Lane flushed. "My clothing is my own business."
"It's very fetching. Chic, even."
"Shut up, dough-head. I'm not forced to wear an iceman's uniform so people won't think—"
"What's the matter with me?" gritted Downing.
"You might at least put on a clean shirt," drawled Lane, tossing his cigarette at Downing.
"Oh, swish—"
That did it. Lane's right hand streaked for his hip after a warning gesture. Downing's two hands dropped and came up with the twin modines.
Only a microtime film record would ever tell the quicker man. Their weapons came up and forward and the dust of landing Circle One was shocked with a sharp electrical splat.
III.