There wasn't much inside the club. A few tables and chairs, a dart game and a bar. Behind the bar a tall Venusian lounged.
I walked over and asked, "What are you serving, pal?"
"Call me Joe," he answered.
He caught me off balance. "What?"
"Joe," he said again.
A faint glimmer of understanding began to penetrate my thick skull. "You wouldn't happen to be Joe the trader? The guy who knows all about Mars, would you?"
"I never left home," he said simply. "What are you drinking?"
That rat! That dirty, filthy, stinking, unprincipled....
But then, it should be simple to find a man with a name like Joe. Among the natives, I mean.
Sure. Oh sure. Real simple. Walsh was about the lowest, most contemptible....