Moe, bartender at Saturn Inn, leaned his elbow on the bar and braced
his chin in an outspread palm. His face wore a melancholy, hang-dog
look. Moe liked things fairly peaceable, but now he saw trouble coming
in big batches.
"Lady," he declared mournfully, "you sure picked yourself a job. The
boys around here don't take to being uplifted and improved. They ain't
worth it, either. Just ring-rats, that's all they are."
Henrietta Perkins, representative for the public health and welfare
department of the Solar government, shuddered at his suggestion of
anything so low it didn't yearn for betterment.
"But those terrible feuds," she protested. "Fighting just because they
live in different parts of the Ring. It's natural they might feel some
rivalry, but all this killing! Surely they don't enjoy getting killed."
"Sure they enjoy it," declared Moe. "Not being killed, maybe ...
although they're willing to take a chance on that. Not many of them
get killed, in fact. Just a few that get sort of careless. But even if
some of them are killed, you can't go messing around with that feud
of theirs. If them boys out in sectors Twenty-Three and Thirty-Seven
didn't have their feud they'd plain die of boredom. They just got to
have somebody to fight with. They been fighting, off and on, for years."
"But they could fight with something besides guns," said the welfare
lady, a-smirk with righteousness. "That's why I'm here. To try to get
them to turn their natural feelings of rivalry into less deadly and
disturbing channels. Direct their energies into other activities."
"Like what?" asked Moe, fearing the worst.
"Athletic events," said Miss Perkins.
"Tin shinny, maybe," suggested Moe, trying to be sarcastic.
She missed the sarcasm. "Or spelling contests," she said.
"Them fellow can't spell," insisted Moe.
"Games of some sort, then. Competitive games."
"Now you're talking," Moe enthused. "They take to games. Seven-toed
Pete with the deuces wild."
The inner door of the entrance lock grated open and a spacesuited
figure limped into the room. The spacesuit visor snapped up and a brush
of grey whiskers spouted into view.
It was Gus Hamilton.
He glared at Moe. "What in tarnation is all this foolishness?" he
demanded. "Got your message, I did, and here I am. But it better be
important."
He hobbled to the bar. Moe reached for a bottle and shoved it toward
him, keeping out of reach.
"Have some trouble?" he asked, trying to be casual.
"Trouble! Hell, yes!" blustered Gus. "But I ain't the only one that's
going to have trouble. Somebody sneaked over and stole the injector out
of my space crate. Had to borrow Hank's to get over here. But I know
who it was. There ain't but one other ring-rat got a rocket my injector
will fit."
"Bud Craney," said Moe. It was no secret. Every man in the two sectors
of the Ring knew just exactly what kind of spacecraft the other had.
"That's right," said Gus, "and I'm fixing to go over into Thirty-seven
and yank Bud up by the roots."