Happy New Year, Herbie and other stories

Million Dollar Maybe

John was showing me the illustrations for the June issue when the buzzer on my desk sounded.

“This fellow is terrific,” he said. “I mean it, Bert, we’re lucky we got him at all — and especially at the price we’re paying.”

“I still think it’s too high,” I said. I reached over and snapped down the toggle. “Yes?”

“Mr. Merrian?”

“Yes?”

“There’s a gentleman here to see you, sir.”

“Who?” I asked.

“A Mr. Donald, sir.”

“Who?”

“Mr. Donald.”

“I don’t know any Mr. Donald.” I turned to John. “You know any Mr. Donald?” He shook his head, and I turned my face back to the speaker. “Ask him what it’s in reference to, will you?”

“Yes, sir.”

With my forefinger I tapped the illustration John was holding. “We start paying these people fancy prices, and we’ll put ourselves out of business.”

“Fancy?” John protested. “This is half what he gets from the better magazines. The only reason he did it for us is because I knew him in college.”

“You can’t trust artists,” I told him. “Next thing you know, he’ll be spreading the good news around. We’ll have a steady stream of characters with portfolios under their arms. And you know how often we can afford five hundred.”

“All right, so this is an exception.”

“Damn right it is. You got the good drawing you were crying for, but I expect it to last you for the next five years.”

“Mr. Merrian?” a female voice interrupted.

“Yes, I’m still here.”

“Mr. Donald said he would like his million dollars.”

“Hello?” I said.

“Yes, sir?”

“What did you just say?”

“I said Mr. Donald would like his million dollars.”

“You see, John?” I said. “It’s started already. I told you you can’t trust artists. Well, I’ll put a stop to this foolishness right away.” I turned back to the intercom. “Send Mr. Donald in. And tell him to leave his portfolio outside.”

“He has no portfolio, sir.”

“Send him in anyway.” I snapped off the toggle angrily and glared at John. John shrugged, moving his shoulders in a gesture that said, “I’m only the art director here.”

I leaned back in my chair and waited for the door to open. When it did, a tall, thin man stepped into the room, blinking his eyes against the sunlight that streamed through the blinds. He shielded his eyes with one hand and took three cautious steps toward the desk.

“Mr. Donald?” I asked.

“Yes, sir,” he said hesitantly.

“How do you do, sir? I’m Bert Merrian, publisher of Prince, and this is John Hastings, my art director. Have a seat, won’t you, sir?”

“Well, thank you. That’s awfully nice of you... considering.”

I watched him cross the room and settle himself in the chair beside my desk. He had black shaggy eyebrows that all but covered pale, almost violet, eyes. He kept his brows pulled low, so that his eyes showed only occasionally, like dim bulbs behind a darkroom curtain. His nose was thin, slicing down the center of his angular face like a machete slash. His lips were pressed firmly together. He looked like a man with unpleasant business on his mind. He certainly did not look like an artist.

“Well,” I said cheerily, “what can we do for you, Mr. Donald?” I was beginning to enjoy this. I felt a little like an executioner putting his basket under the blade of the guillotine.

Mr. Donald smiled briefly, almost bashfully. “I’d like my million dollars,” he said.

“Wouldn’t we all?” I answered, chuckling a little.

His brows lifted slightly, and there was surprise in his pale eyes. “I guess we would at that,” he said. He chuckled, too, and John joined in, and we had a short round of laughs until I coughed abruptly and called it to a halt.

“How did you... ah... intend getting your million dollars?” I asked, a pleasant smile on my face.

The brows went up again. “Why, from Prince.”

“From Prince,” I repeated. I turned to my art director and said meaningfully, “From Prince, John.”

“Yes,” Mr. Donald said.

“Yes,” I repeated. “And just exactly what for? Would you mind telling us?”

“Not at all,” Mr. Donald said, making himself comfortable in his chair. “For the moon trip, of course.”

“The... what?”

Mr. Donald pointed up toward the ceiling with his extended forefinger. “The moon trip. You know.”

“The moon trip? You mean moon? M-o-o-n? Our satellite? The moon?”

“Uh-huh,” Mr. Donald said, nodding his head.

I leaned over toward John and whispered, “Did we run a piece about the moon lately?” John shook his head. “What the hell is this bird talking about?” John shook his head again. I sighed and turned back to Mr. Donald.

“Just exactly what did you have in mind about the moon trip?” I asked, pretending to know what it was all about.

