She slammed into her room.
'Good night!' yelled Ballister after her.
He slept that night to dream of cancerous proliferations spreading their sickly-white fingers over the map of Europe, then snaking across the ocean and plunging a dagger into the heart of the Western Hemisphere.
Kay couldn't stay mad, no more than could Ballister. They apologized sweetly to each other at breakfast under the paternal eyes of Sir Mallory, then set out for the Mayor's office. People on the streets, big men and solid, tall women stopped to stare at them for a moment before hurrying on to the day's work. The mayor was the Basque type, but bald as an egg. His grin was slow and agreeable; he had a firm handshake.
'You like our small country?' he asked.
'We admire it enormously,' hedged Ballister. 'I was commenting last night on your excessively rapid growth.' He shot a malicious glance at Kay.
'Indeed? We explain that, you know, with the theory that the Basque spirit has been in its infancy for many centuries and is now at last growing up. That you may tell the outside world—but not too much of it. We should not wish to become an attraction for tourists. It is our opinion that there is work to be done, that we Basques are well- suited to do it. You would be amazed at the spirit of collaboration that exists among us.'
'I already am,' said Ballister. 'Your city is the finest example of communal activity I have ever seen.' There was something flat and deadly in his tone which even he could not explain.
They had been spending a marvelously restful five days in the Republic, not bothering to think. Alone for a couple of moments Kay abstractedly confessed: 'Isn't it remarkable that even the great Sir Mallory Gaffney, Baronet, can be a hell of a bore after some period of unmitigated companionship?'
'His conversation sparkles,' said Ballister noncommittally. 'It scintillates like the morning sun on dewdrops. He's a generous and a kindly old gentleman. He's wise and good and noble—but I tend to agree with you; I'm sick of the sight of him. Sir Mallory tends to inhibit intellection. I haven't been able to buckle down to a problem in the last few days without his kindly interrupting and helping out with horribly confusing results.'
'You've noticed that?' she asked, with wide-open eyes. 'Is he just trying to help us relax?'
'Dunno. He has a technique—I'm working with something in social growth, say. He interrupts. I expound. He ponders, then throws in so damned many elements that I don't know what to make of it. He may be right! He's near the genius level, I know. But I believe in tackling one problem at a time. He, obviously, doesn't.'
'Or,' suggested the girl, 'pretends he doesn't.'
They dummied up as Sir Mallory reentered. He sensed the tension and then went through a curious process of winking, snickering slightly and balancing on one foot.
Kay and Ballister exchanged glances. Sir Mallory grinned happily.
'Aha!' he said.
Ballister caught on. 'Well, dear,' he said, 'shall we go for a ride?' The glance he gave the girl was saccharine refined with an eye for sweetness. It was so paralyzingly mushy that Kay reeled beneath the wealth of sloppy sentiment. She studied for one wild moment the silly smile on his face—then caught on.
'Anything you say, sweetness,' she cooed.
They twined arms then, and after another sloppy pair of looks ambled out. Sir Mallory called after them with huge delight:
'Be good, children!' His chuckle followed them down the rustic lane they chose. Out of sight and earshot they untwined and sat heavily on a bench. 'Explain all that,' she said. 'What was in the air?'
'Lo-o-ove,' said Ballister, polishing his horn-rims. 'Not the kind that means anything, the kind that mates people for life and after. But the kind of puppy-love that you can hardly call an emotion, it's so animal and unreasoning. I refer to the sort of stuff that every middle-aged man has a soft spot in his head for. Further, he reasoned correctly—on incorrect premises—that we'd be incapable of comparing notes on him and this hellish place if we were otherwise occupied. His error.'
'Hellish?' asked Kay. 'That's strong.'
'Agreed. Do you recall the exact population of this place?'
'What's that got to do with it?'
'Never mind just yet. It's 7,776. Half male and half female. Note that it's a perfect number, divisible by the whole slew of integers, a perfect radical, it evolves into an integral root—'
'Sure!' she exploded. 'I see! So they're—they're—' Kay paused, baffled.
'I know how you feel.' Ballister smiled sympathetically. 'There's something stuck away in the back of one's head that's just a little distance beyond explanation, just a little too deeply buried for unearthing. What is it? Damned if I can tell you, but it's very important.'
He laughed sardonically.
'The baronet comes,' said Kay. Ballister embraced her violently; she nearly bit a hunk out of his ear.
'Excuse me,' said the noble kindly. 'The mayor—Marquesch—
suggested that we inspect the landing field. He wants to know if we can offer any suggestions for improving traffic-flow. Thinks that there's going to be lots of commerce on that hunk of soil.'
'May well be,' said Kay, dropping her eyes with maidenly modesty.
'These wonderful people of the Republic! How do they do it?'
'Cooperation,' said Ballister, straightening his tie. 'They work as one man. That's the secret.' He went into a brown study, trailing behind the two others as they walked along the rustic path to the waiting auto.
'Cooperation as one man,' he muttered to himself more than once.
4
Flight
Kay sat up in bed, snapped on the light. 'Who's there?' she demanded.
'Me,' whispered Ballister. 'Let me in!'
'What?' In spite of herself she smiled. 'What on Earth made you think that I—'
'Pipe down! This isn't lust; it's terror. We've got to get moving fast!
They're onto us somehow.'
The girl slipped into some clothes, threw on a coat. The moment she was through the door, Ballister grabbed her arm and hurried her out of the hostel along the street.
'What time is it?' she asked, squinting at the full moon.
'Three Ayem—wish I could say all's well.'
There was a shot in the night; the long streak of flame that a rifle-barrel throws split the darkness of the street. Ballister reeled a little and cursed.
'Where to?' asked the girl, supporting him. He was hit in the shoulder.
'Garage. Hurry it up.' They slunk into the darkness of a double lane of trees, slipping along like a pair of shadows. The girl was still wearing bedroom slippers; Ballister was in his stocking feet. There was no noise whatsoever and scarcely a light in all the residential area.
Again the streak of flame, again the sudden crack of the rifle. 'Nowhere near,' said Ballister, his voice barely audible. 'Faster.'
Running in the dark, making no noise at all, speeding through relatively unfamiliar ground, they made good time. The garage loomed before them, one of the squat, white, solid buildings of the city.
Ballister, flinging off her helping arm, tore open the wide wing doors and darted in. She slipped behind like a ghost.
'Light!' he said. She fumbled for the switch, snapped it on.
Kay watched as Ballister hunted for a crowbar among the little group of municipal automobiles, found one, and proceeded to bash the mechanical guts out of all the cars save one. Kay started the motor of that one.
He had hurled the bar through the last motor and collapsed beside her in the driver's seat when the custodians appeared, and in arms. One of the tall, solid Basque types raised a long rifle, took steady aim Kay hurled three tons of metal square at him and through the' door.
The pick-up of the auto was superb; its mechanical springs took up the shock of the body as though they had
