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Fink-Nottle, belong essentially to what one might call the dreamer-type." "One might also call it the fatheaded type." "Yes, sir." "Well?" "On reaching No. 17, Suffolk Square, Mr. Fink-Nottle endeavoured to produce money to pay the fare." "What stopped him?" "The fact that he had no money, sir.
In the end we became fatheaded, and not only lost all intellectual consciousness of what we were doing, and with it all power of objective self-criticism, but stacked up a lumber of pious praises for ourselves which not only satisfied our corrupted and half atrophied consciences, but gave us a sense that there is something extraordinarily ungentlemanly and politically dangerous in bringing these pious phrases to the test of conduct.
I drew myself up to my full height; then, seeing that he wasn't looking at me, lowered myself again. "Come, Glossop," I said coldly, "we had better be going. It is time we were dressing for dinner." Tuppy's fatheaded words were still rankling in my bosom as I went up to my room.
"You don't think there's a kind of music in the word, like the wind rustling gently through the tree-tops?" "No." He seemed disappointed for a moment; then cheered up. "Of course, you wouldn't. You always were a fatheaded worm without any soul, weren't you?" "Just as you say. Who is she? Tell me all." For I realised now that poor old Bingo was going through it once again.
But now the Boss-man is being pressured into breeding an export type. And this I don't like. It's too commercial. Smells like slavery." "You're a Mystic, aren't you?" Kennon asked. "Sure but that doesn't mean I like slavery. Oh, I know some of those fatheaded Brotherhood economists call our system economic slavery and I'll admit that it's pretty hard to crack out of a spherical trust.
He takes no notice of my observation. "A rival comes upon the scene," he continues "a fatheaded ass, according to my information and they have a stand-up fight. He gets run in and spends the night in a Vine Street police cell." I suppose I was grinning without knowing it. "Funny, ain't it?" he says. "Well," I says, "it has its humorous side, hasn't it? What'll he get?"
"Never mind him, you punk!" snarled Loring. "Tell that fatheaded Connel I wanta talk to him! Make it fast!" Tom's face disappeared to be replaced by the raging features of Major Connel. "You murdering space rat!" he roared. "I've given you two minutes to surrender and, by the craters of Luna, you've only got thirty seconds left!"
"Take it easy, spaceboy," said Roger, "I'm leaving the hatch now. You and your fatheaded friend from Venus are so hopped up for getting a Solar Medal " "Knock it off, Manning!" said Astro from inside the ship. "And for your information, I don't want a medal. I don't want anything except for you to stop griping!"
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