"Nice!" She was no shrinking violet this young Atlantean spy. "You have
spares, of course, and I can hide two of them easily enough in
leg-holsters. Gimme, and show me how they work."

"Standard controls, pretty much like blasters. Like so." He
demonstrated, and as he drove sedately down the highway the girl sewed
industriously.

The day wore on, nor was it uneventful. One incident, in fact--the
detailing of which would serve no useful purpose here--was of such a
nature that at its end:

"Better pin-point me, don't you think, on that ramp?" Phryges asked,
quietly. "Just in case you get scragged in one of these brawls and I
don't?"

"Oh! Of course! Forgive me, Fry--it slipped my mind completely that you
didn't know where it was. Area six; pin-point four seven three dash six
oh five.

"Got it." He repeated the figures.

But neither of the Atlanteans was "scragged", and at six P.M. an
allegedly honeymooning couple parked their big roadster in the garage at
Norgrad Field and went through the gates. Their papers, tickets
included, were in perfect order; they were as inconspicuous and as
undemonstrative as newlyweds are wont to be. No more so, and no less.

Strolling idly, gazing eagerly at each new thing, they made their
circuitous way toward a certain small hangar. As the girl had said, this
field boasted hundreds of super-sonic fighters, so many that servicing
was a round-the-clock routine. In that hangar was a sharp-nosed,
stubby-V'd flyer, one of Norheim's fastest. It was serviced and ready.

It was too much to hope, of course, that the visitors could actually get
into the building unchallenged. Nor did they.

"Back, you!" A guard waved them away. "Get back to the Concourse, where
you belong--no visitors allowed out here!"

F-f-t! F-f-t! Phryges' air-gun broke into soft but deadly coughing.
Kinnexa whirled--hands flashing down, skirt flying up-and ran. Guards
tried to head her off; tried to bring their own weapons to bear.
Tried--failed--died.

Phryges, too, ran; ran backward. His blaster was out now and flaming,
for no living enemy remained within needle range. A rifle bullet
w-h-i-n-g-e-d past his head, making him duck involuntarily and
uselessly. Rifles were bad; but their hazard, too, had been considered
and had been accepted.

Kinnexa reached the fighter's port, opened it, sprang in. He jumped. She
fell against him. He tossed her clear, slammed and dogged the door. He
looked at her then, and swore bi