As has been said, the Hill, which had been built to be the Tellurian headquarters of the Triplanetary Service and which was now the headquarters of the half-organized Solarian Patrol, was—and is—a truncated, alloy-sheathed, honeycombed mountain. But, since human beings do not like to live eternally underground, no matter how beautifully lighted or how carefully and comfortably air-conditioned the dungeon may be, the Reservation spread far beyond the foot of that gray, forbidding, mirror-smooth cone of metal. Well outside that farflung Reservation there was a small city; there were hundreds of highly productive farms; and, particularly upon this bright May afternoon, there was a Recreation Park, containing, among other things, dozens of tennis courts.
One of these courts was three-quarters enclosed by stands, from which a couple of hundred people were watching a match which seemed to be of some little local importance. Two men sat in a box which had seats for twenty, and watched admiringly the pair who seemed in a fair way to win in straight sets the mixed-doubles championship of the Hill.
“Fine-looking couple, Rod, if I do say so myself, as well as being smooth performers.” Solarian Councillor Virgil Samms spoke to his companion as the opponents changed courts. “I still think, though, the young hussy ought to wear some clothes—those white nylon shorts make her look nakeder even than usual. I told her so, too, the jade, but she keeps on wearing less and less.”
“Of course,” Commissioner Roderick K. Kinnison laughed quietly. “What did you expect? She got her hair and eyes from you, why not your hard-headedness, too? One thing, though, that’s all to the good—she’s got what it takes to strip ship that way, and most of ’em haven’t. But what I can’t understand is why they don’t. …” He paused.
“I don’t either. Lord knows we’ve thrown them at each other hard enough, and Jack Kinnison and Jill Samms would certainly make a pair to draw to. But if they won’t … but maybe they will yet. They’re still youngsters, and they’re friendly enough.”
If Samms père could have been out on the court, however, instead of in the box, he would have been surprised; for young Kinnison, although smiling enough as to face, was addressing his gorgeous partner in terms which carried little indeed of friendliness.
“Listen, you bird-brained, knot-headed, grandstanding half-wit!” he stormed, voice low but bitterly intense. “I ought to beat your alleged brains out! I’ve told you a thousand times to watch your own territory and stay out of mine! If you had been where you belonged, or even taken my signal, Frank couldn’t have made that thirty-all point; and if Lois hadn’t netted she’d’ve caught you flat-footed, a kilometer out of position, and made it deuce. What do you think you’re doing, anyway—playing tennis or seeing how many innocent bystanders you can bring down out of control?”
“What do you think?” the girl sneered, sweetly. Her tawny eyes, only a couple of inches below his own, almost emitted sparks. “And just look at who’s trying to tell who how to do what! For your information, Master Pilot John K. Kinnison, I’ll tell you that just because you can’t quit being ‘Killer’ Kinnison even long enough to let two good friends of ours get a point now and then, or maybe even a game, is no reason why I’ve got to turn into ‘Killer’ Samms. And I’ll also tell you. …”
“You’ll tell me nothing, Jill—I’m telling you! Start giving away points in anything and you’ll find out some day that you’ve given away too many. I’m not having any of that kind of game—and as long as you’re playing with me you aren’t either—or else. If you louse up this match just once more, the next ball I serve will hit the tightest part of those fancy white shorts of yours—right where the hip pocket would be if they had any—and it’ll raise a welt that will make you eat off of the mantel for three days. So watch your step!”
“You insufferable lug! I’d like to smash this racket over your head! I’ll do it, too, and walk off the court, if you don’t. …”
The whistle blew. Virgilia Samms, all smiles, toed the baseline and became the personification and embodiment of smoothly flowing motion. The ball whizzed over the net, barely clearing it—a sizzling service ace. The game went on.
And a few minutes later, in the shower room, where Jack Kinnison was caroling lustily while plying a towel, a huge young man strode up and slapped him ringingly between the shoulder blades.
“Congratulations, Jack, and so forth. But there’s a thing I want to ask you. Confidential, sort of … ?”
“Shoot! Haven’t we been eating out of the same dish for lo, these many moons? Why the diffidence all of a sudden, Mase? It isn’t in character.”
“Well … it’s … I’m a lip-reader, you know.”
“Sure. We all are. What of it?”
“It’s only that … well, I saw what you and Miss Samms said to each other out there, and if that was lovers’ small talk I’m a Venerian mud-puppy.”
“Lovers! Who the hell ever said we were lovers? … Oh, you’ve been inhaling some of dad’s balloon-juice. Lovers! Me and that redheaded stinker—that jelly-brained sapadilly? Hardly!”
“Hold it, Jack!” The big officer’s voice was slightly edged. “You’re off course—a hell of a long flit off. That girl has got everything. She’s the class of the Reservation—why, she’s a regular twelve-nineteen!”
“Huh?” Amazed, young Kinnison stopped drying himself and stared. “You mean to say you’ve been giving her a miss just because. …” He had started to say “because you’re the best friend I’ve got in the System,” but he did not.
“Well, it would have smelled slightly cheesy, I thought.” The other man did not put into words, either, what both of them so deeply knew to be the truth. “But if you haven’t got … if it’s OK with you, of course. …”
“Stand by for five seconds—I’ll take you around.”
Jack threw on his uniform, and in a few minutes the two young officers, immaculate in
