She turned without a word. All the way back to Avalon, her back was a
silent reproach. Friendship, it said, had been offered--and rebuffed.
Nolan had his private thoughts, and dwelt in them. Except for the
muffled blast of the rockets there was no sound in the skid until
they'd jetted into the great cargo lock in Avalon's crystal dome and
the handlers had come to slide the skid into a parking space.
Then, as they got out, she smiled suddenly.
She said, "I guess I misjudged you, Mr. Matthews. I'm sorry I was
discourteous, but a girl can't be too careful. Let me take you to
dinner for an apology."
Nolan paused and stared at her soberly. Then, "No, thanks," he said. "I
meant it when I said I wasn't interested in you. I have things on my
mind already." He ignored her outstretched hand, turned to leave, then
stopped. "Oh, yes," he said. "Thanks for the ride."
He walked cumbrously over to a storage cubicle without looking back.
He stripped off his heat suit and checked it with a stout man in
Pluto-city green.
It was time to plan his next move. There was a pilot's hangout, he
remembered, a saloon called the Golden Ray. He took a worn notebook
from his shirt pocket, thumbed it to the forgotten address and held the
page up for the checking attendant to see.
"How do I get there?"
The man's eyes widened a fraction as he took the address in. He
shrugged imperceptibly. "Any slidewalk going north," he said. "Get off
at the Hub and you'll be within a couple blocks of it."
* * * * *
Nolan nodded and headed for a moving sidewalk. The notebook went back
into the pocket of his open-necked black shirt, and the hand that
put it there paused a second to touch reassuringly the weight of a
slim-barreled pyro that swung beneath his armpit, out of sight. It was
nice to know it was there, even though he didn't need it--yet.
He paused in a robot restaurant to eat. Saloons like the Golden Ray
don't sell much food--particularly to those who have tasted it once. It
was getting on toward night.
The slidewalks were fast, and the first man he stopped at the Hub told
him all he needed to know to find the saloon. Once he got within a
block of it, it all began to come back. It had been years since he'd
been there, but the place hadn't changed.
A blast of sound struck him as he clawed his way through thick tobacco
smoke and sweet Martian hop-incense fumes to the bar. He nodded his
head, and the short motion yanked a fat bartender to him.
The man's slitted eyes peeped surprisedly through the surrounding
tallow.
"Gunner!" he whispered, amiable but hoarse. "Thought you were somewhere
around Jupe. What'll it be?"
"It'll be nothing right now," Nolan said. "I thought Petersen might be
here. I want to see him."
"Oh, sure," the bartender said. "He's dealin' red-dog at one o' the
tables in the back."
Nolan was called "Gunner" by those who knew him by his alias--He'd
never taken the trouble to think up a first name for "Matthews." He
nodded and stepped away.
It wasn't hard to find Petersen when you knew his habits. The wrinkled
little man always sat in the noisiest spot he could find. This time
it was a table right behind the four-piece orchestra, pride of the
proprietor's heart.
Nolan stood silently for a moment behind the little man's chair to
watch the play. He marveled at the ease with which Petersen's gnarled
fingers handled the flying pasteboards. As usual, Petersen's pile of
chips was low, and the set of his back was discouraged.
Nolan grinned. It was part of Petersen's stock-in-trade to look like
the tail end of a losing streak. The sucker trade stays away from a
winning gambler. But they flocked to Petersen--and his pockets were
always clinking.
Petersen's gambler's sixth sense was functioning. He twitched his
shoulders uncomfortably, then turned around, glaring up. "Say," he
began, "who the hell are--Oh, Gunner!"
Nolan nodded. "Hey there, Peter," he said.
Petersen grinned and blinked. He looked with regret at his top card,
then at Nolan. "No?" he asked wistfully.