The little man shrugged and flipped his cards away. "Okay," he said
cheerfully, shoveling his chips into his clanking pockets. "Lead on,
Gunner."
Nolan led on, to a more secluded corner where the clamor of the alleged
orchestra was less deafening. He sent a waiter off for a bottle of
sealed Terrestrial Scotch, then turned to Petersen.
"Where's Woller?" he asked.
Petersen scowled. "Listen, Steve," he begged, "stay out of trouble.
Woller's big here."
"Don't call me Steve," Nolan said mildly. Two living men knew that
Nolan and Matthews were the same. Petersen was one of them--Nolan
himself the other. "I manage my own affairs. I want to see Woller."
"Okay," Petersen groaned. "He's at the Elena. The big hotel near South
Lock."
Nolan nodded. "Good enough," he said. "I'll take care of my business
with him right away."
The greasy-aproned waiter came back with the Scotch. Nolan inspected
the seal critically, then broke it and poured two generous slugs.
"How!" he said. "What've you been doing with yourself, Pete?"
Petersen swallowed his Scotch, grimaced non-committally. "Following the
prospectors," he said. "Making money and losing it. It's been a long
time since you were here."
Nolan ignored the implied question. "Pretty long," he agreed. "I wasn't
figuring on coming, but I heard Woller was here."
Petersen nodded his head sadly. "You're aching for trouble," he
observed. "Woller's no man to buck up against. He's got money behind
him."
"Whose money?"
"I dunno. Some Martian syndicate, they say. He's come a long way since
he was your boss at Telenews."
"Not so long I couldn't follow him."
Petersen cocked an eyebrow, then poured another round. "You followed
him into a bad spot," he said slowly. "This whole town is be-jittered.
He's doing about what he likes and nobody says boo."
"Why?"
Petersen frowned. "'Cause they're scared, it looks. Scared of the
Junta. Talk is there are Junta men around. I wouldn't have to remind
you, I guess, of what Woller can say about you if he sees you."