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... but the slipstick subjects require brains.
So I'm stupid, am I?
Would you have walked through that fire pit if you had brains enough to come in out of the rain?
Why didn't you stop me?
Stop you? When did you ever listen to me? Quit evading what was your final mark in thermodynamics?
All right! Assume that I can't do it myself -
Big of you.
Lay off, will you? Knowing that something can be done is two thirds of the battle. I could be director of research and guide the efforts of some really sharp young engineers. They supply the brains; I supply the unique memory of what a dirigible balloon looks like and how it works. Okay?
That's the proper division of labor: You supply memory, they supply brains. Yes, that could work. But not quickly, not cheaply. How are you going to finance it?
Uh, sell shares?
Remember the summer you sold vacuum cleaners?
Well... there's that million dollars.
Naughty, naughty!
'Mr Graham?'
I looked up from my great plans to find a yeoman from the purser's office looking at me. 'Yes?'
She handed me an envelope. 'From Mr Henderson, sir. He said you would probably have an answer.'
'Thank you.' The note read: 'Dear Mr Graham: There are three men down here in the square who claim to have an appointment with you. I don't like their looks or the way they talk - and this port has some very strange customers. If you are not expecting them or don't wish to see them, tell my messenger that she could not find you
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