Worrall spoke again: "Colonel, these exiles must stay until all effects of the degeneration influence is gone. They'll figure as civilians, with colonists' rights. That means they must have a governor, to cooperate with the military garrison. Will that be you?" Shanklin dared to speak: "I am chief--" "Arrest that man," the girl told two space-hands. "No, Captain. But I'm senior officer, and I'll make an appointment. By far the best fitted person for the governorship is Fitzhugh Parr." The other exiles had pressed close to listen. Sadau, the diplomatic, at once set up a cheer. Ling added his own loyal bellow, and the others joined in. Parr's ears burned with embarrassment. "Have it your way," he said to them all. "We'll live here, get normal, and help all we can. But first, what have we to eat? We've got guests." "No, governor, you're the guest of the garrison," protested Captain Worrall. "Come aboard my ship yonder. I'll lend you a uniform, and you'll preside at the head of the table tonight." "Varina Pemberton," Parr addressed the girl who had caused so much trouble and change on the little world of exile, "will you come and sit at my right hand there?" "A pleasure," she smiled, and put her arm through his. Everybody cheered again, and both Parr and the girl blushed. End of Project Gutenberg's The Devil's Asteroid, by Manly Wade Wellman