Lone Star Planet | Page 8

out whose.
On the other hand, Old Texas, on Terra, had been heavily industrialized;
so much so that the state itself could handle the gigantic project of
building enough spaceships to move almost the whole population into
space.
Then the landing-field was rushing up at us, with the nearer ends of the
roadways and streets drawing close and the far ends lengthening out
away from us. The other lighter was already down, and I could see a
crowd around it.
There was a crowd waiting for us when we got out and went down the
escalators to the ground, and as I had expected, a special group of men
waiting for me. They were headed by a tall, slender individual in the
short black Eisenhower jacket, gray-striped trousers and black homburg
that was the uniform of the Diplomatic Service, alias the Cookie
Pushers.
Over their heads at the other rocket-boat, I could see the gold-gleaming
head of the girl I'd met on the ship.
I tried to push through the crowd and get to her. As I did, the Cookie
Pusher got in my way.
"Mr. Silk! Mr. Ambassador! Here we are!" he was clamoring. "The car
for the Embassy is right over here!" He clutched my elbow. "You have
no idea how glad we all are to see you, Mr. Ambassador!"
"Yes, yes; of course. Now, there's somebody over there I have to see, at
once." I tried to pull myself loose from his grasp.

Across the concrete between the two lighters, I could see the girl push
out of the crowd around her and wave a hand to me. I tried to yell to
her; but just then another lighter, loaded with freight, started to lift out
at another nearby stand, with the roar of half a dozen Niagaras. The thin
man in the striped trousers added to the uproar by shouting into my ear
and pulling at me.
"We haven't time!" he finally managed to make himself heard. "We're
dreadfully late now, sir! You must come with us."
Hoddy, too, had caught hold of me by the other arm.
"Come on, boss. There's gotta be some reason why he's got himself in
an uproar about whatever it is. You'll see her again."
Then, the whole gang--Hoddy, the thin man with the black homburg,
his younger accomplice in identical garb, and the chauffeur--all closed
in on me and pushed me, pulled me, half-carried me, fifty yards across
the concrete to where their air-car was parked. By this time, the tall
blond had gotten clear of the mob around her and was waving
frantically at me. I tried to wave back, but I was literally crammed into
the car and flung down on the seat. At the same time, the chauffeur was
jumping in, extending the car's wings, jetting up.
"Great God!" I bellowed. "This is the damnedest piece of impudence
I've ever had to suffer from any subordinates in my whole State
Department experience! I want an explanation out of you, and it'd
better be a good one!"
There was a deafening silence in the car for a moment. The thin man
moved himself off my lap, then sat there looking at me with the
heartbroken eyes of a friendly dog that had just been kicked for
something which wasn't really its fault.
"Mr. Ambassador, you can't imagine how sorry we all are, but if we
hadn't gotten you away from the spaceport and to the Embassy at once,
we would all have been much sorrier."

"Somebody here gunnin' for the Ambassador?" Hoddy demanded
sharply.
"Oh, no! I hadn't even thought of that," the thin man almost gibbered.
"But your presence at the Embassy is of immediate and urgent
necessity. You have no idea of the state into which things have gotten....
Oh, pardon me, Mr. Ambassador. I am Gilbert W. Thrombley, your
chargé d'affaires." I shook hands with him. "And Mr. Benito Gomez,
the Secretary of the Embassy." I shook hands with him, too, and started
to introduce Mr. Hoddy Ringo.
Hoddy, however, had turned to look out the rear window; immediately,
he gave a yelp.
"We got a tail, boss! Two of them! Look back there!"
There were two black eight-passenger aircars, of the same model,
whizzing after us, making an obvious effort to overtake us. The
chauffeur cursed and fired his auxiliary jets, then his rocket-booster.
Immediately, black rocket-fuel puffs shot away from the pursuing
aircars.
Hoddy turned in his seat, cranked open a porthole-slit in the window,
and poked one of his eleven-mm's out, letting the whole clip go.
Thrombley and Gomez slid down onto the floor, and both began trying
to drag me down with them, imploring me not to expose myself.
As far as I could see, there was nothing to expose myself to.