's nobody to complain to, even. Was it selfish to think of one's career at a time like this? No, he told himself. It was all he knew. The Patrol was all that mattered!
He did some rapid calculation. They were far off the interplanetary travel lanes; their fuel supply was down to a single can of kerosene; food for perhaps 2 days remained. As he listened to Ugh tuning his violin, scarcely audible over the squeakings and squealings that filled the spaceship, he realized that the only solution—the only thing that could save them, or the future of Earthmen—was for a shipload of beautiful dames to rescue them within the next 36 hours.
He figured the odds against this to be fifty billion to one—but Brad had fought big odds before.
Grim-lipped, he shaved.