“But I can’t give you this next dance, too, Herkimer—Honestly I can’t!” she pleaded, snuggling just a trifle closer into the embrace of the young man who was just as much man, physically, as she was woman. “I’d just love to, really, but I just simply can’t, and you know why, too.”
“You’ve got some duty-dances, of course …”
“Some? I’ve got a list as long as from here to there! Senator Morgan first, of course, then Mr. Isaacson, then I sat one out with Mr. Ossmen—I can’t stand Venerians, they’re so slimy and fat and repulsive!—and that leathery horned toad from Mars and that Jovian hippopotamus …”
She went down the list, and as she named or characterized each entity another finger of her left hand pressed down upon the back of her partner’s right, to emphasize the count of her social obligations. But those talented fingers were doing more—far, far more—than that.
Herkimer Third, although no little of a Don Juan, was a highly polished, smoothly finished, thoroughly seasoned diplomat. As such, his eyes and his other features—particularly his eyes—had been schooled for years to reveal no trace of whatever might be going on inside his brain. If he had entertained any suspicion of the beautiful girl in his arms, if anyone had suggested that she was trying her best to pump him, he would have smiled the sort of smile which only the top-drawer diplomat can achieve. He was not suspicious of Virgilia Samms. However, simply because she was Virgil Samms’ daughter, he took an extra bit of pain to betray no undue interest in any one of the names she recited. And besides, she was not looking at his eyes, nor even at his face. Her glance, demurely downcast, was all too rarely raised above the level of his chin.
There were some things, however, that Herkimer Herkimer Third did not know. That Virgilia Samms was the most accomplished muscle-reader of her times. That she was so close to him, not because of his manly charm, but because only in that position could she do her prodigious best. That she could work with her eyes alone, but in emergencies, when fullest possible results were imperative, she had to use her exquisitely sensitive fingers and her exquisitely tactile skin. That she had studied intensively, and had tabulated the reactions of, each of the entities on her list. That she was now, with his help, fitting those reactions into a pattern. And finally, that that pattern was beginning to assume the grim shape of murder!
And Virgilia Samms, working now for something far more urgent and vastly more important than a figmental Galactic Patrol, hoped desperately that this Herkimer was not a muscle-reader too; for she knew that she was revealing her secrets even more completely than was he. In fact, if things got much worse, he could not help but feel the pounding of her heart … but she could explain that easily enough, by a few appropriate wiggles … No, he wasn’t a reader, definitely not. He wasn’t watching the right places; he was looking where that gown had been designed to make him look, and nowhere else … and no telltale muscles lay beneath any part of either of his hands.
As her eyes and her fingers and her lovely torso sent more and more information to her keen brain, Jill grew more and more anxious. She was sure that murder was intended, but who was to be the victim? Her father? Probably. Pops Kinnison? Possibly. Somebody else? Barely possibly. And when? And where? And how? She didn’t know! And she would have to be sure … Mentioning names hadn’t been enough, but a personal appearance … Why didn’t dad show up—or did she wish he wouldn’t come at all … ?
Virgil Samms entered the ballroom.
“And dad told me, Herkimer,” she cooed sweetly, gazing up into his eyes for the first time in over a minute, “that I must dance with every one of them. So you see … Oh, there he is now, over there! I’ve been wondering where he’s been keeping himself.” She nodded toward the entrance and prattled on artlessly. “He’s almost never late, you know, and I’ve …”
He looked, and as his eyes met those of the First Lensman, Jill learned three of the facts she needed so badly to know. Her father. Here. Soon. She never knew how she managed to keep herself under control; but, some way and just barely, she did.
Although nothing showed, she was seething inwardly: wrought up as she had never before been. What could she do? She knew, but she did not have a scrap or an iota of visible or tangible evidence; and if she made one single slip, however slight, the consequences could be immediate and disastrous.
After this dance might be too late. She could make an excuse to leave the floor, but that would look very bad, later … and none of them would Lens her, she knew, while she was with Herkimer—damn such chivalry! … She could take the chance of waving at her father, since she hadn’t seen him for so long … no, the smallest risk would be with Mase. He looked at her every chance he got, and she’d make him use his Lens …
Northrop looked at her; and over Herkimer’s shoulder, for one fleeting instant, she allowed her face
