World Of Ptavvs

their drives melted through layer after layer of frozen gases, nitrogen and oxygen and carbon dioxide, until they reached the thick water ice layer. They landed on water ice, each in its own shallow cone. Then Woody and Smoky went after Number Four.

Smoky brought the singleship down with its tank nearly empty. They drained what was left into the Iwo Jima, and followed it with the Heinlein's supply. Woody turned off the cooling unit in the singleship's hydrogen tank, dismantled the heater in the cabin and moved it into the tank. He had to cut a hole in the wall to get in.

The next few hours were spent cutting blocks of water ice. Masney was still convalescing, so the Belters had to do all the work. When they broke off they were exhausted, and two laser cutting tools were near death; but Number Four's fuel tank was filled with warm, not very clean water.

They hooked up the battery from Number Six to electrolyze the melted ice. Hydrogen and oxygen, mixed, poured into the Heinlein's tank. They set the thermostat above the condensation point of hydrogen; but the oxygen fell as snow, and Smoky and Woody alternated positions in the bottom of the tank, shoveling the snow out. Once they had to take Number Six up and fly her around to recharge her batteries. Always there was the flavor of time passing, of the «war» leaving them further behind with each passing minute.

In two days they had fueled all three ships. The tanks were not full, but they would carry the little secondary fleet to Pluto, driving all the way, with fuel to spare. Number Four was useless, her tank clogged with dirt.

'We'll be three days late for whatever happens,' Woody said glumly. 'Why go at all?'

'We can stay close enough for radio contact,' Smoky argued. 'I'd like to have Garner close enough to tell the fleet what to do. He knows more about these Bug Eyed Monsters than any of us.'

Luke said, 'Main argument is that it may take the fleet three days to lose. Then we get there and save the day. Or we don't. Let's go.'

Woody Atwood masered the fleet immediately, knowing that the others could not intercept the conversation. If they had moved into the maser beam their radio would have blown sky high.

'Matchsticks!' Kzanol's voice dripped with Thrintun contempt. 'We might just as well be playing Patience.' It was a strange thing to say, considering that he was losing.

'Tell you what,' Kzanol/Greenberg suggested. 'We could divide the Earth up now and play for people. We'd get about eight billion each to play with, with a few left over. In fact, we could agree right now that the Earth should be divided by two north-south great circle lines, leave it at that 'til we get back with the amplifier, and play with eight billion apiece.'

'Sounds all right. Why north-south?'

'So we each get all the choices of climate there are. Why not?'

'Agreed.' Kzanol dealt two cards face down and one up.

'Seven stud,' announced the pilot.

'Fold,' said Kzanol/Greenberg, and watched Kzanol snarl and rake in the antes. 'We should have brought Masney,' he said. 'It might be dangerous, not having a pilot.'

'So? Assume I'd brought Masney. How would you feel, watching me operate your former slave?'

'Lousy.' In point of fact, he now saw that Kzanol had shown rare tact in leaving Masney behind. Lloyd was a used slave, one who had been owned by another. Tradition almost demanded his death, and certainly decreed that he must never be owned by a self-respecting thrint, though he might be given to a beggar.

'Five stud,' said the pilot. He sat where he could see neither hand, ready to wrap his human tongue around human, untranslatable poker slang when Kzanol wished to speak, and ready to translate for Kzanol/Greenberg. Kzanol dealt one up, one down.

'That's funny,' said Kzanol/Greenberg. 'I almost remembered something, but then it slipped away.'

'Open your mind and I'll tell you what it was.'

'No. It's in English anyway. From the Greenberg memories.' He clutched his head. 'What is it? It seems so damned appropriate. Something about Masney.'

'Play.'

'Nine people.'

'Raise five.'

'Up ten.'

'Call. Greenberg, why is it that you win more than I do, even though you fold more often?'

Kzanol/Greenberg snapped his fingers. 'Got it! 'When I am grown to man's estate I shall be very proud and great. And tell the other girls and boys Not to meddle with my toys. Stevenson.' He laughed. 'Now what made me…'

'Deuce for you, queen for me,' said the pilot. Kzanol continued in Thrintun: 'If men had telepathic recorders they wouldn't have to meddle with sounds that way. It has a nice beat, though.'

'Sure,' Kzanol/Greenberg said absently. He lost that hand, betting almost two hundred on a pair of fours.

Somewhat later Kzanol looked up from the game. 'Communicator,' he said. He got up and went to the pilot room. Kzanol/Greenberg followed. They took seats next to the control room door and the pilot turned up the volume.

'… Atwood in Number Six. I hope you're listening, Lew. There is definitely an ET on the honeymooner, and he definitely has wild talents. There's nothing phony about any of this. The alien paralyzed the Arm and his chauffeur from a distance of around a million miles. He's pretty callous, too. The man in the second ship was left drifting near Triton, half starved and without fuel, after the alien was through with him. Garner says Greenberg was responsible. Greenberg's the one who thinks he's another ET. He's on the honeymooner now. There are two others on the honeymooner, the pilot and copilot. Garner says shoot on sight, don't try to approach the ship. I leave that to you. We're three days behind you, but we're coming anyway. Number Four is on Triton, without fuel, and we can't use it until we clean the mud out of the tank. Only three of us can fly. Garner and his chauffeur are still paralyzed, though it's wearing off a little. We should have a hypnotherapist for these flatlanders, or they may never dance again.

'In my opinion your first target is the amplifier, if you can find it. It's far more dangerous than any single ET. The Belt wouldn't want it except for research, and I know some scientists who'd hate us for giving up that opportunity, but you can imagine what Earth might do with an amplifier for telepathic hypnosis.

'I'm putting this on repeat.

'Lew, this is Atwood in Number Six. Repeat, Atwood in…'

Kzanol/Greenberg pulled a cigarette and lit it. The honeymooner had a wide selection; this one was double filtered, mentholated, and made from de-nicotinized tobaccos. It smelled like gently burning leaves and tasted like a cough drop. 'Shoot on sight,' he repeated. 'That's not good.'

The thrint regarded him with undisguised contempt. To fear a slave-! But then, it was only a ptavv itself.

Kzanol/Greenberg glared. He knew more about people than Kzanol did, after all!

'All ships,' said the man in the lead ship. 'I say we shoot now. Comments?'

There were comments. Lew waited them out, and then he spoke.

'Tartov, your humanitarian impulses do you credit. No sarcasm intended. But things are too sticky to worry about two flatlanders in a honeymoon special. As for finding the amplifier, I don't think we have to worry about that. Earth won't find it before we do. They don't know what we know about Pluto. We can post guard over the planet until the Belt sends us an automatic orbital guardian. Radar may show us the amplifier; in that case we drop a bomb on it, and the hell with the research possibilities. Have I overlooked anything?'

A feminine voice said, 'Send one missile with a camera. We don't want to use up all our firepower at once.'

'Good, Mabe. Have you got a camera missile?'

'Yes.'

'Use it.'

The Iwo Jima had been a week out from Earth, and Kzanol/Greenberg had been