The moon-jeep rolled outside.
Babs stared with passionate rapture out of a shielded port. There were
impossibly jagged stones, preposterously steep cliffs. There had been no
weather to remove the sharp edge of anything in a hundred million years.
The awkward-seeming vehicle trundled over the lava sea toward the
rampart of mighty mountains towering over Lunar City. It reached a steep
ascent. It climbed. And the way was remarkably rough and the vehicle
springless, but it was nevertheless a cushioned ride. A bump cannot be
harsh in light gravity. The vehicle rode as if on wings.
"All right," said Cochrane. "Tell me the worst. What's the trouble with
him? Is he the result of six generations of keeping the money in the
family? Or is he a freak?"
Holden groaned a little.
"He's practically a stock model of a rich young man without brains
enough for a job in the family firm, and too much money for anything
else. Fortunately for his family, he didn't react like Johnny
Simms--though they're good friends. A hundred years ago, Dabney'd have
gone in for the arts. But it's hard to fool yourself that way now. Fifty
years ago he'd have gone in for left-wing sociology.
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