byThe old men’s section of the Arts and Science Club was always the best ordered. The robots somehow managed to avoid clanking there; the greensward beyond the veranda was always just right, and the drinks were the best for six counties. Old Ned Brussels touched his glass to his lips appreciatively, sighed in contentment, and waited for some of the other oldsters to break the silence.
Finally, Lem Hardy took the plunge. “He did it,” he announced, referring to a conversation of weeks before. Then, at their puzzled looks, he amplified. “My grandson, damn it! He’s got a time machine—it works. Sent a cat four days up, and it came through unharmed.”
The glass fell from Old Ned’s hand, bouncing on the floor, and spilling good liquor. A robot came forward silently to clean it up, but Ned didn’t
