"Fine!"
"Two martinis, please," he ordered. When the barkeep brought them, he said, "Charge them to Allied Technolabs' account. They'll take care of it."
"Right, sir."
Allied Technolabs had been the contractors that built the Space Station. Conroy hadn't been affiliated with them since the lab explosion—but if Janet noticed, she said nothing.
Conroy caressed the drink, sipped it thirstily.
"Are—you—"
"Still drinking?" he finished. "A little. Not as much. I'm leading a clean life." It was a lie, he thought bitterly. But what else could I say?
The martini warmed him—that, and the girl's presence. She reawakened all the old longing in him, filled him with dull anger at the way the past three years had been pulled from him—years he could have spent wed to Janet.
But she had broken the engagement, she had wanted no part of a seemingly incurable alcoholic. She was too good for him. He wondered how she'd feel if he told her he was also a fugitive from the jetgang belowdecks.
"What are you doing here on the Wheel yourself?" he asked.