“Tell me,” Harry said as he accepted the offering. “Any chance of finding some work around here? I got a feeling that, between the casinos and the prices up here, my roll isn’t gonna last all that long without some help.”
“You’ll have to talk to the manager about that,” the bartender said. “There’s a lot of turnover up here, but he does the hiring and firing. He should be in in an hour or so, if you can hang around.”
“I gots nowhere to go,” Harry said, flashing his teeth. “Is my hawg okay out front there?”
For the first time the bartender showed surprise, raising his eyebrows.
“You got a hover cycle up here?” he said. “I thought I heard one right about the time you came in, but I figured it was my imagination. That or wishful thinking.”
“You sound like you used to ride yourself.”
“Sure did.” The man grinned. “Didn’t you notice the bugs in my teeth?”
Harry threw back his head and gave an appreciative guffaw, slapping his thigh with one hand. It was a very old joke, probably predating hover cycles themselves: How do you tell a happy cyclist? By the bugs in his teeth!
It was still around, though, and served almost as a recognition signal between hover-cycle enthusiasts, since no one else remembered it, much less laughed at it.
“That was a long time ago, though,” the bartender said, his eyes looking into the distance as he smiled at the memory. “I rode for a while with the Hell Hawks.”
“That’s a good club.” Harry nodded approvingly. “I rode with the Outlaws myself.”
“No foolin?” the man said, recognizing the name of one of the oldest, largest hover cycle clubs in the galaxy. “By the way, my name’s William. Used to be `Wild Bill’ when I was riding.”