The Ore-Ball Express

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“You’re fired!”

I’d heard J. Davis Alexander scream those words so often that I no longer paid any attention to them. So now I jumped hardly more than two meters in the 4 percent Cerean gravity, saving my head from a painful collision with the ceiling only by hooking my toes under the edge of my desk at the very last moment. Cursing myself for not always using the footbar beneath the desk, I slowly subsided into my chair while pondering the ominous words. Now what had I done to—

It was only when I heard the equally enraged screams of J. Davis Alexander’s benighted nephew emanating from the office where the lord and master of Hartman, Bemis & Choupette presided over the fortunes of the largest brokerage house in Ceres, that I realized that for once it was not the neck of Jonathan Welbrook White that was getting the chop.

Could it really be the obnoxious Hooten Delahooty who had finally strained his equally obnoxious uncle’s patience to the breaking point?

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