Mr. Donald shrugged bashfully. “Well... I been.”

“You been? What do you mean?”

Mr. Donald pointed up at the ceiling again. “The moon. I been.”

“Oh-oh,” I said.

“Yep,” Mr. Donald agreed, nodding.

I looked quickly at John, and he returned my anxious glance. We were both beginning to realize that Mr. Donald was perhaps a little bit removed from his perch on the rocker.

He shrugged again. “So,” he said casually, “I just come for the million dollars. If you’ll let me have it, I’ll be on my way.”

“You figure we owe you a million dollars, is that it?”

“Oh, sure,” Mr. Donald said.

“Uh... why? I mean...”

“Guess maybe it was a little before your time,” Mr. Donald said. He fished into his wallet and came up with a folded sheet of paper. The paper was glossy, and there was printing on it. I watched him as he placed it on the desk and began unfolding it, portion by portion, section by section. He spread it all out, smoothed it with a browned hand, and then leaned back. “There,” he said.

I looked at the sheet of paper, noticing that a rectangular portion had been cut from the bottom of it. I shrugged and shifted my eyes to the top of the sheet.

“Cut it out when the contest was announced,” Mr. Donald said.

I looked at the page again. September 1926. Hell, that was more than thirty years ago. I shifted my eyes and studied the page.

I heard a sudden gasp behind me, and I realized that John was reading over my shoulder and coming to the same horrible conclusion I myself was reaching. With morbid fascination I turned back to the frayed page from an ancient copy of our magazine.

I was beginning to feel a little ill. I clutched the top of my desk and forced myself to read the rest of the page. Mr. Donald watched, a happy grin on his face.

“I ain’t,” Mr. Donald said.

“A relative, you mean,” I said weakly.

“Or an employee.”

“I didn’t think you were.”

Mr. Donald stretched leisurely. “Well, can I have the million dollars now?”

“Well... uh...” I looked hopefully to John.

“These things take a little time,” John said quickly.

“Yes, yes, of course,” I added. “A little time.”

“Mmmm,” Mr. Donald said.

“We... we have to check to see that your coupon is on file here,” John said.

“Of course,” I put in.

“It’s on file,” Mr. Donald said. He fished for his wallet again and came up with a small card. I winced and picked it up from the desk top. It read:

“We would need proof, of course,” I said triumphantly, shoving the card across the desk.

“I got proof.”

“Well, you bring it in,” John said shrewdly. “We’ll see about the million dollars then.”

“Sure,” Mr. Donald said, rising. “I’ll have it tomorrow.”

“We’re closed tomorrow,” I almost shouted.

“Monday, then. Ain’t no rush.”

“No rush at all,” I agreed unenthusiastically.

Mr. Donald started for the door and opened it quickly.

“See you, fellas,” he called, waving happily.

He stepped out of the room, and the door shut behind him. I reached quickly for the buzzer on my desk.

“Yes, sir?”

“Miss Davis, I want the September 1926 issue of Prince immediately!”

“Sir?”

“Can’t you understand English? The September—”

“Yes, sir. Right away, sir.”

I snapped off and turned quickly to John. He was pacing the floor anxiously, wringing his hands.

“I’ve heard stories about J.G.,” I said. “They say he was a crazy bastard. They say he did anything to sell magazines.”

“He couldn’t have been this crazy,” John moaned.

“No, no,” I agreed. “A million dollars. Oh God, don’t let it be true.”

“I think it is,” John wailed. “I think it’s true.”

The door opened, and Miss Davis fairly fell into the room, a strand of blond hair hanging over one eye. “I have it, sir,” she beamed.

She held up a small container, and I started to say, “What the hell is—”

“Microfilm!” she announced.

“Give it here,” I snapped. She handed me the container, and then left the office. John leaped to the wall cabinet, sliding it open and pulling out a portable viewer. He put the viewer on my desk, and I inserted the first strip, peering into the view plate. It was the cover of the old Prince. It showed a man with a bare chest, wrestling with an equally nude alligator. Splashed across the top of the magazine in bold red letters was the legend: PRINCE OFFERS $1,000,000 FOR FIRST MAN ON MOON!

“It’s true,” John wailed.

“I knew it. I knew it.”

“Shall we read the article?”

“What for? It’s true, John. We’re ruined.”

“There must be a loophole.”

