"Where are you taking that baggage, Charley?"
"Up Ramp One, boss," came the unflurried reply. "Flight Ninety will be late taking off, on accounta this jamboree, and they want it right up there handy."
"Take it down to the...."
Over the years a good many men had tried to catch Conway Costigan off guard or napping, to beat him to the punch or to the draw—with a startlingly uniform lack of success. The Lensman's fist traveled a bare seven inches: the supposed porter gasped once and traveled—or rather, staggered backward—approximately seven feet before he collapsed and sprawled unconscious upon the pavement.
"Decontamination," Costigan remarked, apparently to empty air, as he picked the fellow up and draped him limply over the truckful of suitcases. "Deke. Front and center. Area forty-six. Class Eff-ex—hotter than the middle tailrace of hell."
"You called Deke?" A man came running up. "Eff-ex six—nineteen. This it?"
"Check. It's yours, porter and all. Take it away."
Costigan strolled on until he met Jack Kinnison, who had a rapidly-developing mouse under his left eye.
"How did that happen, Jack?" he demanded sharply. "Something slip?"
"Not exactly." Kinnison grinned ruefully. "I have the damndest luck! A woman—an old lady at that—thought I was staging a hold-up and swung on me with her hand-bag—southpaw and from the rear. And if you laugh, you untuneful harp, I'll hang one right on the end of your chin, so help me!"