The marking on the scope became more definite, and the question settled itself as the other car came between Mark and the cloud. Growling with irritation, Mark swung around and sent a wide angle beam in the direction of his pursuer, watching nervously as the indicators described the pitiful short range of his fire at this setting.
The assailant veered off, however, scurrying into the cobalt cloud. Mark grinned. He knew the man would expect him to wait for him to come out, so he swooped down at max acceleration toward the surface. In five minutes he was signaling into Jennette's shelter for permission to enter.
There were servants everywhere—mechanical things, controlled by electronics and not alive, although they looked it. This was Jennette's specialty. She owned a factory that manufactured them for mining on the scalding plains of Mercury, and these had been superficially remodelled to act as servants. There was the usual government man there, too, running the party. He strutted around under his official sash with ill-concealed self-importance.
"Hey you, there—wait a minute," he called to Mark, waving a zuzz pistol in his direction.
"Yes?" Mark hesitated, eyed the pistol, and obeyed.
"That scarf—get it off," the man ordered sternly as he approached. The zuzz pistol was level and steady.
"Why?" Mark demanded. "It's just a scarf. I always wear one."
"You know why," the other man said coldly. "This is a tetotal party. If I let somebody slip a weapon or something in, it would be an awful brawl in no time. You know how people are."
The man was right, of course. You can conceal a lot of things in the fabric of a sheer scarf. Reluctantly, Mark undid the catch and handed it over.
"Okay. You can pick it up at the entrance when you leave." The officer's amused eyes wrinkled as he looked Mark up and down. "Say, that's a pretty nice job you've got there, man. Mind if I ask who made it?"