“Let’s check that page again.” I scanned through the strips until I came to the contest-offer page. I removed that from the pile and slipped it into the viewer. It was identical with the one Mr. Donald had shown us.

“There must be a loophole,” John repeated.

“How? Where?”

John narrowed his eyes shrewdly. “There’s always a loophole.”

I clicked the toggle on the intercom.

“Yes, sir?”

“Get Stein, my lawyer. Tell him to get down here immediately. And check through our files. See if there’s anyone still with the firm who was working for J. G. Trimble back in 1926.”

“1926, sir?”

“My dear young lady, must I repeat everything to you six times?”

“1926, sir. Yes, sir.”

She clicked off, only to come back on again in a few minutes.

“I have Mr. Stein for you, sir.”

“I don’t want him. Just tell him to get down here right away.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What are we going to do?” John asked.

“I don’t know. Do you suppose this crazy old coot really went to the moon?”

“Impossible,” John said firmly. “I’d bet a million dollars no one—”

“Please! Please.”

“Sorry,” John murmured.

The buzzer sounded, and I clicked on. “Yes?”

“There’s a man working here, sir.”

“Fine,” I said. “Tell him to keep up the splendid—”

“I mean, he’s been working here since 1926.”

“Oh. Good, what’s his name?”

“Malther. Ephraim Malther.”

“What department is he in?”

“Shipping.”

“How old is he?”

“Ninety-four, sir. He was ready for retirement years ago, but he elected to stay on.”

“And he’s in the shipping room?”

“Yes, sir. He’s been there since 1926.”

“Send him in,” I said. “On the double.”

“Yes, sir.”

The shipping room was right downstairs, and I couldn’t understand what took Ephraim Malther so long to climb the flight, especially when I’d specified “on the double.” Until I saw him, of course. The door opened suddenly, and he stood there uncertainly, like a fragile leaf on an autumn tree. I glanced anxiously at the air circulator, and John quickly stabbed his thumb at the “Stop” button, just as the big vent threatened to suck the old man into its maw.

“Mr. Malther?” I asked.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Trimble, sir.”

“I’m not Mr. Trimble,” I told him. “I’m Mr. Merrian, the new publisher.”

“Eh? Would you mind speaking a little louder, Mr. Trimble?”

The old man hobbled closer to the desk.

“I’m not Mr. Trimble,” I shouted.

“How’s that again?” he asked, cocking his head to one side. He had startlingly black hair, and rheumy blue eyes, and an annoying habit of lifting one brow high on his forehead when he spoke.

“Never mind,” I bellowed. “What do you know about the moon trip?”

“Good idea, J. G.,” he said. “I thought so in the beginning, and I still think so. One million dollars. Great publicity stunt.”

“How is the firm protected?” I said. “How did they expect to raise a million dollars if anyone took them up on it?”

“Took them up on what?”

“The moon trip.”

“Took who up?”

“Us. Took us up.”

“To the moon? Shucks, Mr. Trimble, ain’t no one gonna reach the moon. Heck, I’ll bet a million doll—”

“Never mind,” I shouted. “How is the company protected?”

“Fine,” he said.

“Fine what? What on earth are you talking about?”

“The company’s Detectives. Fine group of magazines. Should do well, Mr. Trimble.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake.”

“How’s that?” He cocked his head to one side again.

“Look, try to understand. Some idiot claims he’s reached the moon. He wants his million dollars. How are we going to pay it to him?”

Ephraim Malther spread his hands wide. “Shucks, Mr. Trimble, the insurance company will take care of that. Ain’t nothing to worry about there.”

“Of course!” John yelped.

I snapped my fingers and then clasped Malther to my bosom. “Naturally! Old J. G. would never have taken the risk himself. An insurance company! Of course, of course.” I released Malther, and he almost fell to the floor. He gathered himself together and I pointed my forefinger at his chest.

“Which one?”

“Which one what, sir?”

“Which insurance company?”

“Oh. Lessee now.”

“Think,” I prompted.

“Think hard,” John added.

Malther clapped his hands together. “Derrick and Derrickson. That’s who!”

“Thank God,” I murmured. “You may go now, Mr. Malther.”

“Sir?”

“I said you may go now.”

“Eh?”

I stepped around the desk and took Malther by the elbow. “Go,” I said. “Go. Back to the shipping room. Go. Out. Goodbye.” I steered him to the door, and then I passed him outside.

“Thank you, Mr. Trimble,” he said.

