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. Either way, someday you die and somebody else has to do the work. You remind me of the man who set out to count stars. Faster he counted, the more new stars kept turning up. So he went fishing. Which you should, early and often."
"Jim, why did you agree to come here? I don't see you quitting work when the others do."
"Because I'm an old idiot. Somebody had to give you a hand. Maybe I relished a chance to take a crack at anything as dirty as the slave trade and this was my way -- I'm too old and fat to do it any other way."
Thorby nodded. "I thought so. I've got another way -- only, confound it, I'm so busy doing what I must do that I don't have time for what I ought to do . . . and I never get a chance to do what I want to do!"
"Son, that's universal. The way to keep that recipe from killing you is occasionally to do what you want to do anyhow. Which is right now. There's all day tomorrow ain't touched yet . . . and you are going out with me and have a sandwich and look at pretty girls."
"I'm going to have dinner sent up."
"No, you aren't. Even a steel ship has to have time for maintenance. So come along."
Thorby looked at the stack of papers. "Okay."
The old man munched his sandwich, drank his lager, and watched pretty girls, with a smile of innocent pleasure. They were indeed pretty girls; Rudbek City attracted the highest-paid talent in show business
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