"Say," he continued softly, "on your idea for a war substitute.... Why not break down and explain it to me?"
"Haven't explained it to myself yet," she yawned. "That professor who named me Sadie Thompson when we were concentrated once ... because it rains all the time here, you know ... he told me about how, in the Middle Ages, when two armies were too well matched to fight, each would select its best knight to represent it. Now what did he call 'em?"
"Champions?" Frank rose on one elbow.
"That's it. So the champions would ... joust, was it? And the army whose Champ won would be declared the victor."
"Do you think either the U.S. or the B.S. would agree to any such harebrained scheme as that?"
"They would if they had to."
"But the Big Shots glory in having no sense of honor. Under their crazy code, they'd be bound to doublecross us if they lost."
"But they couldn't lose, could they? Not if they've learned how to disintegrate atoms." Her voice sounded far away.
"I don't get you. What's the use of our side putting up a champion if he's sure to lose?"
"I didn't say our side would lose. Or did I?" She yawned again. "I'm dog-tired and all mixed up. Haven't taken a hike like this since we marched on Venusport. Kiss me goodnight. Beetlebrow says we have to be on our toes in the morning."