The hotel was small and comfortable, with a bar crowded by roistering pilots and their dates. The glimpses Ross got of social life on Azor added up to a damnably unfair picture. It was the man who paid. Breuer roguishly tested the mattress in their room, nudging Helena, and then announced, “Get settled, kids, while I visit the bar.”
When the door rolled shut behind her Ross said furiously: “Look, you! Protective mimicry’s fine up to a point, but let’s not forget what this mission is all about. We seem to be suckered into spending the night, but by hell tomorrow morning bright and early we find those Cavallo people—”
“There,” Helena said soothingly. “Don’t be angry, Ross. I promise I won’t be out late, and she really did insist.”
“I suppose so,” he grumbled. “Just remember it’s no pleasure trip.”
“Not for you, perhaps,” she smiled sweetly.
He let it drop there, afraid to push the matter.
Breuer returned in about ten minutes with a slight glow on. “It’s all fixed,” she told Helena. “Got a swell crowd lined up. Table at Virgin Willie’s—oops!” She glanced at Ross. “No harm in it, of course,” she said. “Anything you want, Ross, just dial service. It’s on my account. I fixed it with the desk.”
“Thanks.”
They left, and Ross went grumpily to bed.