But Cosmo had leaped to his feet. "There's a plane coming!" he said in an edgy voice.
A surface flying car flashed to the edge of the patio, stopped, settled to the ground. The extreme altitude of the bullet-shaped vehicle was under three hundred feet, Cosmo knew. But even that height was impractical for flight on Venus, roofed as the planet was by the low, swirling cloud blanket. As a rule, the planes barely skimmed the surface.
A door in the monoloid hull swung open. A heavy set man got out.
"Why it's Hal Bemmelman," exclaimed Mia. "What does he want?"
"Speak of the devil," drawled Cosmo.
Bemmelman strode across the patio, his eyes on Cosmo, said in a disagreeable voice: "If it isn't the fortieth-century troubadour."
Cosmo's features set blankly. He didn't reply.
"Mia." Bemmelman took both the girl's hands in his big paws. "I've bad news. Yes sir, very bad news. Three of my serfs ganged my second overseer, chopped him to pieces with grass knives."
"What?" Mia's eyes dilated in horror.