It never occurred to Grey that he might go off by himself.
Making their way through the crowded street was no longer the ordeal which it had been when Jed Grey and Joe had first been assigned to work together. By this time it no longer turned Grey sick when a highly-painted female hysterically turned around and whined: "It's reading my mind! The damn snake's reading my mind!"
"I see that the Arcturians hang out at the Zig Zag," Joe observed. The Zig Zag's brilliant mercury-vapor sign made Grey's complexion a virulent blue as they passed beneath it.
"And extra police floating around," Grey noticed. "This is a bad town. Many transients here—on their way in or out. Coming to town for a big time—either the last one or the first one in months."
The Purple Claw was housed in a ramshackle building of ancient vintage, and sported as publicity a modest violet lobster which glowed erratically above the door.
Within, the air reeked of tobacco smoke, beer, tekla. It heaved with the beat of something which was part American jazz, part Sirian drum-music, with a flavor of strains from half a dozen other star-systems.
Behind the bar was a monstrously fat character whose hair was white as the clouds of Venus, and whose face was as black as space itself. Elby Jones had a love for wine and women which was matched only by his addiction to the music which the small band in the corner emitted.
He nodded to the pair as they entered, and waddled over to the small table where they seated themselves.
"Evenin', Joe and Mister Grey," he greeted them. "You'll have Space Punch and smokes?"