Fifteen-round fight-to-the-finish bout

Swift Is A Ham

Tom Swift was descending the steps of the theological seminary, his handsome, youthful brow knit studiously. It was a big assignment, this government grant preparing him to be a missionary to the moon. As if it were not enough to get his plasma-powered, mercury-cooled rocket ready, there was all this new theology to master; he had never known religion could be so complex. He sometimes wondered how the moon men could ever get it.

Tom’s faithful pal was faithfully waiting for him at the bottom of the steps.

“Hi, Ned,” Tom said jocularly, laying aside his worries as he greeted his faithful friend.

“Hello, Tom,” Ned said. “My, Tom, you look as if you had just come from a brown study.”

Tom smiled broadly at this fresh sally.

Suddenly Ned seized Tom’s arm and pulled him into a handy doorway.

“Hark,” Ned expostulated. “I see Andy Foger skulking in front of an abandoned store front. If you are to meet Mary Nestor, this is no time to engage in vulgar fisticuffs.”

Soon Andy skulked on. Then Mary came breezily around the corner, her pretty face beaming with excitement and glowing with health and mirth.

“O Tom,” she said.

“O Mary,” said Tom.

Good old Ned, sensing the situation, excused himself to go back to the garage to check the needle valve in the plasma threader.

“And what did you learn today?” asked Mary eagerly, her eyes sparkling.

“I learned how to love,” said Tom earnestly.

“Tell me more,” Mary’s eyes sparkled even more.

Tom grew thoughtful. “Well, it’s like this, Mary,” he said. “You are the object of my love, and so I must think what is the very best for you before I love you. What does the existential situation call for in a given moment of our love? What does the total situation demand? ...

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