“Not at all.”

“Eh?”

I turned back into the room, and the door shut on his puzzled face. John was already thumbing through the phone directory.

“Here it is,” he said. “Derrick and Derrickson, twenty-three branch offices.”

“Where’s the nearest one?”

“Fifth Avenue, corner of Thirty-eighth.”

“Get on the phone, John. Make an appointment. I’m on my way down now.”

“Right!” he snapped.

I went to the door and opened it. I turned and looked at John solemnly, and he raised his arm.

“Godspeed, Bert!”

“Amen,” I muttered.

The door shut behind me.

Peter Derrickson was an impressive-looking man in a conservative blue suit. His hair was snow white, and he sported a mustache of the same color under his somewhat bulbous nose.

His pretty redheaded secretary ushered me into his spacious office, and he motioned me to a chair near his desk.

“Your art director sounded upset,” he said in a booming voice, as if he were shouting over a nationwide hookup.

I winced and said, “Well, he’s excitable.” I had decided on the way over that I was going to play this one cagily. I watched him now while he pounced on a fat cigar in a box on his desk. He put it between his teeth, chewed off one end, turned, and unceremoniously spit it past my ear. I heard the bitten-off end whistle by, and I opened my eyes wide in astonishment. Peter Derrickson didn’t seem to notice my amazement.

“So,” he boomed, “what’s your problem, sir?”

“When J. G. Trimble was publisher of Prince Magazine, he took out a policy with your firm,” I said.

Derrickson lit his cigar, and clouds of smoke billowed up around his head as he puffed heartily. A stream of smoke found the match, extinguished it. From behind the cloudy layers his voice boomed, “Lots of people take out policies with our firm.”

“This one was for a million dollars.”

Derrickson puffed some more, and I tried vainly to see him through the smoke screen.

“Lots of people take out million-dollar policies,” a voice said from behind the billowing cloud.

“This one was insurance against a trip to the moon.”

A white head popped out of the cloud. “Oh, that damn fool thing.”

“Yes,” I said.

“I remember,” Derrickson shouted in his normal voice. “What about it?” His head retreated into the cloud once more, and I was once again talking to a shifting screen of smoke.

“That’s what I wanted to ask you. What about it?”

“That’s a good question,” Derrickson roared. “I think the policy has lapsed.”

“Lapsed?” I inquired weakly.

“Yes, lapsed,” Derrickson bellowed. “I can remember when Trimble came to me with the idea. ‘Hell, sure,’ I said. ‘Isn’t any private citizen going to reach the moon in our time, Mr. Trimble. Oh, sure, maybe the military or some special agency, but a private citizen? Never. I’ll give you a million-dollar policy, and I’ll consider it a safe risk.’ That’s what I told him.”

“And... and the policy has lapsed?”

“Yes, I believe so. Fact, I’m sure of it. Trimble stopped paying the premiums. Don’t know why. They were ridiculously low.”

“H... h... how low?”

“I just told you,” Derrickson shouted. “Ridiculously low. You deaf or something, young man?”

“Why, no. I... I was just wondering how long ago the policy lapsed.”

“I’d say about seven years ago. Why?”

“I just wondered. Would... would it be possible to pay up the back premiums and put the policy into effect again?”

“I don’t know. Why? You worried someone’s going to reach the moon before the government or the Russians?” For some strange reason Derrickson thought this was funny. He started laughing from behind his pile of smoke, and I laughed with him. “Hell, you’re as crazy as old Trimble was. He apparently wised up, and that’s when he stopped paying the premiums. Hell, son, no private citizen’s going to set foot on the moon in our time.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“Sure?” he roared. “Sure? Of course, I’m sure.”

“Then you’d let us pay up the back premiums and reinstate the policy?”

Derrickson’s head popped out of the smoke again, and he pointed at me with his vile-smelling cigar. “Of course,” he said. “Why not?”

“Well, that’s fine. How much are the back premiums?”

Derrickson leaned back against the smoke, and it swallowed him. “Five hundred dollars a year,” he said.

“And the policy lapsed seven years ago?”

“That’s right. If you want to bring it up to date, you’d have to give us thirty-five hundred dollars. And we’d like the next year’s premium paid in advance. Four thousand total.”

“Will you take my check?” I asked, reaching into my jacket instantly.

“Certainly. But there’s no rush.”

“Well, I’d like to get it off my mind. Don’t like loose ends.”

