“No, they are five Centralians now. Perfectly innocent. They think their blasters are completely hidden under those long over shirts, but now and again a bulge shows—they’ve still got blasters on their hips. The theater’s crowded, but the five friends want to sit together. The manager thinks it could be arranged, by paying a small gratuity to a few seat-holders who would like to make a fast credit that way . . . he’ll place them and it’s almost time for us to go. ’Bye, Joanie—stay back, remember!” and she was in his arms. “How about it, Helen?” Joe asked. “Surely you’re going to kiss your Porthos good-bye, aren’t you?” “Of a surety, m’enfant!” she exclaimed, and did so with enthusiasm. “But it’s more like Aramis, I think—he kissed everybody, you know—and since I’m not hooked like Joan is—yet—don’t think that this is establishing a precedent.” “Well, Babs, that leaves you and me.” Bob reached out—she was standing beside him—and pulled her close. “QX?” “Why, I . . . I guess so.” Barbara blushed furiously. “But Bob . . . is it really _dangerous_?” she whispered. “I don’t know. Not very, really, I don’t think. At least I certainly _hope_ not. But blasters are _not_ cap-pistols, you know, and whenever one goes off it can raise pure hell. Why? Would you really miss me?” “You _know_ I would, Bob,” and her kiss had more fervor than either she or he would have believed possible a few minutes before. And at its end she laughed, shakily, and blushed again as she said, “I’ve got sort of used to having you around, so be _sure_ and come back.” They left the building and walked rapidly along a strangely quiet street to the theater. Without a word they were ushered up a short flight of stairs. “Hold up, Vesta!” Cloud thought sharply. “We can’t see a thing—wait a couple of minutes.” They waited five minutes, during which time they learned exactly where the enemy were and discussed every detail of the proposed attack. “I _still_ can’t see well enough to shoot,” Cloud said then. “Can they give us a little glow of light?” They could. By almost imperceptible increments the thick, soft blackness was relieved. “That’s enough.” The light, such as it was, steadied. “Ready?” Vesta’s voice was a savage growl, low, deep in her throat. “Ready.” “No more noise, then.” They walked forward to the balcony’s edge, leaned over it, looked down. Directly beneath Vesta’s head was seated a man in Centralian garb; four others were behind, in front of, and at each side of, their chief. “Now!” Vesta yelled, and flung herself over the low railing. At her shout four Vegians ripped four Centralian shirts apart, seized four hip-holstered blasters, and shouted with glee—but they shouted too soon. For the real gun-slick, then as now, did not work from the hip, but out of his sleeve; and these were four of the coldest, fastest killers to be found throughout the far flung empire of Boskone. Thus, all four flashed into action even before they began rising to their feet.