"Oh, a girl has to live," she said, shrugging. "What do you think?"
"Oh, a Martian has to have fun, I suppose." His shrug was as
indifferent as hers had been. For an instant, he thought she was going
to spit at him.
The waiter arrived with the drink.
"I have putten you on ze listen," he said, confidentially, to Ronson.
"On the _listen_?"
"He means _list_," Jennie Ware said.
"What list?" Ronson asked.
"On ze listen of zozen waiten to see ze great Les Ro," the waiter
answered.
Inside of him, Ronson felt cold come up. Strictly on his own, he had to
decide how he was going to handle this. He made up his mind on impulse.
"Who the devil is Les Ro?"
Across the table, Jennie Ware lifted startled eyes toward Ronson. The
waiter's face showed astonishment, then embarrassment, at the idea that
anyone existed who had not heard of Les Ro, Ronson thought. "You do not
knowen ze great Les Ro. He is ze greatest zinker, ze greatest doer, ze
greatest--"
"Stinker?" Jennie Ware said. "That sounds about right."
"You are maken ze kidden wiz me," the waiter said, indignation in his
voice. "You have hearden of ze great Les Ro. You came here to see him.
You musten haven. Everybody who comes here, comes to see him." The
waiter spoke with authority.
"I'm sorry," Ronson said. "If he is that important, I would like to
talk to him, of course. But do you mean all of these Martians are
waiting to see him?" A wave of his hand indicated the group in the room.
The waiter, mollified, leered at Ronson. "Ze girls didn't. Ze girls
come here for anuzzer purpose." The leering gesture included Jennie
Ware in it. It said that obviously she had come here for the same
purpose. What other purpose was there?