. . .Lucky Larson, the screwiest, most unpredictable void trotter who had ever flown for dear old Trans-Space.

"You've been too good to be true this trip," I said, "and it's a good thing. The chief told me that if you so much as thought about clowning around or stunting he was going to clip your wings for good."

Lucky grinned, an impish, devil-may-care grin that lightened up his freckled face and bunched the tiny wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. Then with characteristic abruptness he scowled.

"That grandmother," he said disgustedly. "Who does he think I am, anyway? Some crazy irresponsible madman who hasn't got enough brains to stay on a space beam?"

"That's just what he does think," I grinned, "and you've given him plenty of reason to think it. You can't bring your crate in to the base without stunting around and showing off and risking your damn neck. That's why he sent me along with you this trip. Just to see that you act. . . Read More