It's possible that you won't agree with us that Pat Pending's latest adventureis a delightful story—possible IF you haven't been used tolaughing in recent years. Blue Book printed more than a dozen of thesestories by Nelson Bond about the "greatest inventulator of all time".
Sandy's eyes needed only jet propulsion to become flyingsaucers. Wasn't Pat wonderful? she beamed, at everyone.
Some joker in the dear,dead days now virtually beyondrecall won two-bit immortalityby declaring that,"What this country needs isa good five-cent cigar."
Which is, of course, Victorianmalarkey. What thiscountry really needs is a goodfive-cent nickel. Or perhapsa good cigar-shaped spaceship.There's a fortune waitingsomewhere out in spacefor the man who can go outthere and claim it. A fortune!And if you think I'm justtalking through my hat, lendan ear ...
Joyce started the wholething. Or maybe I did whenfor the umpteenth time I suggestedshe should marry me.She smiled in a way thatshowed she didn't disapproveof my persistence, but looseda salvo of devastating negatives.
"No deal," she crisped decisively."Know why? Nodough!"
"But, sugar," I pleaded,"two can live as cheaply asone—"
"This is true," repliedJoyce, "only of guppies. Understand,Don, I don't mindchanging my name from Carterto Mallory. In fact, I'drather like to. But I have nodesire whatever to be knownto the neighbors as 'that poorlittle Mrs. Mallory in lastyear's coat.'
"I'll marry you," she continuedfirmly, "when, as andif you get a promotion."
Her answer was by nostretch of the imagination areason for loud cheers, handspringsand cartwheels. BecauseI'm a Federal employee.The United States Patent Officeis my beat. There's onenice thing to be said aboutworking for the bewhiskeredold gentleman in the star-spangledstovepipe andstriped britches: it's permanent.Once you get your nameinscribed on the list of CivilService employees it takes anact of Congress to blast it offagain. And of course I don'thave to remind you how longit takes that body of vote-happywindbags to act. Terrapinsin treacle are greasedlightning by comparison.
But advancement is painfullyslow in a departmentwhere discharges are unheardof and resignations rare.When I started clerking forthis madhouse I was assistantto the assistant Chief Clerk'sassistant. Now, ten years later,by dint of mighty effortand a cultivated facility foravoiding Senatorial investigations,I've succeeded in losingonly one of those redundantadjectives.
Being my secretary, Joycecertainly realized this. Butwomen have a remarkableability to separate businessand pleasure. So:
"A promotion," she insisted."Or at least a good, substantialraise."
"In case you don't know it,"I told her gloomily, "you aredisplaying a lamentably vulgarinterest in one of life'slesser values. Happiness, notmoney, should be man's chiefgoal."
"What good is happiness,"demanded Joyce, "if you can'tbuy money with it?"
"Why hoard lucre?" Isniffed. "You can't take itwith you."
"In that case," said Joyceflatly, "I'm not going. There'sno use arguing, Don. I'vemade up my mind—"
At this moment our drearylittle impasse was ended by asudden tumult outside my office.There was a squealingshriek, the shuffle of footsteps,the pounding of fistsupon my door. And over allthe shrill tones of an old, familiarvoice high-pitched intriumph.
"Let me in! I've got to seehim instantaceously. Thi