mean our—money. This deal was primed to come off in another two days. And at the moment, Shane was all spruced up to go to Clenoka's office and make the final arrangements for putting up the three thousand. He had a date with Cleo, of course, after that.
"So," I said, when he concluded, "you're going into the real estate game, eh?"
"That's it, Corky," Shane beamed. "It's a natural. The three thousand will turn into thirty when this deal is done."
"You mean the fifteen hundred," I said.
"Huh?" Shane blinked at me.
"The fifteen hundred," I repeated. "Your half of the three thousand. You own it, I can't tell you what to do with it. But count me out."
"But Corky!" Shane bleated.
"You heard me," I said. "Maybe for once in your life you've fallen in on a good thing. But what do you know about real estate? You're a space Marine. Use your head. If you have to throw your dough away, do it on something you know something about."
Shane began to get sore. "Fifteen hundred won't do it," he said. "I told Cleo's dad that I had three thousand to put up. What sort of a washout will I look like if I hafta go there and say my own best friend wouldn't come through, and that I only got half of what I shot off my mouth I could get?"
"That," I said finally, "is your worry."
"But what," Shane bleated desperately, "will Cleo think?"
"I thought that was what you were worrying most about," I said. I started to turn away.
"But, Corky!" Shane said. He closed his ape-like paw hard on my shoulder. His eyes were pleading.
I shook off his arm. "That's what I think about it," I said. I left him there, thinking that was the end of it. It wasn't . . .
THERE was a routine watch inspection for me to make, and since Shane's real estate pipe dreams had put an end to my contemplated snooze in the sun, I decided to get it over with.
When you've checking to do on a huge, space-going battle wagon of the F.S.S. Western Hemisphere's dimensions, it takes a little time. There were atomic turret cannon crews to be checked at their stations, electronic short-fire gun emplacements to be rehearsed, and countless other tasks all in line with our Admiral, Old Ironpants, recent siege of the jitters.
And thinking of Old Ironpants' clamp-down on inspections these past weeks, took my mind from the peanut brain of Sergeant Shane, and set me to wondering about the rumors prevalent that Old Ironpants expected trouble.
The Interplanetary situation was tranquil enough. Federation Government seemed to be living in harmony with the rest of the universe. There had been a few minor war outbreaks between smaller, independent asteroid governments on the outermost fringes of space; but these were always present. Still, in spite of all this, our Admiral was keeping every vessel in this space port in constant readiness.
I shrugged it off, finally. Hell, maybe his wife was cracking down on him. It was generally conceded that Mrs. Ironpants was the cause of the often gouty mental state of our Admiral.
An hour or so went by, and I was concluding my check-up. I was in the space-radio control room, gassing with the operators, when the Chief Spacesparks came in. He'd just returned from a forty-eight-hour furlough on Saturn.
