"Things seem to be quiet at the terminal building," I observed, looking across the field. "I wonder who won the battle?"
"What battle?" said Snow.
"Boy, honey," I kissed her lightly on the forehead, "you are going to take years to bring up to date."
To forestall any more questions, I turned and started off across the landing field, with my alien-plus-female-plus-adolescent group tagging cautiously after me. I was just busy wishing I still had my collapser, when, from a cavemouth to our right, a pallid glow appeared, and then a figure darted out onto the strip, in the glow of the terminal lights.
Baxter! If he got inside first, and IS men were in charge—
But he hadn't seen me yet. I couldn't just hope for a rebel win. I took off like an Olympic sprinter, racing toward that staggering silhouette before me, my hands outstretched in the hopes of throttling him a bit before I turned him over to the World Congress. Unless, of course, the rebels ruled Marsport.
And then one of the more excitable Space Scouts blurted an involuntary, "Get him!"
Baxter whirled, five feet away from my fingertips. His right hand came swinging up toward my face.
And then I was coughing, and sneezing, and waving frantic hands at a blazing something that engulfed my features.
By the time I realized it was only tunnel-fungus, and at the same moment realized how Baxter had lighted his way out, he was on his way into the terminal, his old legs whipping like pistons. Well, he'd be the first to see who'd survived the battle. Clatclit and the others had caught up to me, by then, and we moved in a desperate bunch toward those lighted glass doors, in a last hope of getting our man before our man's men got us.