One Was Stubbron by L. Ron Hubbard

“Don’t dare take another grink …
well … jush one more … hic !”
    The Angel was First Lieutenant Cannon Gray of the United States Army Air
Forces, Engineers. He was five feet two inches tall and he had golden curly hair and
a face like a choir boy. Old ladies thought him wonderful and beautiful. His
superiors, from the moment he had entered West Point , had
found him just about the wickedest, hard-drinkingest, go-to-hell splinter of steel
they’d ever tried to forge.
    The Army, with a taste of opposites, called him Angel from the first,
called it to his face, loved him and was hilarious over his escapades.
    This was probably the first time in history that Angel had attempted to
stay sober. But it was a wonderful party they were giving in his honor (two floors
of the Waldorf plus the ballroom) and people kept insisting that he
wouldn’t get another chance at a drink for months and maybe never and everyone was
so pleasant that good resolutions were very hard to hold—especially for a dashing
young officer who had never tried to make any before.
    The occasion was gala and his hand was sore from being pumped by brass
hats and newsmen and senators. For at zero four zero eight of the
dawning, First Lieutenant Cannon Gray, USA, was taking off for the moon.
    It was in all the papers.
    Several times Colonel Anthony, a veritable old maid of a flight surgeon,
had tried to pry his charge loose and steer him to bed and, while Angel seemed
willing and looked blue eyed and agreeable, he always vanished
before the hall was reached. Really, it was not Angel’s fault.
    No less than nineteen frail, charming and truly startling young ladies,
all professing undying passion and future faithfulness, had turned up one after the
other and it was something of a task making each one unaware of the other eighteen
and confirming in her belief in his lasting fidelity.
    Such strains should not be placed upon young men about to fly 240,000 miles straight up. And it takes hours to say a proper
goodbye. And it takes more hours to be respectful to brass. And it takes time, time,
time to drink up all the toasts shoved at one. All in all it was a very exhausting
evening.
    Not until zero one zero six did Colonel Anthony manage to catch the
collapsing Angel in such a way as to keep him. Wrapped in the massive grip of
Colonel Anthony, Angel said, “Candrin four oh eigh … snore !”
    The golden head dropped on the Colonel’s eagle and Angel slept.
    Cruelly, it was no time at all before somebody was slapping Angel awake
again, standing him on his feet, getting him into a uniform, wrapping him up in
furs, weighing him down with equipment and generally tangling up a dark, dismal and
thoroughly confused morning.
    Angel was aware of a howling headache. Small scarlet fiends,
especially commissioned by the Prince of Darkness for the purpose, played a gay
chorus with red-hot hammers just behind Angel’s eyes. He was missing between his
chin and his knees and his feet wandered off on various courses.
    A flight major and two sergeants,
undeniably capped with horns, danced in high anxiety around him and managed to touch
him in all the places that hurt.
    He was in horrible condition and no mistake.
    And the watch on his wrist gleamed as hugely as a steeple clock and
said, “Zero three fifty-one,” in an unnecessarily loud voice.
    The corridor was at least half the distance to Mars and Angel kept
hitting the walls. The casual chairs with which he collided all apologized
profusely.
    A potted palm fell on him and then became a general who, with idiotic
pomposity said, “Fine morning, fine morning, Lieutenant. You look fit. Fit, sir. No
clouds and a splendid full moon.”
    He felt the call, one which generals too old for command can never
resist, to give a young officer the benefit of a wealth of experience but,
fortunately, his aide swiftly interposed.
    The aide was brilliant with the usual aide’s