“Fifteen hundred! An idiot you must be, or you should think I’m one, I don’t know!”
Strongheart yelped, as he juggled the mass lightly from hand to hand. “Two hundred, you mean .
. . well two fifty, then, but that’s an awful high bid, mister, believe me . . . I tell you, I couldn’t give my own mother over three hundred—I’d lose money on the goods. You ain’t tested it, what makes you think it’s such a much?”
“No, and I notice you ain’t testing it, neither,” Kinnison countered. “Me and you both know metal well enough so we don’t need to test no such nugget as that. Fifteen hundred or I flit to a mint and get full value for it. I don’t have to stay here, you know, by all the nine hells of Valeria. They’s millions of other places where I can get just as drunk and have just as good a time as I can here.”
There ensued howls of protest, but Strongheart finally yielded, as the Lensman had known that he would. He could have forced him higher, but fifteen hundred was enough.
“Now, sir, just the guarantee and you’re all set for a lot of fun,” Strongheart’s anguish had departed miraculously upon the instant of the deal’s closing. “We take your keys, and when your money’s gone and you come back to get ‘em, to sell your supplies or your ship or whatever, we takes you, without hurting you a bit more than we have to, and sober you up, quick as scat. A room here, whenever you want it, included. Padded, sir, very nice and comfortable—you can’t hurt yourself, possibly. We been in business here for years, with perfect satisfaction. Not one of our customers, and we got hundreds who never go nowhere else, have we ever let sell any of the stuff he had laid in for his next trip, and we never steal none of his supplies, neither. Only two hundred credits for the whole service, sir. Cheap, sir—very, very cheap at the price.”
“Um . . . m . . . m.” Kinnison again scratched meditatively, this time at the nape of his neck.
“I’ll take your guarantee, I guess, because sometimes, when I get to going real good, I don’t know just exactly when to stop. But I won’t need no padded cell. Me, I don’t never get violent—I always taper off on twenty four units of benny. That gives me twenty four hours on the shelf, and then I’m all set for another stretch out in the ether. You couldn’t get me no benny, I don’t suppose, and if you could it wouldn’t be no damn good.”
This was the critical instant, the moment the Lensman had been approaching so long and so circuitously. Mind Was already reading mind; Kinnison did not need the speech which followed.
“Twenty four units!” Strongheart exclaimed. That was a heroic jolt—but the man before him was of heroic mold. “Sure of that?”
“Sure I’m sure; and if I get cut weight or cut quality I cut the guy’s throat that peddles it to me. But I ain’t out. I got a couple of belts left—guess I’ll use my own, and when it gets gone go buy me some from a fella I know that’s about half honest.”
“Don’t handle it myself,” this, the Lensman knew, was at least partially true, “but I know a man who has a friend who can get it. Good stuff, too, in the original tins; special import from Corvina II. That’ll be four hundred altogether. Gimme it and you can start your helling around.”
“Whatja mean, four hundred?” Kinnison snorted. “Think I’m just blasting off about having some left, huh? Here’s two hundred for your guarantee, and that’s all I want out of you.”
“Wait a minute—jet back, brother!” Strongheart had thought that the newcomer was entirely out of his drug, and could therefore be charged eight prices for it “How much do you get it for, mostly, the clear quill?”
“One credit per unit—twenty four for the belt,” Kinnison replied, tersely and truly. That was the prevailing price charged by retail peddlers. “I’ll pay you that, and I don’t mean twenty five, neither.”
“QX, gimme it. You don’t need to be afraid of being bumped off or rolled here, neither.
We got a reputation, we have.”
“Yeah, I been told you run a high-class joint,” Kinnison agreed, amiably. “That’s why I’m here. But you wanna be mighty sure the ape don’t gyp me on the heft of the belt— looky here!”
As the Lensman spoke he shrugged his shoulders and the dive-keeper leaped backward with a shriek; for faster than sight two ugly DeLameters had sprung into being in the miner’s huge, dirty paws and were pointing squarely at his midriff!
