“Just call me C.H.,” Harry supplied.
The two men shook hands solemnly, though the Legionnaire-in-disguise was mentally groaning at his slip. He was supposed to be working under a different name for this caper, but in the enthusiasm of talking hover cycles, his Legion name, which happened to also be his old club name, just popped out before he thought. He would have to pass the word to Mother that he wasn’t using his planned alias and hope that the word of his whereabouts didn’t reach the Renegades.
“Tell you what,” the bartender said, leaning close. “When the manager comes in, let me talk to him first … maybe put in a good word for you.”
“Hey. I appreciate that.”
“And let me get you another brew while you’re waiting … on me.”
As the bartender headed off, Harry turned on his stool and rested his elbows on the bar, surveying his new home.
There was a small dining area attached to the bar, not more than a dozen tables, though those tables were widely spaced, leading Harry to believe it was more of a gathering point than a profit generator. Only a few of the tables were occupied, and those customers, by their dress and manner, seemed to be locals rather than tourists.
One group in particular drew his attention. The only man at the table had the broad-shouldered no-neck look of an astroball player, and he was listening intently to a woman old enough to be his mother-if not his grandmother. What really caught his eye, however, was the third member of the party. Sitting beside the old lady was a tall lean black woman whose severe, angular features failed to hide the fact that she was bored with or disinterested in the discussion of the other two.