Under the circumstances, to be aware of opportunity was to act. Big paws, some bare and calloused, some in the gloves of space suits, reached out, grabbed. Teeth bit. Juice squirted, landing on hard metal shaped for the interplanetary regions.
So far, fine. John Endlich felt prouder of himself—he'd expected a certain fierceness and lack of manners. But knowing all he did know, he should have taken time to visualize the inevitable chain-reaction.
"Thanks, pal.... You're a prince...."
Sure—but the thanks were more of a mockery than a formality.
"Hey! None for me? Whatsa idea?..."
"Shuddup, Mic.... Who's dis guy?... Say, Friend—you wouldn't be that pun'kin-head we been hearin' about, would you?... Well—my gracious—bet you are! Dis'll be nice to watch!..."
"Where's Alf Neely, Cranston? What we need is excitement."
"Seen him out by the slot-machines. The bar is still out of bounds for him. He can't come in here."
"Says who? Boss Man Mahoney? For dis much sport Neely can go straight to hell! And take Boss Man with him on a pitchfork.... Hey-y-y!... Ne-e-e-e-l-y-y-y!..."
The big man whose name was called lumbered to the window at the entrance to the bar, and peered inside. During the last couple of months he'd been in a perpetual grouch over his deprivation of liberty, which had rankled him more as an affront to his dignity.