about
Yale, and Oxford, and Hah-vad."

"What would you say, Willy, if I told you that once I belonged to the
richest family in Mississippi?"

"I'd say Mississippi was a pretty poor state," Willy said, and Oscar
giggled.

"I once was Frederik Van Smelt, spoiled son of the wealthy shrimp and
oyster scion. And there's nothing as bad, my father said, as spoiled
Smelt. He disowned me, of course. I owned six Cadillacs--one right after
the other, I wrecked them all. I traveled all over the world and
probably counteracted a billion dollars' worth of foreign aid. I was
kicked out of the best schools in the world."

"How come if you're so smart you flunked out of all them schools?" Oscar
asked.

"Me? Flunked out? I never made less than an A in any course I took
during my eight years at war with college. I was expelled from nine
schools and barely escaped the highway patrol when I was bootlegging at
Oklahoma University!"

"Freddy," Willy said, "you're lyin' like a dog, butcha make it sound s'
real!"

* * * * *

Jones squirmed uncomfortably in his seat in the briefing room, phrasing
and rephrasing his thoughts. It seemed that no matter which arrangement
of words he chose, it still was going to be obvious that he'd flopped.
He re-examined his fingernails and selected one which was still long
enough to chew.

General Marcher concluded his current appraisal of the situation and
began calling on the various individuals with whom certain phases of
OPERATION SPACE CASE had been entrusted. Jones groaned as each arose and
gave favorable progress reports.

"The pod is completed and has been tested, sir. It will by no means be
plush, but it will be sufficiently comfortable even for the long voyage
to Ganymede."

"The guidance system is perfected to the extent that we need."

"There are no further deceleration problems to be solved."

"The crash program has been approved for the two-way rocket; it is on
the drawing board and current estimates are that the envoy can be
brought back in three years."

"Ganymede has replied to our last message; a suitable artificial
environment will be available for the envoy."

"Personnel Specialist Jones?"

Carlton gave his chin a final sweaty rub and slowly rose to his feet.
"General Marcher, sir," he choked, "I'm ... we're ... experiencing a
little difficulty finding a volunteer, so far--"

"Negative perspiration on that count, Jones," the Project Office