“Put ‘em away!” Strongheart yelled.
“Look ‘em over first,” and Kinnison handed them over, butts first. “These ain’t like them buzzards’ cap-pistols what I sold you. These is my own, and they’re hot and tight. You know guns, don’t you? Look ‘em over, pal—real close.”
The renegade did know weapons, and he studied these two with care, from the worn, rough-checkered grips and full-charged magazines to the burned, scarred, deeply-pitted orifices.
Definitely and unmistakably they were weapons of terrific power; weapons, withal, which had seen hard and frequent service; and Strongheart personally could bear witness to the blinding speed of this miner’s draw.
“And remember this,” the Lensman went on. “I never yet got so drunk that anybody could take my guns away from me, and if I don’t get a full belt of benny I get mighty peevish.”
The publican knew that—it was a characteristic of the drug—and he certainly did not want that miner running amok with those two weapons in his highly capable hands. He would, he assured him, get his full dose.
And, for his part, Kinnison knew that he was reasonably safe, even in this hell of hells.
As long as he was active he could take care of himself, in any kind of company; and he was fairly certain that he would not be slain, during his drug-induced physical helplessness, for the value of his ship and supplies. This one visit had yielded Strongheart a profit at least equal to everything he had left, and each subsequent visit should yield a similar amount “The first drink’s on the house, always,” Strongheart derailed his guest’s train of thought “What’ll it be? Tellurian, ain’t you—whiskey?”
“Uh-uh. Close, though—Aldebaran II. Got any good old Aldebaranian bolega?”
“No, but we got some good old Tellurian whiskey, about the same thing.”
“QX—gimme a shot.” He poured a stiff three fingers, downed it at a gulp, shuddered ecstatically, and emitted a wild yell. “Yip-yip-yippee! I’m Wild Bill Williams, the ripping, roaring, ritoodolorum from Aldebaran II, and this is my night to howl. Whee . . . yow . . . owrie- e-e!” Then, quieting down, “This rot-gut wasn’t never within a million parsecs of Tellus, but it ain’t bad—not bad at all. Got the teeth and claws of holy old Klono himself—goes down your throat just like swallowing a cateagle. Clear ether, pal, I’ll be back shortly.”
For his first care was to tour the entire Rest, buying scrupulously one good stiff drink, of whatever first came to hand, at each hot spot as he came to it “A good-will tour,” he explained joyously to Strongheart upon his return. “Got to do it, pal, to keep ‘em from calling down the curse of Klono on me, but I’m going to do all my serious drinking right here.”
And he did. He drank various and sundry beverages, mixing them with a sublime disregard for consequences which surprised even the hard-boiled booze-fighters assembled there.
“Anything that’ll pour,” he declared, loud and often, and acted accordingly. Potent or mild; brewed, fermented, or distilled; loaded, cut, or straight, all one. “Down the hatch!” and down it went. Here was a two-fisted drinker whose like had not been seen for many a day, and bis fame spread throughout the Rest Being a “happy jag,” the more he drank the merrier he became. He bestowed largess hither and yon, in joyous abandon. He danced blithely with the “hostesses” and tipped them extravagantly. He did not gamble, explaining frequently and painstakingly that that wasn’t none of his dish; he wanted to have fun with his money.
He fought, even, without anger or rancor; but gayly, laughing with Homeric gusto the while. He missed with terrific swings that would have felled a horse had they landed; only occasionally getting in, as though by chance, a paralyzing punch. Thus he accumulated an entirely unnecessary mouse under each eye and a sadly bruised nose.
However, his good humor was, as is generally the case in such instances, quite close to the surface, and was prone to turn into passionate anger with less real cause even than the trivialities which started the friendly fist-fights. During various of these outbursts of wrath he smashed four chairs, two tables, and assorted glassware.