Hoiman and the Solar Circuit

Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from If Worlds of Science Fiction July 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
They lifted Hoiman's scratch, thus causing him to lose much smoosh. So he grabbed his bum and hit the high orbit.
ay day! I scrawled my Larry Maloney across the back of the check and handed it to Nick, the bartender. Leave me something to operate on, I told him.
Nick turned it over. Still with the News ?
The question was rhetorical. I let it pass without swinging at it. I was mentally estimating the total of the pile of tabs Nick pulled out of the cash register, like a fighter on percentage trying to count the house. I didn't like the figure it gave me.
Nick added them up, then added them again before he pulled some bills out of the money drawer and said, Here's thirty skins. Your rent due?
This'll cover it. I'll do my drinking here.
I went over to a booth and sat down. I lit a cigarette. I smoked. And waited. Presently Sherry, tall, dark and delicious, decided I was making like a customer, and strolled over. Would you like a menu, Mr. Maloney? she trilled.
Larry to you, I reminded her. No menu. Bring me a steak. Big. Thick. Rare. And a plate of french fries. No salad. Bread and butter. Coffee.
She managed at last to pull her writing hand out of mine, and I had to repeat the order. Unless it could be turned into money, Sherry's memory was limited strictly to the present instant.
She put in the order, then brought me a set-up. I let my eyes go over her, real careful, for maybe the thousandth time. No doubt of it—the lassie had a classy chassis. If she just wouldn't yak so damn much.