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Chow Hop had kept his hands up inside his wide sleeves. Now Farley leaped forward as he shouted: "Look out, Darry! He has a knife!" Farley attempted to seize the Chinaman's wrist, for the purpose of disarming the yellow man, but Dave swiftly threw the Chinaman around out of Farley's reach. Then, with a lightning-like move, Dave knocked the knife from Chow Hop's hand.
We read in the Chiking that after the destruction of the Chang family there remained more than ten thousand of their descendants who submitted themselves to the Chow, because it was the will of Heaven. Cannot men respect its decrees? Let them put in the public treasure-house all the spoil brought back from Tartary, so that it may serve to alleviate the people's wants.
His experienced eye appraised Red Hoss' muscular proportions. "Do you want a job?" "Whut kinder job, boss?" "Best job you ever had in your life," declared the white man. "You get fourteen a week and cakes. Get me? Fourteen dollars just as regular as Saturday night comes, and your scoffing free all the chow you can eat thrown in.
Well, he knew where the guest dining room was, he told himself, and it was likely that Audra would be eating there; the rest were more likely to eat with the System Security troops in their chow hall. She wasn't there, so Thompson took a small table and began scanning the menu as soon as he'd punched for coffee.
He pointed shakily towards a bottle on the primitive bar. "Gimme some of that," he croaked, from a parched throat. The smiling Chinaman, silk-clad and supple, poured a drink for him, watched him consume it, and forthwith poured another. With the replenished tumbler in his hand, the mate returned his look. "What you starin' at, you Chow?" he demanded.
The boys dined well, and more than sufficiently, at El Rancho Vegas, then got in the jeep for a ride around town. Scotty loosened his belt with a groan. "For once," he admitted, "I overdid it. Did you ever see so much chow?" "Not outside of a supermarket," Rick agreed. He let his own belt out a notch or two.
Tom said to himself. "I'd better start with a skin-diving suit made of that molded plastic Arv is turning out." After having some of the Tomasite sheathing, with its embedding transducers, sent over from the plastics department, Tom cut out a suit from a pattern and welded the seams electronically. He had just finished wiring the control unit when Chow wheeled in a lunch cart.
He had even improved upon Fuji's invention of scuppers by a little trough which ran all round the rim of the table, to catch any possible spillage. He was horrified to observe how inevitably callers came at the worst possible moment. Mr. and Mrs. Chow, for instance, drew up one afternoon in their spick-and-span coupe with their intolerably spotless only child sitting self-consciously beside them.
Chow walked out with the portable, crooning contentedly to the music. Tom frowned, trying to get his train of thought to focus once more on the submarine problem. But for some reason the business with the microphone and the speaker in the next room kept lingering in his mind. Suddenly Tom exclaimed aloud, "Say! I wonder if that's how the enemy sub blinds our sonar?"
As soon as the Sea Hound arrived at Fearing, Tom phoned Chow Winkler at Enterprises and asked him to fly out to the base. "Pardner, how'd you like to ride herd on this critter and gentle it down for me?" Tom asked, when he showed Chow the porpoise.
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