“Why-sure,” he said. “Of course. We’ll go-”
“No, Sean, alone. I want to-think? I will come back.”
“Well-well, certainly, if that’s what you want.” He smiled but his lips felt stiff. “Come on, then.”
He guided her to a public aircar station, gave one of the vehicles some of his scanty Union credit notes, and told Ilaloa how to direct it. She wouldn’t have far to go to reach a completely untenanted area, and they would meet again at the station.
She kissed him, laughing aloud, and slipped into the car. Woods colt, he thought. He didn’t dare consider if it would go with Ilaloa as it had gone . with his settler wife.
I’?n going to get drunk, be thought.
He walled swiftly until he was in the old section of town. Nobody stood on the law in that place. The native quarter was there, a result less of discrimination than of choice. The natives were friendiy enough, but didn’t feel comfortable in a human district. Tall bipedal beings, greenfurred and four-armed, watcbed Sean out of expressionless golden eyes as be strode under trees and through barriers of flowering vines, Machines were not in evidenice, except for a wooden cart drawn by one of the six-leiged “ponies” of Nerthus.
The Comet Bar stood on the edge of the quarter, a small low-ceilinged structure where grass and pavement met. Sean walked in. A couple of colonists were drinking beer at a corner table; otherwise the place was deserted. Sean dialed for whiskey surrogate at the bar and sat down. He didn’t want silence.
The door opened for a newcomer, admitting a brief sunbeam into the twilight of the room. Sean looked idly at the man. The fact of his being from Sol was plain from his dress: knee breeches and hose, loose tunic, light shoes, featberweight mantle with hood, all in subdued blues and grays. But it was the easy strength of him that stood out
most.
He caught Sean’s gaze and, after getting a drink from the dispenser, walked over and sat down beside the Nomad. “Hello,” be said. The accent was unmistakable. “Don’t see many of you fellows around.”
“We come in now and then,” grunted Sean.
“I’ve been in Stellamoit for a couple of weeks,” said the stranger. “Business, of sorts. But it’s all wound up and I feel like celebrating. I wonder if you could recommend some good uninhibited places?”
“What business would a Solman have out here?” asked Sean.
“Research,” said the Terrestrial. “Yes, you might call it that.” He chuckled to himself and held out a pack of cigarettes. “Smoke?”
“Ummm-thanks.” Sean took one and inhaled fire into it. Tobacco was expensive on the frontier; only the Earthgrown plant seemed to have the right flavor.
Sean wondered if it was true what they said about the exagerated Solarian notions of privacy, decided to find out. “What’s your name?” he asked. “Can’t just call you Solman.”
“Oh, vou can if vou insist, but the name is Trevelvan Micah. aid yours?” His black eyebrows lifted courteously.
“This one is called Peregrine Thorkild Sean. You could read the first two off my outfit if you knew the symbols. Also rank, ensign; and service, flier pilot and gunner.”
“I didn’t know you Nomads were organized so formally.”
“It doesn’t mean anything except in a fight.” Sean drained his glass, tossed it down the nearest chute, and dialed for another.
“I see. Interesting. Ordinarily, though, vou’re traders?”
“We’re anytliing, friend. We can’t make all we use or want-at least it isn’t our way-so we float around, buy something cheap here, swap it for something else there, and finally sell what we have for Union credits. Or we might work a mine or something for a while ourselves, though usually we get the natives thereabouts to do it for us.”
Trevelyan smiled. “Allow me.” he bought the Nomad another drink. “Do go on. I’ve often wondered why your people choose to lead such a hard and rootless life.”
“Why? Because we’re Nomads. That’s enough.”
“MMMMM-hm.” Trevelyan grinned. “That reminds me of one time in the Sirian system-” He told an anecdote, and they started trading stories. Trevelyan drank in moderation; even so, his tongue began slipping a little.