The Altar at Midnight C M Kornbluth
The Altar at Midnight C M Kornbluth
HE HAD quite a rum-blossom on him for a kid, I thought at first. But when he moved closer to the light by the cash register to ask the bartender for a match or something, I saw it wasn’t that. Not just the nose. Broken veins on his cheeks, too, and the funny eyes. He must have seen me look, because he slid back away from the light.
The bartender shook my bottle of ale in front of me like a Swiss bell-ringer so it foamed inside the green glass.
“You ready for another, sir?” he asked.
I shook my head. Down the bar, he tried it on the kid—he was drinking Scotch and water or something like that—and found out he could push nun around. He sold him three Scotch and waters in ten minutes.
When he tried for number four, the kid had his courage up and said, “I’ll tell you when I’m ready for another, Jack.” But there wasn’t any trouble.
It was almost nine and the place began to fill up. The manager, a real hood type, stationed himself by the door to screen out the high-school kids and give the big hello to conventioneers. The girls came hurrying in too, with their little makeup cases and their fancy hair piled up and their frozen faces with the perfect mouths drawn on them. One of them stopped to say something to the manager, some excuse about something, and he said: “That’s aw ri’; getcha assina dressing room.”
A three-piece band behind the drapes at the back of the stage began to make warmup noises and there were two bartenders keeping busy. Mostly it was beer—a midweek crowd. I finished my ale and had to wait a couple of minutes before I could get another bottle. The bar filled up from the end near the stage because all the customers wanted a good, close look at the strippers for their fifty-cent bottles of beer. But I noticed that nobody sat down next to the kid, or, if anybody did, he didn’t stay long—you go out for some fun and the bartender pushes you around and nobody wants to sit next to you. I picked up my bottle and glass and went down on the stool to his left.
He turned to me right away and said: “What kind of a place is this, anyway?” The broken veins were all over his face, little ones, but so many, so close, that they made his face look something like marbled rubber. The funny look in his eyes was it—the trick contact lenses. But I tried not to stare and not to look away.
“It’s okay,” I said. “It’s a good show if you don’t mind a lot of noise from—”
He stuck a cigarette into his mouth and poked the pack at me. “I’m a spacer,” he said, interrupting.
I took one of his cigarettes and said: “Oh.”
He snapped a lighter for the cigarettes and said: “Venus.”
I was noticing that his pack of cigarettes on the bar had some kind of yellow sticker instead of the blue tax stamp.
“Ain’t that a crock?” he asked. “You can’t smoke and they give you lighters for a souvenir. But it’s a go”od lighter. On Mars last week, they gave us all some cheap pen-and-pencil sets.”
“You get something every trip, hah?” I took a good, long drink of ale and he finished his Scotch and water.
“Shoot. You call a trip a ‘shoot.'”
One of the girls was working her way down the bar. She was going
to slide onto the empty stool at his right and give him the business, but she looked at him first and decided not to. She curled around me and asked if I’d buy her a li’l ole drink. I said no and she moved on to the next. I could kind of feel the young fellow quivering. When I looked at him, he stood up. I followed him out of the dump. The manager grinned without thinking and said, “G’night, boys,” to us.
The kid stopped in the street and said to me: “You don’t have to follow me around, Pappy.” He sounded like one wrong word and I would get socked in the teeth.