II

Crystal City made up in violence what it lacked in size. It was a

typical boom town of the Lunar mining regions. Mining and a thriving

spacefreight trade in heavy metals made it a mecca for the toughest

space-screws and hardest living prospector-miners to be found in the

inhabited worlds. Saloons and cheap lodging-houses, gambling dens and

neon-washed palaces of expensive sin, the jail and a flourishing

assortment of glittery funeral parlors faced each other across two

main intersecting streets. X marked the spot and life was the least

costly of the many commodities offered for sale to rich-strike suckers

who funneled in from all Luna.

The town occupied the cleared and leveled floor of a small ringwall

"crater," and beneath its colorful dome of rainbowy perma-plastic, it

sizzled. Dealers in mining equipment made overnight fortunes which

they lost at the gaming tables just as quickly. In the streets one

rubbed elbows with denizens from every part of the solar system; many

of them curiously not anthropomorphic. Glittering and painted

purveyors of more tawdry and shopworn goods than mining equipment also

made fortunes overnight, and some of them paid for their greedy

snatching at luxury with their empty lives. Brawls were sporadic and

usually fatal.

Crystal City sizzled, and the Lunar Police sat on the lid as uneasily

as if the place were a charge of high-explosive. It was, but it made

living conditions difficult for a policeman, and made the

desk-sergeant's temper extremely short.

Tod Denver's experience with police stations had consisted chiefly of

uncomfortable stays as an invited, reluctant guest. To a hard-drinking

man, such invitations are both frequent and inescapable. So Tod Denver

was uneasy in the presence of such an obviously ill-tempered desk

sergeant. Memories are tender documents from past experience, and

Denver's experiences had induced extreme sensitivity about jails.

Especially Crystal City's jail.

Briefly, he acquainted irritable officialdom with details of his find

in the Appenines. The sergeant was fat, belligerent and

unphilosophical.

"You stink," said the sergeant, twisting his face into more repulsive

suggestion of a distorted rubber mask.

Tod Denver tried to continue. The sergeant cut him off with a rude

suggestion.

"So what?" added the official. "Suppose you did run into a murder. Do

I care? Maybe you killed the old guy yourself and are trying to cover

up. I don't know."

He scowled speculatively at Denver who waited and worried.

"Forget it," went on the sergeant. "We ain't got time to chase down

everybody that knocks off a lone prospector. There's a lot of punks

like you I'd like to bump myself right here in Crystal City. Even if

you're telling the truth I don't believe you. If you'd thought he had

something valuable you'd have swiped it yourself, not come running to

us. Don't bother me. If you got something, snag it. If not, shove

it--"

The suggestion was detailed, anatomical.

Charley giggled amiably. Startled, the sergeant looked up and caught

sight of the monstrosity. He shrieked.

"What's that?"

"Charley, my moondog," Denver explained. "They're quite scarce here."

Charley made eerie, chittering noises and settled on Denver's

shoulder, waiting for his master to stroke the filaments of his blunt

head.

"Looks like a cross between a bird and a carrot. Try making him scarce

from my office."

"Don't worry, he's housebroke."

"Don't matter. Get him out of here, out of Crystal City. We have an

ordinance against pets. Unhealthy beasts. Disease-agents. They foul up

the atmosphere."

"Not Charley," Denver argued hopelessly. "He's not animal; he's a

natural air-purifier. Gives off ozone."

"Two hours you've got to get him out of here. Two hours. Out of town.

I hope you go with him. If he don't stink, you do. If I have any

trouble with either of you, you go in the tank."

Tod Denver gulped and held his nose. "Not your tank. No thanks. I want

a hotel room with a tub and shower, not a night in your glue factory.

Come on, Charley. I guess you sleep in the ship."

Charley grinned evilly at the sergeant. He gave out chuckling sounds,

as if meditating. To escape disaster Tod Denver snatched him up and

fled.

* * * * *

After depositing Charley in the ship, he bought clean clothes and

registered for a room at the Spaceport Hotel. After a bath, a shave

and a civilized meal he felt more human than he had for many lonely

months. He transferred his belongings to the new clothes, and opened

his billfold to audit his dwindling resources. After the hotel and the

new clothes and the storage-rent at the spaceport for his ship, there

was barely enough for even a bust of limited dimensions. It would have

to do.

As he replaced the money a battered photograph fell out. It was the

picture of Laird Martin's child. A girl, not over four. She was plump

and pretty in the vague way children are plump and pretty. An old

picture, of course; faded and worn from frequent handling. Dirty and

not too clear. How could anyone trace a small orphan girl on Earth

with the picture and the incomplete address? She would be older, of

course; maybe six or seven. Schools do keep records and lists of the

pupils' names might be available if he had money to investigate. Which

he hadn't.

