"Indeed you may!"
A platoon of maroon dragoons dragged in a queer apparatus. It looked like a medieval cannon, with a Victorian phonograph speaker flaring from its business end. The dragoons ranged around the weapon, keeping their backs to it. One of them clutched the firing lanyard. There was a pause, a brittle silence—then the lanyard snapped!
"'Ray!'" shouted the ray gun.
"What was that?" asked Brad.
Twice more the lanyard snapped. The ray gun boomed: "'Ray! Ray!'"
"You mean all it does is shout 'Ray?'" asked Brad.
"Well, it can also shout 'Max'," said the old man. "Fearful, ain't it?"
"Yes," said Brad. He took a piece of old parchment from a breast pocket. "This," he stated, "is the original deed to Manhattan. Notice here on the bottom where it says $24. I am signing it over to you." He signed with a flourish. "Now you have a legal claim, a crusade, and a nice piece of property. Go get it!"
"But the headaches!" cried the old man.
"Cool, man, cool!" said Brad. "I'll mix a Bromo."