Derrickson pushed the smoke away from his face now that we were ready to pass the cash across the table. It fled before his big hands, and he said, “Just make it out to Derrick and Derrickson. Four thousand dollars.”

He pressed the button on his intercom and shouted, “Bring in the Prince Magazine records.”

“Yes, sir.”

He reached into his bottom drawer then and pulled out a printed form with the words POLICY RENEWAL stamped across the top. He sighed, unscrewed the top of his fountain pen, and said, “Soon as I sign this, you’ll be fully covered again.” He chuckled loudly. “Against a sudden trip to the moon.”

I shoved the check at him eagerly, nodding. I glanced at my watch. “Well, if you’ll just sign it,” I said.

“Got to fill in a few items first. I’ll need the records for that.”

“Couldn’t I give you the information you need?”

“Nope. Need the records.” He sucked deeply on his cigar, annoyed when he discovered it was out. He put down the pen, lit the cigar again, and began driving all the oxygen from the room once more. In a few moments the redhead came in with the records.

“Sir...” she started.

“Just a moment, Miss Freeley.”

She stood by the desk patiently, grinning at me. Derrickson peered through his billowing screen and quickly copied the information he needed.

“There,” he said at last. “Now I’ll put the old John Han—”

“Sir...” the redhead said again, and I was beginning to dislike her intensely.

“Just a moment, Miss Freeley,” Derrickson said.

“Sir...”

“What the hell is it, Miss Freeley?”

I stared at the pen poised over the dotted line.

“Couldn’t you sign...”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the redhead said, “but I didn’t mean to interrupt. It’s just that the most wonderful thing has happened!”

“What’s that?” Derrickson said. He put the pen on the paper, a small dot of ink appearing under the point. He looked up expectantly.

“A man has just returned from the moon!” the redhead said excitedly.

Derrickson clamped down on his cigar and lifted the pen as if it were on fire. “WHAT?” he boomed.

“Yes, sir, it’s in all the papers and on all the broadcasts. Amos Donald is his name. He’s the cutest man you ever...”

Derrickson turned his chair toward me slowly, great plumes of smoke streaming from his nose and the corners of his mouth.

“You — knew — this,” he said slowly.

“No, Mr. Derrickson, I didn’t,” I said brightly. “Comes as a complete surprise to me. Comes as a—”

“Get out!” he screamed. “Get out of here before I—”

“But, Mr. Derrickson...”

“Get out, you cheap fourflusher!”

“But...”

“Get out, you... you... grifter!”

I got up quickly and headed for the door, and behind me the redhead asked, “Did I say something, Mr. Derrickson”

She certainly had.

Amos Donald brought proof the next day. He also brought photographers and newspapermen, and the offices of Prince were more crowded than they’d been in many a moo — many a day.

He lay the items on the desk one by one.

“Exhibit A,” he said. “Gypsum. Taken from the moon.”

“How do we know?” John asked.

“Have your scientists test it. Ain’t no atmosphere on the moon. No erosion. No weathering. Have them test it against earth specimens. Absolutely authentic.”

“Exhibit A,” I said wearily.

“Exhibit B — silver. Got it on the moon, too.” He plunked a piece of silver as big as my head onto the desk.

“Exhibit B,” John said.

Mr. Donald lifted a bag. It was a big bag, and he needed both hands to raise it to the desk. Abruptly he turned it over, spilling the contents onto the mahogany.

“Exhibit C — moon pumice. Got it from Archimedes. Genuine article, believe me.”

I looked at John, and John looked at me. We were both thinking of the $21,456.31 in Prince’s treasury. That was a far cry from a million dollars. A far, far cry.

Mr. Donald opened a suitcase and brought out a bulky nylon and rubber contrivance. “Space suit I wore on the moon,” he said quietly. The reporters began to buzz, and a few flash guns flashed. I looked at the space suit and at the helmet resting in the deep suitcase.

“Got two of ’em,” Mr. Donald said. “One’s a spare. Got that one over in the ship.”

“The what?” I asked.

“Why, the ship. The one I went up with,” Mr. Donald explained. “Had to have a ship, you know.”

“Sure,” John said, nodding. “He had to have a ship, Bert.”

“Yes, of course.”

“I was saving that ’til last,” Mr. Donald said. “That’s Exhibit R.”

“R?”

“Oh, sure, I got lots more to show you.”

