Joe Sixsmith was adrift in space

Light years beneath him gleamed the tiny orb he was supposed to make contact with, but he knew it was an impossible dream. His muscles had melted, his lungs were starved of oxygen, and the only part of his mind not paralyzed by terror was the bit that dealt with 'fonlies. 'Fonly I'd done this… 'fonly I'd done that… "No use messing with 'fonlies," Aunt Mirabelle used to say. " 'Fonlies don't get your homework done, Joseph. You miss your football Saturday morning, you've got no one to blame 'cept yourself." How right she was! No one to blame 'cept himself… except maybe Willie Woodbine for being such a social climber… and Beryl Boddington maybe for standing him up… and definitely Merv Golightly for having a mouth like the Channel Tunnel… but first and last and as usual, himself, Joseph Gaylord (even Mirabelle kept quiet about that) Sixsmith for always going boldly half-assed where nobody had ever come back from before!

Way it started was this.

Monday afternoon, day before yesterday, though it seemed a lot longer ago, he'd been sitting in his office, minding his own business, which didn't take much minding this time of year. Summer had parked its anticyclone firmly over Luton and fused the days and nights of July together with a heat too enervating to start a race riot in, let alone perpetrate any of the crimes that might send the distressed citizenry in search of a PI. Ice creams melted before they could reach your mouth, birds huddled beneath cats for shade, and flies buzzed with relief into spiders' webs whose owners felt the tremor along the line and thought that maybe next Friday they'd stroll down there to take a look.