"How about ordering? They'll get the stuff while we're dancing."
"Everything's ordered," he smiled. He drew back her chair, offered her an arm, and led her to the dance floor.
Downing's dancing was excellent. He was precise, deft, and graceful despite his size. The orchestra finished the piece, and then with a drum-roll introduction led into the classic "Mars Waltz."
The step was long and slow and though some of the other couples drifted off the floor to await something more springy, they finished the long number with a slight flourish.
Another drum-roll, and: "Ladies and Gentlemen," said the announcer, "that number was in honor of Stellor Downing, number one Flight Commander of the Martian sector of the Solar Guard!"
There was a craning of necks to see the Martian, and Downing politely saluted before he retreated to his table.
"And in this corner ... pardon me, I mean over here, ladies and gentlemen, we have Clifford Lane, the top Flight Commander of the Venus sector!"
The necks swiveled like the spectators at a tennis match and the spotlight caught Cliff, standing at the door with a woman on each arm.
At a word from the manager, four large, square-shouldered men in tuxedos accepted two tables. Base lines for defense—
But Lane merely nodded affably in the bright spotlight. "Thanks, and now, professor, that light is bright. Play, George. The Caramanne if you please."