"Jake sets verniers by hand-but when Gay is directing herself there are no moving parts. Solid state."

"Zebadiah, am I thinking straight? Using power, at that distance-call it twelve kilometers-Gay should be able to home on me in three or four minutes. But-Zebadiah, this can't be right!-using no power and relying on random numbers and pure chance in a Drunkard's Walk, Gay should find me in less than a second. Where did I go wrong?"

"On the high side, Deety girl. Lost your nerve. The first fifty milliseconds should show the hot spot; in less than the second fifty she'll part your hair. All over in a tenth of a second-or less. But, honey, we still haven't talked about the best way. I said that you should trust your instincts. Gay is not an 'it.' She's a person. You'll never know how relieved I was when it turned out that you two were going to be friends. If she had been jealous of you- May the gods deliver us from a vindictive machine! But she's not; she thinks you're swell."

"Zebadiah, you believe that?"

"Dejah Thoris, I know that."

Deety looked relieved. "I know it, too-despite what I said earlier."

"Deety, to me the whole world is alive. Some parts are sleeping and some are dozing and some are awake but yawning... and some are bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and always ready to go. Gay is one of those."

"Yes, she is. I'm sorry I called her an 'it.' But what is this 'best way'?"

"Isn't it obvious? Don't tell her how-just tell her. Say to her, 'Gay, come find me!' All four words are in her vocabulary; the sentence is compatible with her grammar. She'll find you."

"But how? Drunkard's Walk?"

"A tenth of a second might strike her as too long-she likes you, hon. She'll look through her registers and pick the optimum solution. She might not be able to tell you how she did it, since she wipes anything she's not told to remember. I think she does; I've never been certain."

Jake and Hilda had wandered off while Deety and I had been talking. They had turned back, so we started toward them. Sharpie called out, "Zebbie, what happened to that hike?"

"Right away," I agreed. "Jake, we have about three hours. We ought to be buttoned up before sundown. Check?"

"I agree. The temperature will drop rapidly at sundown."

"Yup. We can't do real exploring today. So let's treat it as drill. Fully armed, patrol formation, radio discipline, and always alert, as if there were a 'Black Hat' behind every bush."

"No bushes," objected Hilda.

I pretended not to hear. "But what constitutes 'fully armed,' Jake? We each have rifles. You have that oldstyle Army automatic that will knock down anything if you're close enough but-how good a shot are you?"

"Good enough."

"How good is 'Good enough'?" (Most people are as accurate with a baseball as with a pistol.)

"Skipper, I won't attempt a target more than fifty meters away. But if I intend to hit, the target will be within range and I will hit it."

I opened my mouth... closed it. Fifty meters is a long range for that weapon. But hint that my father-in-law was boasting?

Deety caught my hesitation. "Zebadiah-Pop taught me pistol in the campus R.O.T.C. range. I've seen him practice bobbing targets at thirty meters. I saw him miss one. Once."

Jake harrumphed. "My daughter omitted to mention that I skip most surprise targets."

"Father! 'Most' means 'more than fifty percent.' Not true!"

"Near enough."

"Six occasions. Four strings, twenty-eight targets on three-"

"Hold it, honey! Jake, it's silly to argue figures with your daughter. With my police special I won't attempt anything over twenty meters-except covering fire. But I hand-load my ammo and pour my own dumdums; the result

is almost as lethal as that howitzer of yours. But if it comes to trouble, or hunting for meat, we'll use rifles, backed by Deety's shotgun. Deety, can you shoot?"

"Throw your hat into the air."

"I don't like the sound of that. Sharpie, we have five firearms, four people- is there one that fits you?"

"Cap'n Zebbie, the one time I fired a gun, I went backwards, the bullet went that-a-way, and I had a sore shoulder. Better have me walk in front to trip land mines."

"Zebadiah, she could carry my fléchette gun."

"Sharpie, we'll put you in the middle and you carry the first-aid kit; you're medical officer-armed with Deety's purse gun for defense. Jake, it's time we stowed these swords and quit pretending to be Barsoomian warriors. Field boots. I'm going to wear that same sweaty pilot suit, about equivalent to jump suits you and Deety wore-which I suggest you wear now. We should carry water canteens and iron rations. I can't think of anything that would serve as a canteen. Damn! Jake, we aren't doing this by the book."

"What book?" demanded Hilda.

"Those romances about interstellar exploration. There's always a giant mother ship in orbit, loaded with everything from catheters to Coca-Cola, and scouting is by landing craft, in touch with the mother ship. Somehow, we aren't doing it that way."

(All the more reason to conduct drill as realistically as possible. Jake or I, one of us, is honor bound to stay alive to take care of two women and unborn children; exterminating 'Black-Hat' vermin holds a poor second to that.)

"Zebbie, why are you staring at me?"

I hadn't known that I was. "Trying to figure how to dress you, dear. Sharpie, you look cute in jewelry and perfume. But it's not enough for a sortie in the bush. Take 'em off and put 'em away. You, too, Deety. Deety, do you have another jump suit that can be pinned up or stitched up for Hilda?"

"A something, sure. But it would take hours to do a good job. My sewing kit isn't much."

"Hours' will have to be another day. Today we'll make do with safety pins. But take time to do a careful job of padding her feet into your stoutest shoes. Confound it, she should have field boots. Sharpie, remind me when we make that shopping trip to Earth-without-a-J."

"To hear is to obey, Exalted One. Is it permitted to make a parliamentary inquiry?"

She startled me. "Hilda, what did I do to cause that frosty tone?"

"It was what you didn't do." Suddenly she smiled, reached high and patted my cheek. "You mean well, Zebbie. But you slipped. While Gay Deceiver is on the ground, we're equal. But you've been giving orders right and left."

I started to answer; Jake cut in. "Hilda my love, for a scouting expedition the situation becomes equivalent to a craft in motion. Again we require a captain."

Sharpie turned toward her husband. "Conceded, sir. But may I point out that we are not yet on that hike? Zebbie has consulted you; he has not consulted Deety and me. He asked us for information-darned seldom! Aside from that he has simply laid down the law. What are we, Zebbie? Poor little female critters whose opinions are worthless?"

Caught with your hand in the cooky jar, throw yourself on the mercy of the court.

"Sharpie, you're right and I'm dead wrong. But before you pass sentence I claim extenuating circumstances: Youth and inexperience, plus long and faithful service."

"You can't," put in my helpful wife. "You can plead one or the other but not both. They can't overlap."

Sharpie stood on tiptoes and kissed my chin. "In Zebbie's case they do overlap. Do you still want to know what to use as water canteens?"

"Certainly!"

"Then why didn't you ask?"

"But I did!"

"No, Cap'n Zebbie; you did not ask and did not even give us time to volunteer the answer."

"I'm sorry, Hilda. Too many things on my mind."

"I know, dear; Sharpie does not mean to scold. But I had to get your attention."

"That baseball bat?"

"Almost. For an ersatz canteen- A hot-water bottle?"

Again she startled me. "In the danger we were in when we left, you worried about cold feet in bed? And packed a hot-water bottle?"