One sure way to live dangerously is to become a practical joker. Should you have any doubts about it you might ask Professor Dane.
one thing you got a few easy credits and for another you were entertained--without letup--by Professor Lyman Dane's celebrated wit.
Take the time he was illustrating terminal velocity. He jumped out of the open third story window, horrifying the class, until they learned he'd rigged a canvas life net on the floor below. Or the time he let a mouse loose among the female students to illustrate chain reaction. Or the afternoon he played boogie-woogie on the Huyler Memorial Carillon.
"The absorption of knowledge," he used to say, "increases in direct proportion to the sense of humor--the belly laugh, measured in decibels, being constant."
He could say a thing like that and make it sound funnier than anybody else could. It was partly the way he looked--tall and mournful and sly, with wispy hair that had once been blond, drooping like a tired willow over his forehead.
But for all his vaudeville tactics he was by no means a second-rate scientist. Which was why he had gained his position at Southwestern Tech in the first place. He refused to work directly for the government (no sense of humor, ju
Professor Dane consulted with the Air Force and loved a practical joke. When the FBI, alarmed by recent flying saucers, asked to wiretap his phone (it's okay, I didn't understand why either,) he thought he'd play a joke on a friend.
Nothing much in the way of characters in this story, and the plot can only lead to one conclusion. Just a pulp entertainment.