He started to show us, and the photographers had a field day. By the time he finished, there were more mineral and rock specimens on my desk than in the Geology Department of the Museum of Natural History. He claimed he’d got them all on the moon. He also claimed that some of the minerals were compounds peculiar to the moon’s airless, waterless nature. He left with a crowd of reporters behind him, while John and I desperately called in the scientists who had volunteered to examine the loot.

John clapped me on the shoulder and said, “We’re in this to the end, Bert. Together.”

“I appreciate that, old man,” I told him.

I thought I saw a tear in John’s eye, but I wasn’t sure.

There were tears in mine, though, when the scientists delivered their reports.

Their spokesman sniffed the air like a beagle and then announced, “There can be no question. We have seen no specimens such as these on earth. Coupled with the photographs Mr. Donald was good enough to—”

“The what? What? What did you say?”

“Photographs,” the spokesman said. “The ones Mr. Donald took on the moon. He was good enough to send them to us directly. Figured they’d help us reach a fair decision. Unquestionably valid, too. Our most powerful telescopes could never have got such close-ups. Coupled with these photographs, as I was saying, there can be no reasonable doubt that Mr. Donald has indeed been to the moon.” The spokesman cleared his throat. “We... ah... have a suggestion to make, Mr. Merrian.”

“What’s that?”

“Pay the man his million dollars.”

Mr. Donald saved the spaceship for last. We insisted on seeing that privately, without the invasion of the press. He agreed because he was closer to the million dollars now. Besides, he wanted to put away the space suit and the assorted items that had served as exhibits. When he’d done that, hanging the space suit alongside the spare in a locker, and stowing the specimens, he showed us around the control room. “Only one of its kind in the world,” he said proudly. “Took me twenty years to build it. Ain’t another like it.”

“It looks complicated,” I said.

“Ain’t,” Mr. Donald answered. “Simplest thing in the world. Built an orbit calculator right into it, you see. Only wanted it to take me one place, and that was the moon. So all I got to do is set the year and the day of the month with these knobs here, and it automatically figures just where the moon is, and what the orbit to take the ship there would have to be. Then all I do is press that there firing stud, and the thing just goes up.” He lifted his forefinger. “Right to the moon.”

“It was easy then,” John said.

“Easy as pie. Be just as easy to get to all the planets with this baby. Anyone could figure it.”

“Well,” I said, “I guess he gets the million bucks.”

“I guess so,” John agreed wearily.

“We’d better get back to the office, John. If you’ll contact us tomorrow, Mr. Donald, we’ll have your check waiting for you.”

“You’re sure now?”

“Oh, yes,” I said. I grinned feebly. “Why not? You’ve convinced us.”

Mr. Donald seemed happy now. He led us out of the control room and down the ramp. The rocket site was deserted, and blackness covered the sky as we walked toward the company’s automobile.

“Sure lonely out here,” John said.

“Has to be,” Mr. Donald answered. “Blast-off, you know. Can’t have people injured by the jet trail.”

“Naturally not,” I said.

“Uhm,” John agreed.

We rode back to the city in silence.

At the office Mr. Donald stepped out of the car. “Hope you fellows have that check tomorrow,” he said. “I aim to make another trip up there. Figure maybe I’ll hop to Mars from the moon. Need supplies, though. Plenty. Part of the check will go for that.”

“What about fuel?” John asked.

“Oh, got my tanks full already. I can make that next trip soon as I get the money to stock up.”

I thought of the $21,456.31 in our paltry bank account, and I wondered how much supplies that would buy for Mr. Donald. John looked at me, and I knew he was thinking the same thing.

“Well, good night, Mr. Donald,” I said.

“Night, fellas. See you tomorrow.”

“Sure,” John called after him.

John’s eyes met mine for an instant, and we grinned at each other.

“But are we doing the right thing?” John asked two days later.

“Have we got a million bucks?”

“After the spending we did? Hell, we’re lucky if we have a thousand.”

“Then we’re doing the right thing,” I said simply.

“I guess so.”

“When in doubt, run.”

“Suppose he catches up.”

“Never,” I said. “He’s an old man, more or less. Besides, we can go to a great many places.”

“And we can always start another magazine,” John said hopefully. “Somewhere.”

“Sure. Nothing to worry about.”

We sat back in the seats and stretched luxuriously.

There was a hold full of supplies, and tanks full of fuel, and Mr. Donald’s space ship handled like a dream.

We sat back and watched the stars and the approaching moon.