“That there cup the radio was talking about,” said Gus. “The one for the most valuable team member.”
Meek stammered. “But… but…”
“I’m going to win her,” Gus declared.
IV
SATURN INN BULGED. Every room was crowded, with half a dozen to the cubicle, sleeping in relays. Those who couldn’t find anywhere else to sleep spread blankets in the narrow corridors or dozed off in chairs or slept on the barroom floor. A few of them got stepped on.
Titan City’s Junior Chamber of Commerce had done what it could to help the situation out, but the notice had been short. A half-dozen nearby rocks which had been hastily leveled off for parking space, now were jammed with hundreds of space vehicles, ranging from the nifty two man job owned by Billy Jones, sports editor of the Daily Rocket, to the huge excursion liners sent out by the three big transport companies. A few hastily-erected shelters helped out to some extent, but none of these shelters had a bar and were mostly untenanted.
Moe, the bartender at the Inn, harried with too many customers, droopy with lack of sleep, saw Oliver Meek bobbing around in the crowd that surged against the bar, much after the manner of a cork caught in a raging whirlpool. He reached out a hand and dragged Meek against the bar.
“Can’t you do something to stop it?”
Meek blinked at him. “Stop what?”
“This game,” said Moe. “It’s awful, Mr. Meek. Honestly. The crowd has got the fellers so worked up, it’s apt to be mass murder.”