"It is deal, monsieur? Five dollars or twenty keelis for visit Martian friend. Maybe you like House of Dreams. For House of Dreams—"
"I'm not buying."
The dirty-faced kid shrugged. "Then I show you to good table,—tres bien. I do not charge you, senor."
The boy grabbed his hand. Because Ben could think of no reason for resisting, he followed. They plunged into shifting layers of smoke and through the drone of alcohol-cracked voices.
They passed the bar with its line of lean-featured, slit-eyed Earthmen—merchant spacemen.
They wormed down a narrow aisle flanked by booths carved from Venusian marble that jutted up into the semi-darkness like fog-blanketed tombstones.
Several times, Ben glimpsed the bulky figures of CO2-breathing Venusians, the first he'd ever seen.