The two visitors stared open mouthed at him. Meek brightened. "You've heard about those old rocks, maybe. Some funny inscriptions on them. Fellow who found them thought they had been made recently, probably just before Earthmen first came here. But no one can read them. Maybe some other race ... from somewhere far away."
"But it won't take you long," pleaded Smith. "We got warrants for all of them. All you got to do is serve them."
"Look," said Meek in desperation, "you have got me wrong. It must have been an accident, shooting that gun out of Mr. Blaine's hand."
Meek felt dull anger stirring within him. What right did these people have of insisting that he help them with their troubles? What did they think he was? A desperado or space runner? Another gangster? Just because he'd been lucky at the Silver Moon.
"By gosh," he declared flatly, "I just won't do it!"
They looked pained, rose reluctantly.
"I suppose we shouldn't have expected that you would," said the Reverend Brown bitingly.
The Silver Moon was quiet. The bartender was languidly wiping the top of the bar. A Venusian boy was as languidly sweeping out. The dancing girls were gone, the music was silent.
Stiffy and Oliver Meek were among the few customers.