Oliver Meek pushed open the swinging doors of the Silver Moon and stepped timidly inside. Just through the door he stopped and stared, for the place hit him squarely in the face ... the acrid smoke of Venusian leaf, the high-pitched laughter of the Martian dancing girls, the soft whirr of wheels, the click of balls as they bounced around the spinning wheels, the clatter of poker chips, the odor of strange liquors, the chirping and growling of a dozen tongues, the strange, exotic music of Ganymede.
Meek blinked through his heavy lenses, moved forward cautiously.
In the far corner of the place stood a table occupied by one man ... an old, grizzled veteran of the Asteroids with his muzzle in a flagon of cheap beer.
Meek sidled toward the table, drew out a chair.
"Do you mind if I sit here?" he asked and Old Stiffy Grant choked on a mouthful of beer in his amazement.
"Go ahead, stranger," he finally croaked. "I don't give a dang. I don't own the joint."
Meek sat down on the edge of the chair. His eyes swept the room. He smelled the smoke, the raw liquor, the sweat-stained clothing of the men, the cheap perfumery of the dancing girls.
He shifted his gun belt so the two energy pistols hung more easily, and cautiously slid farther back upon the chair.
So this was Asteroid City on Juno. The place he'd read about. The place the pulp paper writers used as background for their more lurid tales. This was the place where guns flamed and men were found dead in the streets and a girl or a game of chance or just one spoken word could start a fight.