Masters of Space/Epilogue

Epilogue
had become a daily custom, most of the Ardans were gathered at the natatorium. Hilton and Temple were wrestling in the water—she was trying to duck him and he was hard put to it to keep her from doing it. The platinum-haired twins were—oh, ever so surreptitiously and indetectably!—studying the other girls.

Captain Sawtelle—he had steadfastly refused to accept any higher title—and his wife were teaching two of their tiny grandchildren to swim.

In short, everything was normal.

Beverly Bell Poynter, from the top platform, hit the board as hard as she could hit it; and, perfectly synchronized with it, hurled herself upward. Up and up and up she went. Up to her top ceiling of two hundred ten feet. Then, straightening out into a shapely arrow and without again moving a muscle, she hurtled downward, making two and a half beautifully stately turns and striking the water with a slurping, splashless chug! Coming easily to the surface, she shook the water out of her eyes.

Temple, giving up her attempts to near-drown her husband, rolled over and floated quietly beside him.

“You know, this is fun,” he said.

“Uh-huh,” she agreed enthusiastically.

“I'm glad you and Sandy buried the hatchet. Two of the top women who ever lived. Or should I have said sheathed the claws? Or have you, really?”

“Pretty much … I guess.” Temple didn't seem altogether sure of the point. “Oh-oh.Now what?”

A flitabout had come to ground. Dark Lady, who never delivered a message via thought if she could possibly get away with delivering it in person, was running full tilt across the sand toward them. Her long black hair was streaming out behind her; she was waving a length of teletype tape as though it were a pennon.

“Oh, no. Not again?” Temple wailed. “Don't tell us it's Terra again, Dark Lady, please.”

“But it is!” Dark Lady cried, excitedly. “And it says ‘From Five-Jet Admiral Gordon, Commanding.’”

“Omit flowers, please,” Hilton directed. “Boil it down.”

“The Perseus is in orbit with the whole Advisory Board. They want to hold a top-level summit conference with Director Hilton and Five-Jet Admiral Sawtelle.” Dark Lady raised her voice enough to be sure Sawtelle heard the title, and shot him a wicked glance as she announced it. “They hope to conclude all unfinished business on a mutually satisfactory and profitable basis.”

“Okay, Lady, thanks. Tell 'em we'll call 'em shortly.”

Dark Lady flashed away and Hilton and Temple swam slowly toward a ladder.

“Drat Terra and everything and everybody on it,” Temple said, vigorously. “And especially drat His Royal Fatness Five-Jet Admiral Gordon. How much longer will it take, do you think, to pound some sense into their pointed little heads?”

“Oh, we're not doing too bad,” Hilton assured his lovely bride. “Two or three more sessions ought to do it.”

Everything was normal…

END