enough, Miss Mona. I don’t suppose I could trouble you for the special I saw chalked up on the board, there? The Chicken Fried Proteus Steak and Chips with Gravy? And perhaps a shot of your best whiskey?”
“Don’t you want some soup or something?”
“Why, to be frank, Miss Mona, I’ve had a little distressing news from the good medico at the British Arean Company’s clinic, and I believe I’m going to need to build my strength up.”
“Oh! Okay,” said Mona, and hurried off to place his order. She brought his whiskey and hovered over him.
“What did the clinic guy have to say?”
“Thank you.” Mr. Crosley pulled the shot close and knocked it back. “Mm. I’ve already burdened you with enough of my troubles, Miss Mona, but since you ask—it appears my health is now too fragile for the rigors of spaceflight. It looks as though I shall have to make the best of things here on Mars, after all.”
“Oh, no! Are you dying?”
“Not for a while yet, let us hope,” said Mr. Crosley, looking at his empty glass. “My goodness, that is smooth whiskey. Your mother is truly a goddess of hospitality, Miss Mona.”
“I’ll get you another.” Mona took the glass. “Well, look on the bright side: now you can find a way to mine those diamonds!”
“Beg pardon? Oh, that.” Mr. Crosley waved a dismissive hand. “As it happens, some fellows at the motel pooled their money and bought my claim. Formed a consortium of some kind, I believe. I was quite amazed. Told them I wasn’t at all sure there were any diamonds there. All that glitters is not gold, as they say. But at least I now have the funds to live out my remaining days here in comfort.”
“That’s something anyway,” said Mona. She hurried off to the bar, where Mr. Cochevelou was just receiving a pint of porter from Mr. Morton.
“Another shot please. Hi, Mr. Cochevelou.”
“Mm.” Cochevelou nodded at her. He leaned forward over the bar and spoke
sotto voce
to Mr. Morton, or tried to in any case; his voice stillcarried like a bull’s bellow. “So what’s this I hear about trouble with your Mr. De Wit?”
“I beg your pardon?” Mr. Morton, pouring the shot of whiskey, turned to stare.
“Our Sylvia heard it from our Emilio, who heard it from one of the lads down at the motel. Like he’s been dishonest, or something? Not trustworthy after all?”
Mr. Morton pointed a mute finger at Mr. De Wit, who was seated two barstools down having a quiet glass of beer. Cochevelou gaped at him and blushed red.
“What?” Mary stood up from under the counter, where she’d been tapping in a fresh keg. “Who’s been spreading nasty rumors about my lawyer?”
“I was only saying there’s been talk,” protested Cochevelou.
“What kind of talk?” Mary slammed a wrench down on the counter.
“I don’t know, some nonsense about him being likely to cheat folk,” said Cochevelou, taking a prudent step back from the bar. “I’m sure it’s all vile lies.”
“You’re damned right it’s vile lies,” said Mary hotly. Mr. De Wit shrugged.
“I’m a lawyer. Slander’s a job hazard,” he said, and popped a handful of salted peanuts in his mouth. Mona collected Mr. Crosley’s shot of whiskey and took it back to his table, where he sat looking on with a benign expression.
He dined with apparent good appetite and effusive compliments to Mona on the quality of the cuisine. When the dishes had been cleared away afterward, Mr. Crosley remained at his table. He drew a small case from within his jacket and, opening it, began to lay out a number of slips of pasteboard.
Mona, finding occasion to wander by his table, stopped and peered down. “Hey! Those are, like, the little pictures from Super Solitaire! The, uh, hearts and diamonds and the pointy things.”
“Spades,” said Mr. Crosley. “It’s an old-fashioned deck of playing cards, Miss Mona. The honest kind. Never seen one of these, I expect?”
“Never,” said Mona, watching as
“Don’t you want some soup or something?”
“Why, to be frank, Miss Mona, I’ve had a little distressing news from the good medico at the British Arean Company’s clinic, and I believe I’m going to need to build my strength up.”
“Oh! Okay,” said Mona, and hurried off to place his order. She brought his whiskey and hovered over him.
“What did the clinic guy have to say?”
“Thank you.” Mr. Crosley pulled the shot close and knocked it back. “Mm. I’ve already burdened you with enough of my troubles, Miss Mona, but since you ask—it appears my health is now too fragile for the rigors of spaceflight. It looks as though I shall have to make the best of things here on Mars, after all.”
“Oh, no! Are you dying?”
“Not for a while yet, let us hope,” said Mr. Crosley, looking at his empty glass. “My goodness, that is smooth whiskey. Your mother is truly a goddess of hospitality, Miss Mona.”
“I’ll get you another.” Mona took the glass. “Well, look on the bright side: now you can find a way to mine those diamonds!”
“Beg pardon? Oh, that.” Mr. Crosley waved a dismissive hand. “As it happens, some fellows at the motel pooled their money and bought my claim. Formed a consortium of some kind, I believe. I was quite amazed. Told them I wasn’t at all sure there were any diamonds there. All that glitters is not gold, as they say. But at least I now have the funds to live out my remaining days here in comfort.”
“That’s something anyway,” said Mona. She hurried off to the bar, where Mr. Cochevelou was just receiving a pint of porter from Mr. Morton.
“Another shot please. Hi, Mr. Cochevelou.”
“Mm.” Cochevelou nodded at her. He leaned forward over the bar and spoke
sotto voce
to Mr. Morton, or tried to in any case; his voice stillcarried like a bull’s bellow. “So what’s this I hear about trouble with your Mr. De Wit?”
“I beg your pardon?” Mr. Morton, pouring the shot of whiskey, turned to stare.
“Our Sylvia heard it from our Emilio, who heard it from one of the lads down at the motel. Like he’s been dishonest, or something? Not trustworthy after all?”
Mr. Morton pointed a mute finger at Mr. De Wit, who was seated two barstools down having a quiet glass of beer. Cochevelou gaped at him and blushed red.
“What?” Mary stood up from under the counter, where she’d been tapping in a fresh keg. “Who’s been spreading nasty rumors about my lawyer?”
“I was only saying there’s been talk,” protested Cochevelou.
“What kind of talk?” Mary slammed a wrench down on the counter.
“I don’t know, some nonsense about him being likely to cheat folk,” said Cochevelou, taking a prudent step back from the bar. “I’m sure it’s all vile lies.”
“You’re damned right it’s vile lies,” said Mary hotly. Mr. De Wit shrugged.
“I’m a lawyer. Slander’s a job hazard,” he said, and popped a handful of salted peanuts in his mouth. Mona collected Mr. Crosley’s shot of whiskey and took it back to his table, where he sat looking on with a benign expression.
He dined with apparent good appetite and effusive compliments to Mona on the quality of the cuisine. When the dishes had been cleared away afterward, Mr. Crosley remained at his table. He drew a small case from within his jacket and, opening it, began to lay out a number of slips of pasteboard.
Mona, finding occasion to wander by his table, stopped and peered down. “Hey! Those are, like, the little pictures from Super Solitaire! The, uh, hearts and diamonds and the pointy things.”
“Spades,” said Mr. Crosley. “It’s an old-fashioned deck of playing cards, Miss Mona. The honest kind. Never seen one of these, I expect?”
“Never,” said Mona, watching as
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