For he had determined to at least get in touch with the SS man who had written that note. He would have dinner at the Golden Web, if they served meals. If not, he would have a drink anyway. The two men certainly should know each other by sight.
He went briefly to the hotel, but there had been no calls for him. So he took a ground-cab to the cafe, which turned out to be a pretentious, garish one. Inside he made his way to that part of the long, busy bar presided over by a slim, blond man.
Hanlon climbed onto a stool. "Gimme a good old Kentucky mint-julep, suh," he demanded, "an' be doggoned suah it's made right."
The bartender eyed him peculiarly. "Where's this Kentucky and what's a mint-julep?"
"On Terra, of course, where I came from. Where'd you think it was, on Andromeda Seven?"
"Pardon me, sir. I seem to remember now, having heard of such a drink. I'll have to look it up in the recipe-book—I disremember the ingredients."
Hanlon grinned and lost his appearance of truculence. "It's partly made of Blue Grass, like a 'horse's neck.' But if it's too much trouble, just give me a Cola."
The barkeep grinned, too. "I gotcha, Steve," and poured out the soft drink.
Hanlon sat sipping his innocuous drink, looking about him quietly. A large-sized crowd was beginning to fill the place—well-dressed, evidently fairly prosperous people, but he could see that they were not the real upper-class, but the slightly-off-shade climbers.
His drink finished Hanlon signalled his friendly barman. "The grub here any good? This looks like a nice place."