The cook stooped to look into her face and turned on the mob. “She isn’t,” he said definitely. “She’s a lady from another system. She was slopping up triple antigravs at my place last night with a gang of jet pilots.”
“That doesn’t prove a thing!” the virago yelled.
“Madam,” the cook said wearily, “after her third antigrav I had to trip her up and crown her. She was about to climb the bar and corner my barman.”
Ross looked at her fixedly. She stopped crying and nervously cleared her throat.
“So if you’ll just let us through,” the cook bustled, seizing the psychological moment of doubt. His enormous belly bulldozed a lane for them. “Beg pardon. Excuse us. Madam, will you—thank you. Beg pardon——”
The lynchers were beginning to drift away, embarrassed. The party had collapsed. “Faster,” the cook hissed at them. “Beg pardon——” And they were in the clear and well down the street.
“Thank you, Sir,” Helena said humbly.
“Just ‘Willie’, if you please,” the fat man said.
One hand descended on Ross’s shoulder and another on Helena’s. They both belonged to the virago. She spun them around, glaring. “I’m not satisfied with the brush-off,” she snapped. “Exactly what did you mean by that remark you made?”
Helena wailed, “It’s just that you and all these other women here seem so young.”