Unterzuyder brushed Foshag aside.
"I warn you, Mr. Bailes," he said thickly, "if you have any ulterior motive, such as looting this ship, we will put up a fight! Our settlers were chosen for their intrepid qualities. We have guns. We have bombs. We have a flare-cannon. You will not find us easy prey!"
Bailes leaned back easily. "Relax, Unterzuyder. As far as guns go, we've got our share. And we have got a brace of flare-cannons embrasured into the bulkheads of the Space-Queen ourselves, if you want to get tough."
He spread his fat hands. "But who wants to get tough? See you gentlemen, aboard your ship, twenty-four hours from now." With which remark he broke contact.
Unterzuyder was at Foshag instantly.
"Not a word about my identity," he breathed. "After all, I did pay you a thousand credits!"
"And for which I thanked you! Mr. Unterzuyder, I am not a secretive man. If asked a direct question, I seldom impair my health by lying. Now permit me to return to my duties."
Fuming, Unterzuyder left the control turret, went straight to the ballroom. Here, without any hesitation whatever, he cut in on Fayette, taking her away from the handsomest husband in the lot. No word of apology.
He held her very close, very tight. He danced with a mathematical precision. Even the soul of the dance, he reflected grimly, derives from a mathematical formula. The dummy four-piece band haggered out its hag-strut very effectively. He was rewarded as Fayette lost her surprised stiffness, and began to melt into him in perfect rhythm to the tune. Her blonde head gradually nestled into his shoulder, her eyes closed, a small, sweet smile on her lips.