The chrysanthemum-pated son of the desertland roused himself as Chip entered, rustled his petals and piped a ready greeting.
"Welcoom, ssirr! Trrink, pleasse?"
This was more like it! Chip grinned.
"Scotch," he said. "Old Spaceman. And let's have a new bottle, Curly. None of that doctored swill."
"Of courrsse, ssirr!" piped the bar-keep aggrievedly. He pushed a bottle across the mahogany; Chip flipped a golden credit-token back at him.
"Tell me when I've guzzled this, and I'll start work on another." He took a deep, appreciative sniff. "And don't let any of those dizzy dolls in here," he ordered. "I've got a lot of back drinking to catch up on, and I don't want to be disturbed—Hey!"
In his alarm, he almost dropped the bottle. For the door suddenly burst open, and in its frame loomed a figure in Space Patrol blues. A finger pointed in Chip's direction and a bull-o'-Bashan voice roared:
"Stop! Bartender—grab that man! He's a desperate criminal, wanted on four planets for murder!"
Shock momentarily immobilized Chip. Not so the bartender. He was, it seemed, an ardent pacifist. With a bleat of panic fear he scampered from his post, his metallic stilts clattering off in the distance. Chip's accuser moved forward from the shadows; dim light illumined his features. And—