“What did he look like?”
Stiffy leaned across the table and wagged a forefinger solemnly. “Mister, you won’t believe me when I tell you. But it’s the truth, so help me. He had a beak. And eyes. Danged if them eyes weren’t something. Like they were reaching out and trying to grab you. Not really reaching out, you know. But there was something in them that tried to talk to you. Big as plates and they shimmered like there was fire inside of them.
“These dod-rotted rock-blasters here laughed at me when I told them about it. Insinuated I held the truth lightly, they did. Laughed their fool heads off.
“It’s pretty near as big as a house … that animal, and it’s got a body like a barrel. It’s got a long neck and a little head with big teeth. It’s got a tail, too, and it’s kind of set close to the ground. You see, I was out looking for the Lost Mine.”
“Lost Mine?”
“Sure, ain’t you ever heard of the Lost Mine?”
Stiffy blew beer in amazement.
Oliver Meek shook his head, feeling that probably he was the victim of tales reserved for the greenest of the tenderfeet, not knowing what he could do about it if he were.
Stiffy settled more solidly in his chair.
“The Lost Mine story,” he declared, “has been going around for years. Seems a couple of fellows found it a few years after the first dome was built. They came in and told about it, stocked up with grub and went out. They never did come back.”
He leaned across the table.
“You know what I think?” he demanded gustily.
“No,” said Meek. “What do you think?”
“The Prowler got ’em,” Stiffy said, triumphantly.
“But how could there be a lost mine?” asked Meek. “Asteroid City was one of the first mining domes built out here. There was no prospecting done until about that time.”
Stiffy shook his head, waggling his beard.
“How should I know,” he defended himself. “Maybe some early space traveler set down here, dug a mine, never got back to Earth to tell about it.”
“But Juno is only one hundred and eighteen miles in diameter,” Meek argued. “If there had been a mine someone would have found it.”
Stiffy snorted. “That’s all you know about it, stranger. Only one hundred and eighteen miles, sure … but one hundred and eighteen miles of the worst danged country man ever set a boot on. Mostly up and down.”
The drinks came, the bartender slapping them down on the table before them. Meek gasped first at their price, then choked on the drink itself. But he smothered the choke manfully and asked:
“What kind of stuff is this?”
“Bocca,” replied Stiffy. “Good old Martian bocca. Puts hair on your chest.”
He gulped his drink with gusto, blew noisily through his whiskers, eyed Meek disapprovingly.
“Don’t you like it?” he demanded.
“Sure,” lied Meek. “Sure I like it.”
He shut his eyes and poured the liquor into his mouth, gulped fiercely, desperately, almost strangling.
Said Stiffy: “Tell you what let’s do. Let’s get into a game.”
Meek opened his mouth to accept the invitation, then closed it, caution stealing over him. After all, he didn’t know much about this place. Maybe he’d better go a little easy, at least at first.
He shook his head. “No, I’m not very good at cards. Just a few games of penny-ante now and then.”
Stiffy looked his disbelief. “Penny ante,” he said, then guffawed as if he sensed humor in what Meek had said. “Say, you’re good,” he roared. “Don’t s’pose you can use them lightnin’ throwers of yours either.”
“Some,” admitted Meek. “Practiced in front of a looking glass a little.”
He wondered why Stiffy rolled in his chair with mirth until tears ran down into his whiskers.
Stiffy held a full house … aces with kings … and his eyes had the look of a cat stalking a saucer full of cream.
There were only two in the game, Stiffy and an oily gentleman called Luke. As the stakes mounted and the game grew hotter the others at the table dropped out.
Standing behind Stiffy, Oliver Meek watched in awe, scarcely breathing.
Here was life … the kind of life one would never dream of back in the little cubby hole with its calculators and dusty books at Lunar Exports, Inc.
In the space of an hour, he had seen more money pass across the table than he had ever owned in all his life. Pots that climbed and pyramided, fortunes gambled on the flip of a single card.
But there was something else too … something wrong about the dealing. He couldn’t figure quite what it was, but he had read an article about how gamblers dealt the cards when they didn’t aim to give the other fellow quite an even break. And there had been something about Luke’s dealing … something that he had read about in that article.
Across the table Luke grimaced.
“I’ll have to call you,” he announced. “I’m afraid you’re too strong for me.”
Stiffy slapped down his hand triumphantly.
“Match that, dang you!” he exulted. “The kind of cards I been waiting for all night.”
He reached out a gnarled hand to rake in the coins but Luke stopped him with a gesture.
“Sorry,” he said.
He flipped the cards down slowly, one at a time. First a trey, then a four and then three more fours.
Stiffy gulped, reached for the bottle.
But even as he did, Oliver Meek reached out and placed his hand upon the money on the table, fingers wide spread. He’d remembered what he had read in that article. …
“Just a minute, gentlemen,” he said. “I’ve remembered something. …”
Silence thudded in the
