"Sometimes, Sparks," shuddered Maestro Marco Polo Biggs delicately, "I wonder what strange chemistry goes on in that brain of yours. Of course we can't use violence. In the first place, if we did, the Venusian authorities would know something was wrong, confiscate our ship and goods, ignoring our navicert,[2] interne us—"
"If we don't," I reminded him gloomily, "they'll do all them things anyway. And maybe give us two slaps on the wrist for good measure. With a crowbar."
"Knowledge!" said Biggs feverishly. "Knowledge is the answer to all problems. It's right on the tip of my mind, but I can't quite grasp it. Mississ—no! Thames? No!"
"Thames and tide," I punned, "wait for no man. Oh, go 'way, will you please? I've got things to do. But quick!"
So he went away, and I snapped on the old powerhouse and pretty soon current hummed and sang through the coils and I made the ether vibrate. And I do mean vibrate.
I contacted Joe Marlowe at Lunar III, Joe being not only one of the best bug-pounders in the business but also a personal friend. And I asked him to find out, (1) if this bozo Thaxton was really a friend of Doc Challenger's, (2) if there'd been any leak on Earth about our gun-running exploits, and (3) if there were hot and cold running water in Venusian hoosegows.
Pretty soon the answer came back.
"No, no, a thousand times no." After which Joe asked me, on our private conversation band,
"What's all this about somebody named Thaxton?"