Standing before the building, he reflected. No news meant the boss would be sending more spacegrams threatening to fire him—and meaning it. His hunch was still solid on Lansfer's knowing something. There was something behind the secrecy with which the space police worked, but—
There was more than one way to find out. If Lansfer wouldn't talk, other policemen might. He looked around, found the nearest saloon. Some of the space police had just finished their day's work. Thoughtfully jingling the platinum coins in his pocket, he went into the saloon.
Alone at one end of the bar was a patrolman. Barnard took a place beside him and ordered a drink.
"H'lo, Remish," he said. "What's the news on Gail Melvin?"
Remish grinned and shook his head. Barnard felt a slight distaste for what he was about to do. It didn't seem right.
He took a balled fist from his pocket and opened it slowly, holding it between himself and the patrolman so that it was not visible to anybody else in the room. He opened it just enough for Remish to see the five Martian platins.
Remish turned and faced the row of bottles behind the bar. His face was blank. For a long minute he said nothing. Then:
"I don't like that, Barnard. I could use that as well as anybody. But there's something I like better."
Barnard hadn't liked it either. But hell—after some of the police he'd met on the outer planets, he couldn't help but be cynical. He raised his glass and threw down the drink.
"It's everyday stuff, of course," Remish conceded. "But I'm going to be one cop who's different. There's talk enough now about the Space Patrol—that we're fronting for pirates and transporting neoin. And some funny things have been going on."