"It's very fetching. Chic, even."
"Shut up, dough-head. _I'm_ not forced to wear an iceman's uniform so
people won't think--"
"What's the matter with me?" gritted Downing.
"You might at least put on a clean shirt," drawled Lane, tossing his
cigarette at Downing.
"Oh, swish--"
That did it. Lane's right hand streaked for his hip after a warning
gesture. Downing's two hands dropped and came up with the twin modines.
Only a microtime film record would ever tell the quicker man. Their
weapons came up and forward and the dust of landing Circle One was
shocked with a sharp electrical splat.