Coming easily to the surface, she shook the water out of her eyes.
Temple, giving up her attempts to near-drown her husband, rolled over and floated
quietly beside him.
“You know, this is fun,” he said. “Uh-huh,” she agreed enthusiastically.
“I’m glad you and Sandy buried the hatchet. Two of the top women who ever lived. Or
should I have said sheathed the claws? Or have you, really?”
“Pretty much . . . I guess.” Temple didn’t seem altogether sure of the point. “Oh-oh.
Now what?”
A flitabout had come to ground. Dark Lady, who never delivered a message via thought
if she could possibly get away with delivering it in person, was running full tilt across the
sand toward them. Her long black hair was streaming out behind her; she was waving a
length of teletype tape as though it were a pennon.
“Oh, no. Not again?” Temple wailed. “Don’t tell us it’s Terra again, Dark Lady, please.”
“But it is!” Dark Lady cried, excitedly. “And it says ‘From Five-Jet Admiral Gordon,
Commanding.”
“Omit flowers, please,” Hilton directed. “Boil it down.” “The Perseus is in orbit with the
whole Advisory Board. They want to hold a top-level summit conference with Director
Hilton and Five-Jet Admiral Sawtelle.” Dark Lady raised her voice enough to be sure
Sawtelle heard the title, and shot him a wicked glance as she announced it. “They hope
to conclude all unfinished business on a mutally satisfactory and profitable basis.”
“Okay, Lady, thanks. Tell ’em we’ll call ’em shortly.”
Dark Lady flashed away and Hilton and Temple swam slowly toward a ladder.
“Drat Terra and everything and everybody on it,” Temple said, vigorously. “And
especially drat His Royal Fatness FiveJet Admiral Gordon. How much longer will it take,
do you think, to pound some sense into their pointed little heads?”
“Oh, we’re not doing too bad,” Hilton assured his lovely bride. “Two or three more
sessions ought to do it.” Everything was normal . . .