Stiffy backed away. But Meek reached out and grasped his arm. "Come on. It's the only way, Stiffy. We have to get there and the Prowler can take us." "But ... but ... but...." Stiffy stammered. "Give me a leg up," Meek ordered. Stiffy complied and Meek leaped astride the broad metal back, reached down and hauled Stiffy aboard. "Get going, you flea-bitten nag!" Meek yipped, in sudden elation. There was reason for elation. Not until that moment had he stopped to consider the Prowler might object to being ridden. Might consider it an insult. The Prowler apparently was astonished, but that was all. He shook his head in bewilderment and weaved his neck around as if he wasn't quite sure just what to do. But at least he hadn't started to take the place apart. "Giddap!" yelled Stiffy, bringing the butt of his pistol down. The Prowler jigged a little, then gathered himself together and started. The landscape blurred with speed as he leaped a mighty boulder, skipped along a narrow ledge around a slick-faced mountain, skidded a hairpin turn. Meek and Stiffy fought desperately to hang on. The metal back was slick and broad and there weren't any handholds. They bounced and thumped, almost fell off a dozen times. "Stiffy," yelled Meek, "how do we know he's taking us to Asteroid City?" "Don't fret about that," said Stiffy. "He knows where we want to go. He read our mind." "I hope so," Meek said, prayerfully. The Prowler whished around a right angle turn on a narrow ledge and the distant peaks wheeled sickeningly against the sky. Meek lay flat on his belly and hugged the Prowler's sides. The mountains whistled past. He stole a look at the jagged peaks on the near horizon and they looked like a tight board fence. * * * * * Oliver Meek fought manfully to get back his composure as the Prowler pranced down the main street of Asteroid City. The sidewalks were lined with hundreds of staring faces, faces that drooped in astonishment and disbelief. Stiffy was yelling at someone. "Now, doggone you, will you believe there is a Prowler?" And the man he yelled at didn't have a word to say, just stood and stared. In the swarm of faces, Meek saw those of the Reverend Harold Brown and Andrew Smith and, almost as if in a dream, he waved jauntily to them. At least, he hoped the wave was jaunty. Wouldn't do to let them know his knees were too weak to hold him up. Smith waved back and shouted something, but the Reverend Brown's jaw hung open and he seemed too wonder-struck to move. This, thought Meek, is the kind of things you read about. The conquering hero coming home astride his mighty charger. Only the conquering hero, he remembered with a sudden twinge, usually was a young lad who sat straight in the saddle instead of an old man with shoulders hunched from thirty years of poring over dusty ledgers.