Aboard the _Jupiter_ day and night were artificially simulated. Norman
Saint Clair awoke the next morning with a sense of disaster strong in
his mind. He rose, stretched, went to the quartzite port. They had
picked up their escort during the night.
The Terrestian warship paced the _Jupiter_ silently, grimly. She wasn't
half the size of the colossal liner, but her speed he knew to be
fabulous, and he could count a hundred gun ports along her starboard
side alone. A lean gray wolf of space, he thought. Nothing could stand
up against that brutally efficient machine of destruction. Reassured,
he began to dress himself carefully.
In the dining saloon he discovered the girl, Jennifer Scott. She was
seated at a table having breakfast with a young man to whom Norman took
an immediate dislike although it was possible to see only the back
of his head. He felt surprised at himself. He wasn't in the habit of
making snap judgements like that.
Jennifer saw him, waved gaily, beckoned him to come sit with them. The
informality of the Outlanders never ceased to amaze him. They brushed
aside conventions like cobwebs.
He said, "Good morning, Miss Scott. I trust yesterday's tragedy didn't
disturb your rest too much." There was a touch of resentment in his
tone. The girl appeared too buoyant, too vivacious. His own sleep had
been wretched.
The girl's blue eyes were bright. She said, "Not too much;" and
introduced her companion. "This is Mr. Vermeer. He's an agent of the
Venusian Export Lines."
Norman observed Vermeer coolly, saw a black-eyed, black-haired man
whose gray coat fit his chunky shoulders too tightly. There was a white
scar on his upper lip, another above his right eyebrow. Mr. Vermeer
extended his hand without enthusiasm, said, "Sit down, Saint Clair."
Norman eased his lank frame into the chair. "Have they caught the
murderer, yet?"
Jennifer shook her head.
"Not likely," observed Vermeer with scorn. "There was a time when it
would have been suicide to kill a T.I.S. agent. From Mercury to Pluto
Earthmen were known as the scourge of the Universe. But now. Pah!
They've grown fat and spoiled. The Empire isn't able to protect its own
ships anymore."
Norman fidgeted angrily. "You're an Earthman, yourself," he accused.
"Not I," denied Vermeer. "I'm of Terrestial descent, but I was born on
Venus. I'm an Outlander."
A waiter approached, took Norman's order.
Jennifer leaned forward. "Mr. Vermeer, do you believe this murder has
any connection with the terror?"
"I wouldn't be surprised. I'd say the T.I.S. agent had stumbled across
some information which made it necessary that he be silenced."
Although that was Norman's idea he said perversely, "I think you're
making a mountain out of a molehill. The agent was probably on the
track of smugglers."
Jennifer opened her blue eyes in surprise. Vermeer shrugged, turned
to the girl, said: "They're giving a dance tonight. Would you be my
partner?"
The girl hesitated, glanced roguishly at Norman who sat stiff-faced.
"Thank you, Mr. Vermeer, but Mr. Saint Clair has already asked me."
Norman's mouth fell open. He had wanted to ask her but had hesitated
because he didn't know her well enough. His heart leaped now with
pleasure.
Vermeer glanced at Norman sourly, excused himself, left the table.
When he was out of earshot, the girl said, "There's something about
that man that doesn't ring true. I hope you don't mind me using you as
an excuse, Norman. You don't have to take me."
"Not take you?" he echoed. "Of course, I'm going to take you. You can't
very well refuse now." He grinned triumphantly, feeling something of a
devil. He rather liked the sensation.