When last heard from, Captain Sheldon was preparing to return to Japan—on thenot unreasonable claim that the Island Empire was the only place where he wasable to write undisturbed. Considering this two-time Air Force officer's output,however—ranging from upper-bracket love and auto-racing tales to a brilliantnew novel, TROUBLING OF A STAR, that has won major bookclub distribution,and including scores of fine science fiction stories—we wonder whether thisperipatetic author may not be planning to flood all markets. Not a bad idea.
One sure way to live dangerously is to become a practical joker.Should you have any doubts about it you might ask Professor Dane.
You didn't have to be a potentialEinstein to take Professor Dane'scourse. For one thing you got a feweasy credits and for another you wereentertained—without letup—by ProfessorLyman Dane's celebrated wit.
Take the time he was illustratingterminal velocity. He jumped outof the open third story window, horrifyingthe class, until they learnedhe'd rigged a canvas life net on thefloor below. Or the time he let amouse loose among the female studentsto illustrate chain reaction. Orthe afternoon he played boogie-woogieon the Huyler MemorialCarillon.
"The absorption of knowledge,"he used to say, "increases in directproportion to the sense of humor—thebelly laugh, measured in decibels,being constant."
He could say a thing like that andmake it sound funnier than anybodyelse could. It was partly theway he looked—tall and mournfuland sly, with wispy hair that hadonce been blond, drooping like atired willow over his forehead.
But for all his vaudeville tactics hewas by no means a second-ratescientist. Which was why he hadgained his position at SouthwesternTech in the first place. He refused towork directly for the government(no sense of humor, just initials, hesaid) but this way he could at leastbe called upon for consultation atthe nearby Air Force DevelopmentCenter, just at the foot of the mountainsto the west.
Now the AFDC, as it was called,didn't advertise what sort of thing itwas developing—but everybodyknew that Lyman Dane was an experton reactive propulsion of rocketmotors. He could tell you—and frequentlywould without being asked—exactlywhat mass ratio, nozzlediameter and propulsive velocitywould be needed for the first trip tothe Moon. He knew how many hoursa round trip would take, both forlanding there or merely circling thebody of the satellite.
He had the courses to Mars andVenus thoroughly charted—but considereda trip to Jupiter somewhatimpractical. So, what with Dane'spresence and the mysterious whitestreaks that so often shot up into thesky like fuzzy yarn from the AFDCbase, it wasn't hard to guess whatwas going on.
Nevertheless Professor Dane wassurprised and somewhat offendedwhen the young man from the FederalBureau of Investigation came tocall on him one afternoon. And theworst part of it was that the youngman didn't have much sense ofhumor.
"As you know, sir," the youngman said, "we've been sighting andtracking these unidentified objects inthe sky. You must have read aboutthose they chased near Atlanta yesterday."
"Ah," said Professor Dane. "Martianthrough Georgia, no doubt."
The young man stared at himblankly. He seemed to ProfessorDane one of the most nondescriptyoung men his eyes had ever beheld.He had a clean-shaven, pleasant facewithout exactly being handsome andhis eyes were sincere and mild. Hewore a neat gray tropical worstedsuit