THE PYGMY PLANET - John Stewart Williamson - Bog

"Nothing ever happens to me!" Larry Manahan grumbled under his breath,
sitting behind his desk at the advertising agency which employed his
services in return for the consideration of fifty a week. "All the adventure I
know is what I see in the movies, or read about in magazines. What
wouldn't I give for a slice of real life!"

Unconsciously, he tensed the muscles of his six feet of lean, hard body. His
crisp, flame-colored hair seemed to bristle; his blue eyes blazed. He
clenched a brown hammer of a fist.

Larry felt himself an energetic, red-blooded square peg, badly afflicted
with the urge for adventure, miserably wedged in a round hole.

It is one of the misfortunes of our civilization that a young man who, for
example, might have been an excellent pirate a couple of centuries ago,
must be kept chained to a desk. And that seemed to be Larry's fate.
"Things happen to other people," he muttered.

"Why couldn't an adventure come to me?"

He sat, staring wistfully at a picture of a majestic mountain landscape, soon
to be used in the advertising of a railway company whose publicity was
handled by his agency, when the jangle of the telephone roused him with a
start.