BART MANDELL was not, really, a jealous man; he'd been around enough to know it didn't pay. But he'd been around enough, too, to understand Sally.
She was a sweet kid: pretty as a sweetpea from the neck up, and absolutely terrific all the way down. Faithful, and loyal, and loving, too. But a party girl, always on the move, fast on her feet and quick with a quip. Not the sitting-home type at all.
Which explains why Bart decided that two hours sleep would have to do him.
He hadn't seen Sally for forty-eight hours—not singe the search began; that was just about twenty-eight hours too long, and the last time he called she'd sounded pretty much indifferent to whether she ever saw him again. He had eight hours and that was all, before he had to go back out with the search party again. So he caught a fast couple of hours of sacktime, washed the sleep out of his system in the sharp spray of the shower, and started down to her house.
The street was lit up like a carnival. It was crazy; here the whole Army was on twenty-four hour duty, with the National Guard working alongside, and the cops out, too. The city—the whole world, maybe—was in danger, and folks who weren't actually out hunting were having themselves a time. He couldn't figure out where the stuff had come from so quickly, but every store along the street had souvenirs and gadgets for sale: maps of Mars, toy rocket ships, and mechanical Martians with green skin and red eyes. Kids were peddling illustrated reprints of the government White Paper on Mars. The bars were full, and even the ice cream parlors were doing a land-office business.
And all the time, out there in the woods, grim parties of sleepless men were beating the bushes for some sign of the invader.
Bart strode angrily down the street, pushing his way past the meandering groups. His uniform gave him right-of-way, fortunately for the revelers.
He was almost at the side street where Sally lived, when he realized he had forgotten the flowers.
There was no florist nearby. He stopped at a hastily constructed sidewalk stand, picked out the biggest and fanciest of the toy rockets, sourly paid three times what it was worth, and turned off to Sally's.
He had to wait at the door just a minute too long when he rang. Then she opened up, and he found out why—she had an apron on, and the house was full of the nicest smell in the world, French fries frying. She stayed in his arms just long enough for him to work himself up to the kind of kiss he really wanted to give her, then she pulled away.
"The potatoes!" She turned and ran out to the kitchen, bronze curls bobbing as she ran. Bart closed his mouth, stopped gasping, and followed her, just in time to see her slide two inches of steak into the broiler.
"You are," he said, watching her, "beyond any possible doubt, the most wonderful woman on any planet, let alone on Earth."
The corners of her mouth tilted, and she caught her lower lip with her teeth just in time to stop a full-fledged smile. Bart watched the even white edges press down on the full redness of the lip, and decided he wasn't very hungry after all.
"Oh," he remembered, "I brought you a present." He went back to the entry, and got the package he'd dropped to get his arms free when she opened the door.
She unwrapped it while the steak sizzled and the potatoes crisped. "Why, that's sweet," she said, but Bart failed to note much enthusiasm.
"Look." He showed her how the nose unscrewed, and then set the hollow metal tube down on its rocket nozzles on the kitchen table. "You use it for a vase," he explained. "You can put flowers in."
"How cute! Listen, why don't you take it in and put it on the table? Take the jonquils out of the green pitcher and put them in here."
He felt a little better. "Sure thing," he said. He didn't even try to kiss her on the way out.
The table looked wonderful, set just for two, in front of the fireplace. Bart whistled while he transferred flowers and water to the shiny souvenir rocket, and placed it carefully off-center on the table. He didn't want it getting in the way of the view. He stood back to survey the effect, and saw that the fire was laid, ready to be lit.
Nice touch. He walked around the table, knelt down, and scratched a match on the hearthstones, then stopped, staring, while the match flared in his fingers.
He dropped the match. So that was why she hadn't gone into rhapsodies over his present!
The rocket on the hearth was a good two feet tall—almost twice as big as his—and a really beautiful job. Shiny, silver-colored metal, not cast, but seamed along the sides . . . even a miniature airlock standing open. Bart leaned closer, and saw that the surface was not as new and shiny as it had looked at first; it was scarred and dented in spots. But it was a beautiful job. He glowered at the hunk of tin he'd brought.
Who . . .?
Bart ran through a quick review of the men he knew Sally knew, but none of them were quite the rocket-buying type. Seemed like there was some new competition in the field.
He touched the gleaming toy; it was warm.
Bart struck another match savagely, and lit the fire, then jumped up and paced over to the window. He stared out gloomily. Some joker had been there all afternoon—most likely had brought Sally the rocket. He turned on his heel, and started back to the kitchen. Even an unjealous man could be pushed too far.
Sally saved him from the biggest mistake he could have made. The minute he showed his face in the kitchen door, she shoved a tray at him, smiled enchantingly, and said, "Take it in there, will you?" He carried the laden tray back to the other room, and cooled down on the way.
Bart Mandell, after all, was not really a jealous man. And he certainly knew better than to make a scene because some other character came visiting.
It took a little while to get back in the mood, but the salad was good, and the steak was better. Sally sat across the table, smiling and sparkling. The fire flickered, then roared, then settled down to a cheerful dance of flame and smoke and sparks. The shadows deepened, and the other man's present was not so obtrusive any more.
Bart helped her with the dishes. It was one of the things he'd learned, hither and yon. Nothing less likely to make a girl answer kindly next time you call up, than if her most recent memory of you is the dirty dishes you left behind. They stood close together in the bright kitchen, and when they went back to the living room, there was peace and intimacy between them.
Except, that, is, when Bart decided it was time to ask a casual question.
He added some wood to the fire, and before he stood up again, he said, "Nice gadget you've got there," pointing to the rocket on the hearth.
"Hmm-mm. Come sit down."
"Something new?" He was very off-hand.
"Hmmm-mm."
"Haven't seen anything like it anywhere," he pursued, though he knew she was stiffening up.
"Most likely not," she said briskly; "do you want the radio on?"
That settled that. It was another man, or she would have told him.
"Sure," he agreed. "But wouldn't you rather go out? I thought we might take in a show." It was the last thing in the world he'd thought of. All he wanted right now was to sit in the dim room with Sally as close to him as she'd get.
"I don't know," she said. "Why don't we just stick around here? You must be worn out."
She was a sweet kid. Bart relaxed. After all, the other guy was gone; he, Bart, had the center of the stage now, and he might as well make use of it while it lasted."
"Not so bad," he told her. "I felt knocked out before, but something around here seems to be good for me."
"The steak maybe?" she teased.
"Could be." He fiddled with knobs on the radio, flicked past the news he wanted to hear, and found some music. "Like that?" He turned and held out his arms. She floated into them, and for a half an hour he forgot about the search, the Army, the Martian, and everything else.