His ship carried three months of supplies. Beside the money in his

billfold, he had nothing else. Nothing but Charley, and the sales of

him had always backfired. At best, a moondog was not readily

marketable. Besides, could he part with Charley?

Maybe if he looked into those old Martian workings, the money would be

forthcoming. After all, the dying Laird Martin had only asked that a

share be reserved for his daughter. Put some aside for the kid. Use

some to find her. Keep careful accounting and give her a fair half.

More if she needed it and there wasn't too much. It was a nice

thought. Denver felt warm and decent inside.

For the moment some of his thoughts verged upon indecencies.

He lacked the price but it cost nothing to look. He called it

widow-shopping, which was not a misnomer in Crystal City. There were

plenty of widows, some lonely, some lively. Some free and uninhibited.

And he did have the price of the drinks.

The impulse carried him outside to a point near the X-like

intersection of streets. Here, the possibilities of sin and evil

splendor dazzled the eye.

Pressured atmosphere within the domed city was richer than Tod Denver

was used to. Oxygen in pressure tanks costs money; and he had

accustomed himself to do with as little as possible. Charley helped

slightly. Now the stuff went tingling through nostrils, lungs and on

to his veins. It swept upward to his brain and blood piled up there,

feeling as if full of bursting tiny bubbles like champagne. He felt

gay and feckless, light-headed and big-headed. Ego expanded, and he

imagined himself a man of destiny at the turning point of his career.

He was not drunk, except on oxygen. Not drunk yet. But thirsty. The

street was garish with display of drinkeries. In neon lights a tilted

glass dripped beads of color. There was a name in luminous

pastel-tubing:

_Pot o' Stars._

Beneath the showering color stood a girl. Tod Denver's blood pressure

soared nimbly upward and collided painfully with blocked safety

valves. The look was worth it. Tremendous. Hot stuff.

Wow!

When bestially young he had dreamed lecherously of such a glorious

creature. Older, bitter experience had taught him that they existed

outside his price class. His eyes worked her over in frank admiration

and his imagination worked overtime.

She was Martian, obviously, from her facial structure, if one noticed

her face.

Martian, of course. But certainly not one of the Red desert folk, nor

one of the spindly yellow-brown Canal-keepers. White. Probably sprang

originally from the icy marshes near the Pole, where several odd

remnants of the old white races still lived, and lingered painfully on

the short rations of dying Mars.

She was pale and perilous and wonderful. Hair was shimmering bright

cascade of spun platinum that fell in muted waves upon shoulders of

naked beauty. Her eyes swam liquid silver with purple lights dwelling

within, and her sullen red lips formed a heartshaped mouth, as if

pouting. Heavy lids weighed down the eyes, and heavier barbaric

bracelets weighted wrists and ankles. Twin breasts were mounds of

soft, sun-dappled snow frosted with thin metal plates glowing with

gemfire. Her simple garment was metalcloth, but so fine-spun and

gauzelike that it seemed woven of moonlight. It seemed as un-needed as

silver leafing draped upon some exotic flowering, but somehow enhanced

the general effect.

Her effect was overpowering. Denver followed her inside and followed

her sweet, poisonous witchery as the girl glided gracefully along the

aisle between ranked tables. As she entered the glittering room talk

died for a moment of sheer admiration, then began in swift whispered

accents. Men dreamed inaudibly and the women envied and hated her on

sight.

She seemed well-known to the place. Her name, Denver learned from the

awed whispering, was--Darbor....

_The Pot o' Stars_ combined drinking, dancing and gambling. A few

people even ate food. There was muffled gaiety, glitter of glass and

chromium, and general bad taste in the decoration. The hostesses were

dressed merely to tempt and tease the homesick and lovelorn

prospectors and lure the better-paid mine-workers into a deadly

proximity to alcohol and gambling devices.

* * * * *

The girl went ahead, and Denver followed, regretting his politeness

when she beat him to the only unoccupied table. It had a big sign,

_Reserved_, but she seemed waiting for no one, since she ordered a

drink and merely played with it. She seemed wrapped in speculative

contemplation of the other customers, as if estimating the possible

profits to the house.

On impulse, Denver edged to her table and stood looking down at her.

Cold eyes, like amber ice, looked through him.

"I know I look like a spacetramp," he observed. "But I'm not

invisible. Mind if I pull up a cactus and squat?"

Her eyes were chill calculation.

"Suit yourself ... if you like to live dangerously."

Denver laughed and sat down. "How important are you? Or is it

something else? You don't look so deadly. I'll buy you a drink if you

like. Or dance, if you're careless about toes."

Her cold shrug stopped him. "Skip it," she snapped. "Buy yourself a

drink if you can afford it. Then go."

"What makes you rate a table to yourself? I could go now but I won't.

