The man glanced at his bags. “Just get in?”
“Just down in the Nautilus.”
“You don’t want that restaurant—not unless you have money to throw away. It’s strictly a tourist trap.”
Don thought about the single credit note in his pocket and worried. “Uh, where can a chap get a bite to eat? A good, cheap restaurant?”
The man took his arm. “I’II show you. A place down by the water, run by a cousin of mine.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble.”
“Not at all. I was about to refresh the inner man myself. By the way, my name is Johnny Ling.”
“Glad to know you, Mr. Ling. I’m Don Harvey.”
The restaurant was in a blind alley off the foot of Buchanan Street. Its sign advertised TWO WORLDS DINING ROOM—Tables for Ladies—WELCOME SPACEMEN. Three move-overs were hanging around the entrance, sniffing the odors and pressing their twitching noses against the screen door. Johnny Ling pushed them aside and ushered Don in.
A fat Cantonese stood behind the counter, presiding over both range and cash register. Ling called out, “Hi Charlie!”
The fat man answered, “Hello, Johnny,” then broke into fluent cursing, mixing Cantonese, English, Portuguese, and whistle speech impartially. One of the move-overs had managed to slip in when the door was opened and was making a beeline for the pie rack, his little hooves clicking on the floor. Moving very fast despite his size the man called Charlie headed him off, took him by the ear and marched him out. Still cursing, Charlie returned to the pie rack, picked out half a pie that had seen better times and returned to the door. He tossed the pie to the fauns, who scrambled for it, bleating and whimpering.
“If you didn’t feed them, Charlie,” commented Ling, “they wouldn’t hang around.”
“You damn mind your own business!”
Several customers were eating at the counter; they paid no attention to the incident. Ling moved closer to the cook and said, “Back room empty?”
Charlie nodded and turned his back. Ling led Don through a swinging door; they ended up in a booth in the back of the building. Don sat down and picked up a menu, wondering what he could get that would stretch his one credit as far as possible. Ling took it from him. “Let me order for you. Charlie really is a number-one cook.”
“But… ”
“You are my guest. No, don’t argue. I insist.” Charlie showed up at that point, stepping silently through the booth’s curtain. He and Ling exchanged remarks in a rapid singsong; he went away, returning shortly with crisp, hot egg rolls. The aroma was wonderful and Don’s stomach put a stop to his protests.
The egg rolls were followed by a main dish which Don could not place. It was Chinese cooking but it certainly was not the chop suey of the trade. Don thought that he could identify Venerian vegetables out of his childhood in it but he could not be sure. Whatever it was, it was just what he needed; he began to feel a warm glow of content and ceased to be worried about anything.
While he ate he found that he was telling Ling his life history with emphasis on recent events that had landed him unexpectedly on Venus. The man was easy to talk to and it did not seem polite simply to sit, wolfing his host’s food and saying nothing.
Ling sat back presently and wiped his mouth. “You’ve certainly had an odd time of it, Don. What are you going to do now?”
Don frowned. “I wish I knew. I’ve got to find a job of some sort and a place to sleep. After that I’ve got to scrape up, or save up, or borrow, enough money to send word to my folks. They’ll be worried.”
“You brought some money with you?”
“Huh? Oh, sure, but it’s Federation money. I can’t spend it.”
“And Uncle Tom wouldn’t change it for you. He’s a flinty hearted old so-and-so in spite of his smiles. He’s still a pawnbroker at bottom.”
” ‘Uncle Tom?’ The banker is your uncle?”
“Eh? Oh, no, no—just a manner of speaking. He set up a hock shop here a long time ago. Prospectors would come in and pawn their Geiger counters. Next time out he’d grubstake ’em. Pretty soon he owned half the hot pits around here and was a banker. But we still call him ‘Uncle Tom.’ “