 How did Grannie Annie avoid the actions of Antlers Park?
DOUBLE TROUBLE by CARL JACOBI Grannie Annie, that waspish science-fiction writer, was in a jam again. What with red-spot fever, talking cockatoos and flagpole trees, I was running in circles—especially since Grannie became twins every now and then. Grannie Annie strode in the lead, her absurd long-skirted black dress looking as out of place in this desert as the trees. Everything else was blanketed by the sand and the powerful wind that blew from all quarters. As we reached the first of those trees, Grannie came to a halt. If my calculations are right, we've hit it at its narrowest spot." He could be excused this time, however, for this was only our third day on Jupiter's Eighth Moon, and the country was still strange to us. When Annabella C. Flowers, that renowned writer of science fiction, visiphoned me at Crater City, Mars, to meet her here, I had thought she was crazy. But Miss Flowers, known to her friends as Grannie Annie, had always been mildly crazy. If you haven't read her books, you've missed something. Blood-and-thunder as these books are, however, they have one redeeming feature—authenticity of background. Grannie Annie was the original research digger-upper, and when she laid the setting of a yarn on a star of the sixth magnitude, only a transportation-velocity of less than light could prevent her from visiting her "stage" in person. He was an old prospector Grannie had met, and he had become so attached to the authoress he now followed her wherever she went. As for Xartal, he was a Martian and was slated to do the illustrations for Grannie's new book. And then I was shaking hands with Antlers Park, the manager of I. V. himself. Antlers Park flicked the ash from his cheroot and shrugged. It's no use to the people of Earth but of untold value on Mars. "But up until now this moon is the only place where it can be found. And when Antlers Park stuttered evasively, the old lady snorted, "Fiddlesticks, I never saw trouble yet that couldn't be explained. So now here we were at the outer reaches of the Baldric, four travelers on foot with only the barest necessities in the way of equipment and supplies. Xartal, the Martian illustrator, already had a notebook in his hands and was sketching a likeness of the creature. And then all at once Grannie stopped again, this time at the top of a high ridge.
 She pretended to contract the plague.
 She pretended to contract the plague.  She distracted him by sharing a new plot for her novel.  She used a cockatoo image to distract him.  She turned his own heat gun on him