The captain smiled. "Now how about this," he said. "Let's say you've built yourself a house. Quite a nice house. Taken you a long time to build it. Then the foundation gives out for some reason, and your whole house collapses before your eyes. What would you do?" Cleveland blinked. "Cry, I guess." "Then what?" "What _could_ I do? Build another house, I suppose." "I see." The captain leaned over the desk and made a notation on the paper before him. Then he looked up and said: "Are you afraid of bats?" "What?" "Bats. You know, those winged things." "I don't know. I don't think I've ever really seen one. Except in pictures, of course." "Do you believe they get in your hair?" The girl touched her blonde curls. "I don't think so. That's one of those fallacies, isn't it?" "Do you know what a Martian bat looks like?" "No." "Well, picture a fairly ordinary bat. It's something like that, only its wing spread often reaches four feet. It's a pretty ugly customer. Now, let's say you're in your own parlor one night, and this big thing comes flapping into your house. And--fallacy notwithstanding--let's say you _know_ this bat will just as soon land in your hair as anyplace else. Would you be frightened?" "Of course," said the girl. "What would you do?" "Hit it with a broom," she said. * * * * * It was Show Night. The trunks flew open, and dazzling gowns of silk and satin and nylon and orlon and sprylon were brought out, rustling beautifully. The long row of cabins on the edge of the Omaha Spaceport crackled with girlish excitement as the entrants dressed for the final judging. There were shrieks and giggles, screams and guffaws, cries of delight and of misery as the women struggled into their prettiest dresses. The sounds of their activity carried all across the spaceport, jangling the nerves--but not unpleasantly--of the personnel in the barracks at the other end of the field. It was Show Night, after all, the final moment when Miss Outer Space would be selected and crowned, and even the most hard-bitten veteran on the base caught some of the fever. * * * * * The Omaha mess had been converted into an auditorium--it was the largest single room on the field--and the messboys had contributed to the event with elaborate decorations, makeshift affairs of crepe and bunting and straggly floral bouquets. The clatter of folding chairs was deafening as they were lined up in uneven rows, in readiness for the audience. A heavy drape was strung against one wall, and spangled letters were tacked to it, spelling out: MISS OUTER SPACE. It was a nerve-tingling moment, especially in the cabins. "My God, what's that, a coffee stain on my sleeve--?" "My lipstick! Who's got my lipstick? That's my special shade--" "Ouch! I must have gained ten pounds since I wore this dress--" "I'm just not _used_ to high heels any more--" "Poor Janie! If only she could have stuck one more day--"