Aug 7, 2026 · 7 hr 43 min · 17 segments
"Galaxy Primes" by E. E. Smith invites listeners into a captivating universe where the intricacies of space and time intertwine with the essence of humanity. This classic work explores themes of…
Her hair was a brilliant green.
So was her spectacularly filled halter.
So were her tight short shorts, her lipstick, and the lacquer on her finger and toenails.
As she strolled into the main of the starship, followed hesitantly by the other girl, she drove a mental probe at the black-haired, powerfully built man seated at the instrument-banked console.
Blot.
Then at the other, slenderer man who was rising to his feet from the pilot's bucket seat.
His guard was partially down.
He was telepathing a pleasant, if somewhat reserved greeting to both newcomers.
She turned to her companion and spoke aloud.
So these are the system's best.
The emphasis was somewhere between condescension and sneer.
Not much to choose between, I'd say.
Port me a tenth piece, Clee.
Heads, I take the towhead.
She flipped the coin dexterously.
Heads it is, Lola, so I get Jim.
James, James, James the Ninth himself.
You have the honor of pairing with Clee.
Or should I say, his learnedness right the Honorable Director Dr. Cleander Simsworth Garlock, Doctor of Philosophy, Doctor of Science, Prime Operator, President and First Fellow of the Galaxian Society, First Fellow of the Gunther Society, Fellow of the Institute of Paraphysics, of the Institute of Nuclear Physics, of the College of Mathematics, of the Congress of Psionicists, and of all the other top-bracket brain gangs you ever heard of.
Also, for your information, his men have given him a couple of informal degrees, PDQ and SOB.
The big psionicist's expression of saturnine, almost contemptuous amusement had not changed.
His voice came flat and cold.
The less you say, Dr. Bellamy, the better.
Obstinate, swell-headed women give me an acute rectal pain.
Pitching your curves over all the vizies in space got you aboard, but it won't get you a thing from here on.
Her hair was a brilliant green.
So was her spectacularly filled halter.
So were her tight short shorts, her lipstick, and the lacquer on her finger and toenails.
As she strolled into the main of the starship, followed hesitantly by the other girl, she drove a mental probe at the black-haired, powerfully built man seated at the instrument-banked console.
Blot.
Then at the other, slenderer man who was rising to his feet from the pilot's bucket seat.
His guard was partially down.
He was telepathing a pleasant, if somewhat reserved greeting to both newcomers.
She turned to her companion and spoke aloud.
So these are the system's best.
The emphasis was somewhere between condescension and sneer.
Not much to choose between, I'd say.
Port me a tenth piece, Clee.
Heads, I take the towhead.
She flipped the coin dexterously.
Heads it is, Lola, so I get Jim.
James, James, James the Ninth himself.
You have the honor of pairing with Clee.
Or should I say, his learnedness right the Honorable Director Dr. Cleander Simsworth Garlock, Doctor of Philosophy, Doctor of Science, Prime Operator, President and First Fellow of the Galaxian Society, First Fellow of the Gunther Society, Fellow of the Institute of Paraphysics, of the Institute of Nuclear Physics, of the College of Mathematics, of the Congress of Psionicists, and of all the other top-bracket brain gangs you ever heard of.
Also, for your information, his men have given him a couple of informal degrees, PDQ and SOB.
The big psionicist's expression of saturnine, almost contemptuous amusement had not changed.
His voice came flat and cold.
The less you say, Dr. Bellamy, the better.
Obstinate, swell-headed women give me an acute rectal pain.
Pitching your curves over all the vizies in space got you aboard, but it won't get you a thing from here on.
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