Joe was still dazed by that monetary vista when he and Harvey carried the case of medicine to the saloon. The mayor had already cleared a place of honor in the cluttered back room, where he told them to put it down carefully. Then he took the elaborate bottle-opener Harvey gave him, reverently uncorked a bottle and sampled it. It must have been at least as good as the first; he gagged.
"That's the stuff, all right," he said, swallowing hard. He counted out the money into Harvey's hand, at a moderate rate that precariously balanced between his pleasure at getting the fever remedy and his pain at paying for it. Then he glanced out to see the position of Jupiter, and asked: "You gents eaten yet? The restaurant's open now."
Harvey and Joe looked at each other. They hadn't been thinking about food at all, but suddenly they realized that they were hungry.
"It's only water we were short of," Harvey said apprehensively. "We've got rations back at the ship."
"H-mph!" the mayor grunted. "Powdered concentrates. Compressed pap. Suit yourselves. We treat our stomachs better here. And you're welcome to our hospitality."
"Your hospitality," said Harvey, "depends on the prices you charge."
"Well, if that's what's worrying you, you can stop worrying," answered the mayor promptly. "What's more, the kind of dinner I serve here you can't get anywhere else for any price."
Swiftly, Harvey conned the possibilities of being bilked again. He saw none.
"Let's take a look at the menu, anyhow, Joe," he said guardedly.