“No, they are five Centralians now. Perfectly innocent. They think their blasters are completely hidden under those long over shirts, but now and again a bulge shows—they’ve still got blasters on their hips. The theater’s crowded, but the five friends want to sit together. The manager thinks it could be arranged, by paying a small gratuity to a few seat-holders who would like to make a fast credit that way . . . he’ll place them and it’s almost time for us to go. ’Bye, Joanie—stay back, remember!” and she was in his arms.
“How about it, Helen?” Joe asked. “Surely you’re going to kiss your Porthos good-bye, aren’t you?”
“Of a surety, m’enfant!” she exclaimed, and did so with enthusiasm. “But it’s more like Aramis, I think—he kissed everybody, you know—and since I’m not hooked like Joan is—yet—don’t think that this is establishing a precedent.”
“Well, Babs, that leaves you and me.” Bob reached out—she was standing beside him—and pulled her close. “QX?”
“Why, I . . . I guess so.” Barbara blushed furiously. “But Bob . . . is it really dangerous?” she whispered.
“I don’t know. Not very, really, I don’t think. At least I certainly hope not. But blasters are not cap-pistols, you know, and whenever one goes off it can raise pure hell. Why? Would you really miss me?”
“You know I would, Bob,” and her kiss had more fervor than either she or he would have believed possible a few minutes before. And at its end she laughed, shakily, and blushed again as she said, “I’ve got sort of used to having you around, so be sure and come back.”
They left the building and walked rapidly along a strangely quiet street to the theater. Without a word they were ushered up a short flight of stairs.
“Hold up, Vesta!” Cloud thought sharply. “We can’t see a thing—wait a couple of minutes.”
They waited five minutes, during which time they learned exactly where the enemy were and discussed every detail of the proposed attack.