"By coming out with me tonight? Lane asked--but he was late. He can't object to my making plans first, can he?" "He admitted that he had only himself to blame." "Then?" "But I can't help thinking that I'm the cause--" "Look, Pat. Analyze us. Cliff is Venusite. His family went to Venus about six hundred years ago--probably on the same ship that mine left for Mars on at about the same time. Lane's impetuous and slightly wildman. I'm more inclined to calculate. Dance?" "Yes--that was a quick change of subject, Stell. How do you do it?" "The music just started--and my basic idea in coming here was to dance with you." "How about ordering? They'll get the stuff while we're dancing." "Everything's ordered," he smiled. He drew back her chair, offered her an arm, and led her to the dance floor. Downing's dancing was excellent. He was precise, deft, and graceful despite his size. The orchestra finished the piece, and then with a drum-roll introduction led into the classic "_Mars Waltz_." The step was long and slow and though some of the other couples drifted off the floor to await something more springy, they finished the long number with a slight flourish. Another drum-roll, and: "Ladies and Gentlemen," said the announcer, "that number was in honor of Stellor Downing, number one Flight Commander of the Martian sector of the Solar Guard!" There was a craning of necks to see the Martian, and Downing politely saluted before he retreated to his table. "And in this corner ... pardon me, I mean over here, ladies and gentlemen, we have Clifford Lane, the top Flight Commander of the Venus sector!" The necks swiveled like the spectators at a tennis match and the spotlight caught Cliff, standing at the door with a woman on each arm. At a word from the manager, four large, square-shouldered men in tuxedos accepted two tables. Base lines for defense-- But Lane merely nodded affably in the bright spotlight. "Thanks, and now, professor, that light is bright. Play, George. The Caramanne if you please." "But I can't dance the Caramanne," objected the girl on his right. "And I wouldn't dance it in public," said the girl on his left. "Well, we all know someone who can and will," laughed Cliff. He led them to Downing's table, shook hands with Stellor and underwent a ten-second grip-trying match. He introduced them all around and then asked: "Downing, may I steal her for a moment? I think she's the only one present that can hang on while I take care of the Caramanne." "For a moment," said Downing. * * * * * The four men in tuxedos blinked and shook their heads. The manager took a quick, very short drink. It was a draft of sheer relief. The pulse-beating rhythm of the native dance of Venus started with rapid tomtom, and then carried up into the other instruments. With the floor to themselves, Cliff and Patricia covered most of it in the whirling, quick-step. "A fine specimen of fidelity you'd make," she laughed.