THE LUCK OF IGNATZ
by Lester del Rey
Maybe it was superstition, but Ignatz knew it was all his fault. For the last three days, Jerry Lord had sat in that same chair, his eyes conjuring up a vision of red hair and a dimple on the wall, and there was nothing Ignatz could do about it.
He grunted and grumbled his unhappiness, dug his tail into the carpet, and shoved forward on his belly plate until his antennae touched the Master’s ankle. For the hundredth time he tried to mumble human words, and failed. But Jerry sensed his meaning and reached down absently to rub the horn on his snout.
“Ignatz,” the Master muttered, “did I tell you Anne star-hops on the Burgundy tonight? Bound for South Venus.” He sucked on his cold pipe, then tossed it aside in disgust. “Pete Durnall’s to guide her through Hellonfire swamps.”
It was no news to Ignatz, who’d heard nothing else for the last three days, but he rumbled sympathetically in his foghorn voice. In the rotten inferno north of Hellas, any man who knew the swamps could be a hero to a mudsucker. Even veteran spacemen were usually mudsuckers on Venus, and Anne was earthbound, up to now.
. . .
