III.
"And that's your job, Thompson," said Kennebec.
"And that's enough," responded Thompson. He wiped his face.
"Oh, I'll issue the proper orders. They'll receive them—and any trace of insubordination on the part of either of them will be cause for reprimand. Public reprimand."
"But the reason behind all this? I don't understand."
"Nor does anyone else. Look Thompson, the Little Man has a super ship out there on Mojave. It is a real bear-cat. Packed into space smaller than this office is enough stuff to hold off the Guard for a week. That's premise number one.
"Number two. They have some sort of telepathic means of communications.
"Number three. They came here for help. Why, I may never tell you until it's analyzed by the experts. But they came here for help. A machine, bomb, some means of hell and destruction or other must be destroyed. It must be located, too. Using some means of analysis on our card files, voice records, identification quizzes, and so forth, they decided upon Lane and Downing as the mainsprings. They'll have none other. Now why or wherefore isn't for me to decide. If they want Lane and Downing, they'll get Lane and Downing and none others. At the very least, we've got to play their game as long and as well as we can play it. I want to have the Solar Guard equipped as well as that ship is, and this is the way to do it."
"Why don't they go out and destroy this thing themselves?" asked Thompson.
"I wouldn't know. You know as much as I do."
"They may fear the cat race."
"If I had their stuff, I'd fear nothing."
The telephone rang and Kennebec lifted it. He listened and then hung up slowly.
"Your job—" he said. "Lane and Downing are making a running fist fight to see who lands on Circle One. If you go a-screeching fast, you might be able to make it by the time they hit."
"Right—" and Thompson left unceremoniously.
He hit the street, landed in his car, and was a half block away, siren screaming, before he realized that he had a passenger. It was Patricia.
"Huh?" he asked foolishly.
"Well, the engine was running, wasn't it?"
"I didn't notice."
"Fine thing."
"You must have heard."
"Who hasn't. Come on, Billy. A little more soup. I know that pair and they won't waste time."
Thompson poured more power into the car and it increased in speed. The way was cleared for him, though it took some expert driving to cut around and through the traffic, stopped by the demanding throat of the official siren.
Thompson roared up the main road to Mojave, sent the guard-rail gates flying dangerously over the heads of onlookers, and sped out onto the tarmacadam. The dust of the rough landing was just starting to rise as Thompson slid into the outskirts of the circle of ships. His car skidded dangerously on locked wheels, and he used the deceleration of the vehicle to catapult himself forward. He landed running and disappeared into the circling dust.
He could be certain that Lane and Downing would be at the center of this whirling mass.
Lane blinked. Downing shook his head in disbelief. Both recharged their modines and—
"That's about enough!" snapped Thompson, coming through the dust. "You pair of idiots."
They whirled.
"No, you didn't miss, either of you." He waved his own modine. The aperture was wide open. "But I've got a job to do and you aren't going to spoil it on the first try. I'd hate to report to Co-ordinator Kennebec that I'd failed—doubly. And that all there were to his plans were two hardly scarred corpses."
He tossed his weapon on the ground and nursed his hand.
"You're the fool," said Downing. "Don't you know you can't absorb the output of three on one of 'em?"
"I did," snapped Thompson. "Though I'd rather use a baseball bat on both of you."
"We didn't intend to hurt anybody," explained Lane.
"Good. Now that that's over, you might play sweet for a while, doing penance for burning my hand."
"You mean we're going to work together?" asked Lane in disbelief.
"And you're going to act as though you liked it."
"I won't like it," scowled Downing.
"Just make it look good. You've got a job to do, and once it is done you can go rivet-cutting for all I care."
"It's an idea."
"All right. But listen, you pair of fools, Patricia is coming through this haze you kicked up. Take it easy."
"Pat!" it was a duet.
"Yeah, though you should both call her Miss Kennebec after this performance."
"You leave her out of this," snapped Lane.
"After one more statement. You fellows can fight all you want to, but remember, if you're fighting for Pat, just consider how she'd feel to A, if as and when A chilled B to get rid of B's competition. Now let's behave ourselves—and if you're asked, this was a fine shindy; a real interesting whingding."
Clancey saw the four of them emerge from the aura of dust and he held his head. "Look at 'em, chief. It ain't goin' to last. I know it ain't. Mis's Kennebec holding an arm of each of them and Mr. Thompson chatting to all three from behind."
"Clancey, this may be the calm before the storm. But from what I hear, both of them will be a long way from Sol when the tornado winds up. They're heading for the Big Man's office right now. He'll tell 'em."
"I think I get it," said Lane. "He wants us to analyze it. That's why this motion of our heads to the thing."
"You may be right."
"This is a long way from here, though. I don't quite get it."
Kennebec explained his reasons for playing the Little Man's game.
"O.K., chief. I've heard of this cat race," said Downing.
"You have?"
"Only malcontent rumors. Tramps, adventurers, and the like are inclined to take runs like that for the sheer loneliness of it—and the desire to set foot where no man ever stood before. It's about the limit of run with even a Guard ship. I suppose any rumors can be discounted, but I've been given to understand that they are a rather nasty kind of personality."
"Being cats they would be," added Lane.
"Not necessarily," objected Thompson. "We are basic primate-culture, but we don't behave like apes."
"No?" asked Kennebec with a sly smile.
"O.K."
