The Terrestian warship paced the Jupiter silently, grimly. She wasn't half the size of the colossal liner, but her speed he knew to be fabulous, and he could count a hundred gun ports along her starboard side alone. A lean gray wolf of space, he thought. Nothing could stand up against that brutally efficient machine of destruction. Reassured, he began to dress himself carefully.
In the dining saloon he discovered the girl, Jennifer Scott. She was seated at a table having breakfast with a young man to whom Norman took an immediate dislike although it was possible to see only the back of his head. He felt surprised at himself. He wasn't in the habit of making snap judgements like that.
Jennifer saw him, waved gaily, beckoned him to come sit with them. The informality of the Outlanders never ceased to amaze him. They brushed aside conventions like cobwebs.
He said, "Good morning, Miss Scott. I trust yesterday's tragedy didn't disturb your rest too much." There was a touch of resentment in his tone. The girl appeared too buoyant, too vivacious. His own sleep had been wretched.
The girl's blue eyes were bright. She said, "Not too much;" and introduced her companion. "This is Mr. Vermeer. He's an agent of the Venusian Export Lines."
Norman observed Vermeer coolly, saw a black-eyed, black-haired man whose gray coat fit his chunky shoulders too tightly. There was a white scar on his upper lip, another above his right eyebrow. Mr. Vermeer extended his hand without enthusiasm, said, "Sit down, Saint Clair."
Norman eased his lank frame into the chair. "Have they caught the murderer, yet?"
Jennifer shook her head.
"Not likely," observed Vermeer with scorn. "There was a time when it would have been suicide to kill a T.I.S. agent. From Mercury to Pluto Earthmen were known as the scourge of the Universe. But now. Pah! They've grown fat and spoiled. The Empire isn't able to protect its own ships anymore."
Norman fidgeted angrily. "You're an Earthman, yourself," he accused.