"I'm a civil engineer," Vechi said. "It seems they need technical
people as well as reporters. Technical people to save as much as they
can and newsmen to dramatize what hasn't been saved."
Score one, and not for us! I grinned at him. "Got any ideas for the
press on what caused the power failure?"
Vechi smiled a gentle, patronizing smile. "Apparently, the Martians
use diranium as a source of atomic power. But since no one knows the
characteristics of diranium it would be difficult to imagine the type
of power installation they employ. It seems evident to me, also, that
we will know as little about diranium, later, as we do now--with the
strong security measures taken to safeguard the secrets of diranium.
"Furthermore, the Martians have evolved totally different scientific
systems based on materials, limitations and planetary conditions which
are alien to us. Entirely different engineering skills are required."
"Then what earthly good are our boys going to be?" I asked.
Vechi stretched his legs. Raeburn listened and said nothing. "We
have no way of knowing that Ul station did not sustain a physical
catastrophe--in which case a knowledge of construction, how to salvage
tunnels, buildings, bridges, heating systems and the like will probably
prove useful. We know something of their building techniques from
Marsport."
"Well, you certainly appear to be well qualified," I said as
courteously as possible. But somewhere a dim instinct warned that this
was eye-wash. Why wasn't this joker with the other engineering boys up
front?
"Thank you, Mr. Lasker," he said, equally courteous. End of interview.
I looked at Charley. He looked at me. Then he handed me his bottle.
Trust Charley. "Have a slug, pal," he said cheerfully. "Stop working."
"I will, pal," I said. "Thanks."
It felt good going down and for the first time I realized I had a
hangover from the night before. And the night before that. And then I
saw that Deborah's green eyes were wide open and fixed on me.
I took another slug, over and above Charley's little pained
exclamation. I didn't like the look in those green eyes.
* * * * *
"Hey, Steve," Debby called in that indecent voice of hers. "I want to
talk to you."
"You see, my friend," I said to the owner of the bottle, "she wants to
talk to me."
"That makes you lucky," Charley said. He was very carefully putting the
top back on the bottle.
"So, talk," I said to her.
"No, _you_ come over here for a change."
Then I knew something was wrong. In some crazy way Deborah and I
operated on the same frequency. I could always sense things about
her--and, I knew, she could about me, too. I grunted. I moved
reluctantly. But I went over to her and sat down.
Her face was propped up by an elbow and about six inches from mine
after she had drawn my head down for a real private tete-a-tete.
"Steve, I've got to talk to you."
She was real, damned pretty that close up. But that wasn't the reason I
got the breathless feeling in my stomach. I wondered how much this was
going to cost Universal. I was thinking in terms of money at that point.
"All right," I said. "I couldn't hit you even if I wanted to. What did
you do this time?"
"Well. It's not awfully bad and it's not awfully good. It's a delicate
situation. And I need your help."
My alarm grew. "Deborah!" I said warningly.
She drew a deep breath through a small, round red mouth. "I smuggled
someone on board," she said very quietly.
Well, that was interesting. I patted her cheek; I wanted to wring her
neck. "Fascinating," I said lightly. "Let me know how you make out with
customs, or whatever."
I made like I was getting up. She grabbed my collar. "Steve!" she
whispered, agonized about something.
"Mr. Lasker," I said briskly. "I'm your boss, not your friend. Take
your problem to Charley; he's softheaded."
"I'll give Charley an exclusive," she whispered three inches from my
face. "I could tie up the spacetron for the next two days with this
story.
"This is Pundra Doh's wife!"
I sank back on my haunches and stared at her. "You've stowed a Martian
_woman_ on this tub?"
She nodded a small nod, once.