“That’s the trouble with being in space two or three years at a time,” Diaz said. “You lose track. Well…” They found a booth.

The waiter recognized him, even after so long a lapse, and called the proprietor. The old man bowed nearly to the floor and begged they accept tequila from his private stock. “No, no, Señor Capitán, conserva el dinero, por favor.” The girls were delighted—picturesqueness seemed harder to come by each time Diaz made Earthfall—and the evening was off to a good start in spite of everything.

But then someone paid the juke. The wall came awake with a scrawny blonde fourteen-year-old, the latest fashion in sex queens, wearing a grass skirt and three times life size.

Bingle-jingle-jungle-bang-POW!

Bingle-jingle-jangle-bang-UGH!

Uh’m uh redhot Congo gal an’ Uh’m lookin’ fuh a pal

Tuh share muh bingle-jingle-bangle-jungle-ugh-YOW!

“What did you say?” Sharon called through the saxophones.

“Never mind,” Diaz grunted. “They wouldn’t‘ve included it in your school Spanish anyway.”

“Those things make me almost wish World War Four would start,” Naomi said bitterly.

Bailey’s mouth tightened. “Don’t talk like that,” he said. “Wasn’t Number Three a close enough call for the race? Without even accomplishing its aims, for either side. I’ve seen—Any war is too big.”

Lest they become serious, Diaz said thoughtfully above the racket: “You know, it should be possible to do something about those Kallikak walls. Like, maybe, an oscillator. They’ve got oscillators these days which’ll even goof a solid-state apparatus at close range.”

“The FCC wouldn’t allow that,” Bailey said. “Especially since it’d interfere with local 3V reception.”

“That’s bad? Besides, you could miniaturize the oscillator so it’d be hard to find. Make it small enough to carry in your pocket. Or in your body, if you could locate a doctor who’d, uh, perform an illegal operation. I’ve seen uplousing units no bigger than—”

“You could strew ’em around town,” Bailey said, getting interested. “Hide ’em in obscure corners and—”

Ugga-wugga-wugga, hugga-hugga me, do!

“I wish it would stop,” Naomi said. “I came here to get to know you, Carl, not that thing.”

Bailey sat straight. One hand, lying on the table, shaped a fist. “Why not?” he said.

“Eh?” Diaz asked.

Bailey rose. “Excuse me a minute.” He bowed to the girls and made his way through the dancers to the wall control. There he switched the record off.

Silence fell like a meteor. For a moment, voices were stilled, too. Then a large tourist came barreling off his bar stool and yelled, “Hey, wha’d’you think you’re—”

“I’ll refund your money, sir,” Bailey said mildly. “But the noise bothers the lady I’m with.”

“Huh? Hey, who d’yuh think yuh are, you—”

The proprietor came from around the bar. “If the lady weeshes it off,” he declared, “off it stays.”

“What kinda discrimination is this?” roared the tourist. Several other people growled with him.

Diaz prepared to go help, in case things got rough. But his companion pulled up the sleeve of his mufti tunic. The ID bracelet gleamed into view. “First Lieutenant Carl H. Bailey, United States Astromilitary Corps, at your service,” he said; and a circular wave of quietness expanded around him. “Please forgive my action. I’ll gladly stand the house a round if—”