“The Gold Space Suit,” Bill said. “That’s more like it. Galaxy-famous on countless TV programs, what a restaurant, that’s the way to build up the old morale. It’ll be expensive, but what the hell …”
Tightening his belt and straightening his collar, he strode up the wide gold steps and through the imitation spacelock. The headwaiter beckoned him and smiled, soft music wafted his way and the floor opened beneath his feet. Scratching helplessly at the smooth walls, he shot down the golden tube which turned gradually until, when he emerged, he shot through the air and fell, sprawling, into a dusty metal alleyway. Ahead of him, painted on the wall with foot-high letters, was the imperious message, GET LOST BUM.
He stood and dusted himself, and a robot sidled over and crooned in his ear with the voice of a .young and lovely girl, “I bet you’re hungry, darling. Why not try Giuseppe Singh’s neo-Indian curried pizza? You’re just a few steps from Singh’s, directions are on the back of the card.”
The robot took a card from a slot in its chest and put it carefully into Bill’s mouth. It was a cheap and badly adjusted robot. Bill spluttered the soggy card out and wiped it on his handkerchief.
“What happened?” he asked.
“I bet you’re hungry, darling, grrrr-ark.” The robot switched to another recorded message, cued by Bill’s question. “You have just been ejected from The Gold Space Suit, galaxy-famous on countless TV programs, because you are a cheap bum. When you entered this establishment you were X-rayed and the contents of your pockets automatically computed. Since the contents of your pockets obviously fell below the minimum with cover charge, one drink, and tax, you were ejected. But you are still hungry, aren’t you darling?” The robot leered, and the dulcet, sexy voice poured from between the broken gaps of its mouthptate. “C’mon down to Singh’s where food is good and cheap. Try Singh’s yummy lasagna with dhal and lime sauce.”
Bill went, not because he wanted some loathsome Bombay-Italian concoction, but because of the map and instructions on the back of the card. There was a feeling of security in knowing he was going from somewhere to somewhere again, following the directions, clattering down this stair well, drop. ping in that gravchute, grabbing for a place in the right hookway. After one last turning his nose was assaulted` by a wave of stale fat, old garlic, and charred flesh, and he knew he was there.
The food was incredibly expensive and far worse than he had ever imagined it could be, but it stilled the painful rumbling in his stomach, by direct assault if not by pleasant satiation. With one fingernail he attempted to pry horrible pieces of gristle from between his teeth while he looked at the man across the table from him, who was moaning as he forced down spoonfuls of something nameless. His tablemate was dressed in colorful holiday clothes and looked a fat, ruddy, and cheerful type.
“Hi … !” Bill said, smiling.
“Go drop dead,” the man snarled.
“All I said was Hi.” Petulantly.
“That’s enough. Everyone who has bothered to talk to me in the sixteen hours I been on this so-called pleasure planet has cheated or screwed me or stolen my money one way or another. I am next to broke and I still have six days left of my See Helior and Live tour.”
“I only wanted to ask you if I could sort of look through your floor plan while you were eating.”
“I told you, everyone is out to screw me out of something. Drop dead.”
“Please.”
“I’ll do it-for twenty-five bucks, cash in advance, and only as long as I’m eating.”
“Done!” Bill slapped the money down, whipped under the table, and, sitting cross-legged, began to flip furiously through the volume, writing down travel instructions as fast as he could plot a course. Above him the fat man continued to eat and groan, and whenever he hit a particularly bad mouthful he would jerk the chain and make Bill lose his place. Bill had charted a route almost halfway to the haven of the Transit Ranker’s Center before the man pulled the book away and stamped out.