"Now," said Kennebec. "They've chosen you two for the job in spite of our explanations that you are slightly inclined toward dangerous rivalry. Why they insist I do not know. Be that as it may, gentlemen, you have this project. You have twenty-five ships each, all armed to the best of Solar technique. You'll have to play it close to your vest, I gather, since this machine or bomb is at present running through their system. Therefore I order you, officially, to refrain from any competitive action until this project is completed. The Little Man has detectors to locate the thing, you'll each get one of them. Track it down and analyze it. Destroy it after you could reproduce it. Thompson, your only job is to remind this pair of worthies that their prime job is to finish this project."
"It may be not too hard," smiled Thompson. "I won't have any trouble."
"Look, Downing, if this thing is as important as they claim, we're fools not to work together. Right?"
"As corny as it sounds—the fate of races depends—I believe the Little Man. Until this fool project is over, no fight."
"Shake."
Downing made a "wait" gesture. He picked up an ornate dinner candle from the mantelpiece and lit it. He took cigarettes, offered one to Lane, and they shook hands. And they lit their cigarettes in the same candle flame.
And Thompson said to Kennebec: "A pair of showmen."
"And the best flight commanders in the Guard, confound it!"
Stellor Downing, out of his Martian uniform and wearing the dress uniform of Terra, piloted Patricia Kennebec through the tables to a seat. "Stop worrying," he laughed.
"I suppose I should," she admitted.
"Then please do."
"I will. It isn't complimentary to you, is it?"
"I wouldn't worry about that."
"All right. But I still think I'm fostering trouble for both of you."
"By coming out with me tonight? Lane asked—but he was late. He can't object to my making plans first, can he?"
"He admitted that he had only himself to blame."
"Then?"
"But I can't help thinking that I'm the cause—"
"Look, Pat. Analyze us. Cliff is Venusite. His family went to Venus about six hundred years ago—probably on the same ship that mine left for Mars on at about the same time. Lane's impetuous and slightly wildman. I'm more inclined to calculate. Dance?"
"Yes—that was a quick change of subject, Stell. How do you do it?"
"The music just started—and my basic idea in coming here was to dance with you."
"How about ordering? They'll get the stuff while we're dancing."
"Everything's ordered," he smiled. He drew back her chair, offered her an arm, and led her to the dance floor.
Downing's dancing was excellent. He was precise, deft, and graceful despite his size. The orchestra finished the piece, and then with a drum-roll introduction led into the classic "Mars Waltz."
The step was long and slow and though some of the other couples drifted off the floor to await something more springy, they finished the long number with a slight flourish.
Another drum-roll, and: "Ladies and Gentlemen," said the announcer, "that number was in honor of Stellor Downing, number one Flight Commander of the Martian sector of the Solar Guard!"
There was a craning of necks to see the Martian, and Downing politely saluted before he retreated to his table.
"And in this corner ... pardon me, I mean over here, ladies and gentlemen, we have Clifford Lane, the top Flight Commander of the Venus sector!"
The necks swiveled like the spectators at a tennis match and the spotlight caught Cliff, standing at the door with a woman on each arm.
At a word from the manager, four large, square-shouldered men in tuxedos accepted two tables. Base lines for defense—
But Lane merely nodded affably in the bright spotlight. "Thanks, and now, professor, that light is bright. Play, George. The Caramanne if you please."
"But I can't dance the Caramanne," objected the girl on his right.
"And I wouldn't dance it in public," said the girl on his left.
"Well, we all know someone who can and will," laughed Cliff. He led them to Downing's table, shook hands with Stellor and underwent a ten-second grip-trying match. He introduced them all around and then asked: "Downing, may I steal her for a moment? I think she's the only one present that can hang on while I take care of the Caramanne."
"For a moment," said Downing.
The four men in tuxedos blinked and shook their heads. The manager took a quick, very short drink. It was a draft of sheer relief.
The pulse-beating rhythm of the native dance of Venus started with rapid tomtom, and then carried up into the other instruments. With the floor to themselves, Cliff and Patricia covered most of it in the whirling, quick-step.
"A fine specimen of fidelity you'd make," she laughed.
"Well, you were busy. I had to do something."
"You seem to do all right. They're both rather special."
"Know them?"
"Only by nodding acquaintance."
"Well, any time you have time to spare for Cliff Lane, just let me know and I'll toss 'em overboard and come running."
"And in the meantime?"
"And in the meantime, I'm not going to rot."
The dance swung into the finish, which left them both breathing hard. Lane escorted Patricia back to the table, where Downing sat silent. As they came up, a third man approached. Lane seated Patricia and then greeted the new-comer.
"Hi, Billy. Lucky, we've got a girl for you, too."
Thompson breathed out. "Oh," he said surveying the situation. Both situations looked him over and smiled. "Lenore, and Karen, this is Billy Thompson. He's in division."
"Which division?" asked Lenore.
"Subdivision," grinned Thompson. "I'm the guy they got to comb these guys out of each other's hair."
"Poor man," sympathized Karen.
"You gals match for him," laughed Cliff. He tossed a coin.
"Heads!" called Lenore.
"You lose—take him," chuckled Lane.
Lenore put her arm through Thompson's. "Nope," she said brightly, "I win."
The spotlight hit the table. "We might as well finish this," laughed the announcer. "I present the referee ... pardon me, folks, I mean the top man of the Terran sector; Flight Commander Billy Thompson!"
The music started, and all three couples went to dance to a medley of Strauss' waltzes.