"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.