Dusty Britton entered the lower cabin of the three-stage rocket and flopped into a chair. “Quite a show,” he said with a trace of scorn.
Martin Gramer, the producer of the long series of Dusty Britton pictures puffed his cigar and nodded with self-satisfaction. “Not bad,” he said. “Not bad at all.”
“Gramer, how the hell long is this nonsense going to go on?”
“Until you’re ready to retire.”
“I’m ready now.”
“For good?”
“I could do something else, you know. After all, I am an—”
Martin Gramer eyed the husky young man with derision. “You say ‘actor’ and I’ll blow a gasket,” said Gramer.
“Then what the hell am I doing here?” roared Dusty.
“You’re here because you have an honest-looking face and a pair of broad shoulders to go with it. You’re the living embodiment of John Darling Truehe
