She halted before them and Flip rose from his chair like a ghost. Charlie sat very still. His face was pale, eyes narrow.
"Sit down." It was a command and Flip sank back down helplessly. In his amazement he'd probably have done anything she said. She spoke English, in the liquid tones of a native. And she was Venusian, in all its ancient connotation. Her eyes met Flip's evenly, calmly. Her eyes were emerald green.
"You are Flip Miller," she said. "You have a map. Give it to me." She held out her hand, as if refusal to her easy words was unthinkable. Flip found his voice.
"Who—?" he began. Her eyes were cold, commanding; his ego rebelled and he stood up quickly. With a swift hand, one of the men pushed him back down. Flip came up again with fists balled. A pistol was jabbed in his side.
"Jupiter's jumpers!" cried Flip. "What is this?"
"Captain Vixen...." breathed Charlie.
The .03 gun was persuasive and Flip sat down. The man was huge, ugly with a welted blue scar across his cheek. He stepped back and stood with feet wide apart, the gun pointed at Flip's chest. Another stationed himself at the door, the other stood behind Charlie. The woman leaned against the table, crossed her legs.
"The map?" she said and produced a cigarette. Bravado was the word for Flip, naturally or à la loku, and forgetting his anger he struck a match for her. She ignored him, lit the cigarette herself. Without changing his expression, Flip thumped the burning match toward the man with the gun.
"So you're Captain Vixen," he said, meeting her gaze. "Perhaps I should ask for your autograph."