At a small table with a tiny lamp, he opened the papers that Lawson had given him, to read them more thoroughly. The waitress was high-breasted in a manner that invited him to look, but he merely barked, "White Star Trail," and went back to his reading.
"Spaceman?" she asked.
Farradyne nodded in an irritated manner. She flounced off after a moment of futile attempt to beguile a spaceman.
So when a moment later someone slid into the bench beside him, Farradyne turned to tell her to please go because he wasn't having any, thanks. Instead of looking into a vapidly willing face Farradyne's eyes were met by an equally cold blue stare from the face of a hard-jawed man dressed in a jacket tailored to half-conceal the shoulder holster he wore. Farradyne blinked.
"Farradyne?"
"So?" said Farradyne. He tried to think but all he could cover was the idea that someone was now playing games with guns.
"Hear tell you're running blossoms."
"Who says?"
"People."
"People say a lot of things. Which people?"