“Not on Thursdays, Storm,” Joe said, pointing to an inconspicuous bronze button set into a shoulder-strap. “We both rate Blaster Expert First. Count us in,” and Bob added:
“Joan has been telling us an earful, and what she didn’t tell us a couple of Vegian boys did. The Three Honorary Vegian Musketeers; that’s us. Lead on, d’Artagnan!”
“Bob and Joe are staying, too, Vesta,” Cloud said then.
“Of course. I’m sorry I didn’t get to tell you myself about being adopted, but I knew somebody would. But you, Joan and Barbara and Helen, you three had better go back to the ship. You can be of no use here.”
Two of them were willing enough to go, but:
“Where Neal Cloud goes, I go,” Joan said, and there was no doubt whatever that she meant exactly that.
“Why?” Vesta demanded. “Commander Cloud, the fastest gunman in all space, is necessary for the success of this our mission. He can, from a cold, bell-tone start, at thirty yards, burn the centers out of six irregularly-spaced targets. . . .”
“Nordquist! Lay off! What in hell do you think you’re doing?” Cloud thought, viciously.
“I don’t think—I know,” came instant reply. “Do you want her hanging on your left arm when the blasting starts? This is the only possible way Joan Janowick can be handled. Lay off yourself!” and Vesta’s voice went calmly on:
“. . . in exactly two hundred and forty nine mils. Lieutenant Mackay and Lieutenant Ingalls, although perhaps not absolutely necessary, are highly desirable. They are fast enough, and are of deadly accuracy. When either of them shoots a man in a crowd, however large, that one man dies, and not a dozen bystanders. Now just what good would you be, Lieutenant-Commander Janowick? Can you fire a blaster with any one of these men? Or bite a man’s throat out with me?”