The liquor here's probably poison but who pays for it makes no

difference to me. Maybe you'd like to buy me a short snort. Or just

snort at me again. On you, it looks good."

The girl gazed at him languorously, puzzled. Then she let go with a

laugh which sparkled like audible champagne.

"Good for you," she said eagerly. "You're just a punk, but you have

guts. Guts, but what else? Got any money?"

Denver bristled. "Pots of it," he lied, as any other man would. Then,

remembering suddenly, "Not with me but I know where to lay hands on

plenty of it."

Her eyes calculated. "You're not the goon who came in from the

Appenines today? With a wild tale of murder and claim-jumpers and old

Martian workings?"

Quick suspicion dulled Denver's appreciation of beauty.

She laughed sharply. "Don't worry about me, stupid. I heard it all

over town. Policemen talk. For me, they jump through hoops. Everybody

knows. You'd be smart to lie low before someone jumps out of a

sung-bush and says boo! at you. If you expected the cops to do

anything, you're naive. Or stupid. About those Martian workings, is

there anything to the yarn?"

Denver grunted. He knew he was talking too much but the urge to brag

is masculine and universal.

"Maybe, I don't know. Martian miners dabbled in heavy metals. Maybe

they found something there and maybe they left some. If they did, I'm

the guy with the treasure map. Willing to take a chance on me?"

Darbor smiled calculatingly. "Look me up when you find the treasure.

You're full of laughs tonight. Trying to pick me up on peanuts. Men

lie down and beg me to walk on their faces. They lay gold or jewels or

pots of uranium at my feet. Got any money--now?"

"I can pay ... up to a point," Denver confessed miserably.

"We're not in business, kid. But champagne's on me. Don't worry about

it. I own the joint up to a point. I don't, actually. Big Ed Caltis

owns it. But I'm the dummy. I front for him because of taxes and the

cops. We'll drink together tonight, and all for free. I haven't had a

good laugh since they kicked me out of Venusport. You're it. I hope

you aren't afraid of Big Ed. Everybody else is. He bosses the town,

the cops and all the stinking politicians. He dabbles in every dirty

racket, from girls to the gambling upstairs. He pays my bills, too,

but so far he hasn't collected. Not that he hasn't tried."

Denver was impressed. Big Ed's girl. If she was. And he sat with her,

alone, drinking at Big Ed's expense. That was a laugh. A hot one.

Rich, even for Luna.

"Big Ed?" he said. "The Scorpion of Mars!"

Darbor's eyes narrowed. "The same. The name sounds like a gangsters'

nickname. It isn't. He was a pro-wrestler. Champion of the

Interplanetary League for three years. But he's a gangster and

racketeer at heart. His bully-boys play rough. Still want to take a

chance, sucker?"

A waitress brought drinks and departed. Snowgrape Champagne from Mars

cooled in a silver bucket. It was the right temperature, so did not

geyser as Denver unskilfully wrested out the cork. He filled the

glasses, gave one to the girl. Raising the other, he smiled into

Darbor's dangerous eyes.

"The first one to us," he offered gallantly. "After that, we'll drink

to Big Ed. I hope he chokes. He was a louse in the ring."

Darbor's face lighted like a flaming sunset in the cloud-canopy of

Venus.

"Here's to us then," she responded. "And to guts. You're dumb and

delightful, but you do something to me I'd forgotten could be done.

And maybe I'll change my mind even if you don't have the price. I

think I'll kiss you. Big Ed is still a louse, and not only in the

ring. He thinks he can out-wrestle me but I know all the nasty holds.

I play for keeps or not at all. Keep away from me, kid."

Denver's imagination had caught fire. Under the combined stimuli of

Darbor and Snowgrape Champagne, he seemed to ascend to some high,

rarified, alien dimension where life became serene and uncomplicated.

A place where one ate and slept and made fortunes and love, and only

the love was vital. He smoldered.

"Play me for keeps," he urged.

"Maybe I will," Darbor answered clearly. She was feeling the champagne

too, but not as exaltedly as Denver who was not used to such potent

vintages as Darbor and SG-Mars, 2028. "Maybe I will, kid, but ask me

after the Martian workings work out."

"Don't think I won't," he promised eagerly. "Want to dance?"

Her face lighted up. She started to her feet, then sank back.

"Better not," she murmured. "Big Ed doesn't like other men to come

near me. He's big, bad and jealous. He may be here tonight. Don't push

your luck, kid. I'm trouble, bad trouble."

Denver snapped his fingers drunkenly. "That for Big Ed. I eat

trouble."

Her eyes were twin pools of darkness. They widened as ripples of alarm

spread through them. "Start eating," she said. "Here it comes!"

Big Ed Caltis stood behind Denver's chair.