"That is a shock, sir. Thanks. I hadn't expected ... it's really overwhelming. And you said something about commiserating me?" Kit lifted his red-thatched head—all of Clarrissa's children had inherited her startling hair—and gray eyes stared level into eyes of gray.
"In a sense, yes. You'll understand later. Well, you'd better go hunt up Chris and the kids. After the festivities are over—"
"I'd better cut them, hadn't I?" Kit asked, eagerly. "Don't you think it'd be better for me to get started right away?"
"Not on your life!" Kinnison demurred, positively. "Do you think that I want that mob of strawberry blondes to snatch me bald-headed? You're in for a large day and evening of lionization, so take it like a man. As I was about to say, as soon as the brawl is over tonight we'll all board the Dauntless and do a flit for Klovia, where I'll fit you out with everything you want. Until then, son—" Two big hands gripped.
"But I'll be seeing you around the Hall!" Kit exclaimed. "You can't—"
"No, I can't dodge the lionizing, either," Kinnison grinned, "but we won't be in a sealed and shielded room. So, son ... I'm proud of you."
"Right back at you, big fellow—and thanks a million." Kit strode out and, a few minutes later, the Co-ordinator did likewise.
The "brawl," which was the gala event of the Tellurian social year, was duly enjoyed by all the Kinnisons. The Dauntless made an uneventful flight to Klovia. Arrangements were made. Plans, necessarily sketchy and elastic, were laid.
Two big, gray-clad Lensmen stood upon the deserted spacefield, between two blackly indetectable speedsters. Kinnison was massive, sure, calm with the poised calmness of maturity, experience, and power. Kit, with the broad shoulders and narrow waist of his years and training, was taut and tense, fiery, eager to come to grips with Civilization's foes.