“In my pocket.”
“Come on!”
I took him by the arm and half dragged him to the carport. I got the keys from him, started the car, and by mangling about seven traffic laws and three prize rosebushes, managed to get on the highway, facing in the direction that the ball was heading.
“Look,” I said, trying to drive down the road and search for the ball at the same time. “It’s risky, but if I can get the car under it and we can hop out in time, it should crash through the roof. That ought to slow it down enough for us to nab it.”
“But—what about my car?” Farnsworth bleated.
“What about that first building—or first person—it hits in San Francisco?”
“Oh,” he said. “Hadn’t thought of that.”
I slowed the car and stuck my head out the window. It was lighter now, but no sign of the ball. “If it happens to get to town—any town, for that matter—it’ll be falling from about ten or twenty miles. Or forty.”
“Maybe it’ll go high enough first so that it’ll burn. Like a meteor.”
“No chance,” I said. “Built-in cooling system, remember?”