After a third helping of dessert, the cadet stretched out on the bed and closed his eyes. But sleep would not come. The incidents at the spaceport that afternoon kept flashing through his mind. He tossed restlessly, something he couldn't quite remember was tugging at the back of his mind.
He retraced the events of the day, beginning with the landing of the Polaris and ending with the crash of the jet truck.
Suddenly he sat up straight. Then quickly he jumped out of bed, hurriedly threw on the new uniform, and rammed his feet into the soft space boots.
Ten minutes later, having used the service elevator to avoid the lobby, he stood on the corner of Lowell Lane and Builker Avenue. He hailed a passing jet cab, and climbing in, asked the driver, "Do you know a restaurant or a bar called Sloppy Sam's?"
"Sure," said the driver. "That where you want to go?"
"As fast as this wagon will get me there," replied Tom.
"Why?" asked the driver strangely. "You look like a nice kid. That joint's for—for—well, it ain't for a Space Cadet," he concluded lamely.
"The first thing they teach us at the Academy, buddy," said Tom impatiently, "is how to take care of ourselves, and the second thing is to mind our own business."
"Right," said the driver, tight-lipped. He slammed the car into motion and the force hurled Tom back in his seat.
Tom grinned. He hadn't meant to sound so tough. He leaned over and apologized. "I'm looking for an old friend. Someone told me he drives a truck and he might be there."