Coming to a decision which was encouraged by his innards, he went into Seth’s still holding the paper as if it were a death warrant. Inside there was a long counter, some steam and a clatter of crockery. He chose a seat at a marble-topped table occupied by a gray-eyed brunette.
“Do you mind?” he inquired politely, as he lowered himself into a chair.
“Mind what?” She examined his ears as if they were curious phenomena. “Babies, dogs, aged relations or going out in the rain?”
“Do you mind me being here?”
“I can please myself whether or not I endure it. That’s freedom, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” said Harrison. “Sure it is.” He fidgeted in his seat, feeling somehow that he’d made a move and promptly lost a pawn. He sought around for something else to say and at that point a thin-featured man in a white coat dumped before him a plate loaded with fried chicken and three kinds of unfamiliar vegetables.
The sight unnerved him. He couldn’t remember how many years it was since he last saw fried chicken, nor how many months since he’d had vegetables in other than powder form.
“Well,” said the waiter, mistaking his fascinated gaze upon the food. “Doesn’t it suit you?”
“Yes.” Harrison handed over the slip of paper. “You bet it does.”
Glancing at the note, the other called to someone semivisible in the steam at one end of the counter, “You’ve killed another of Jeff’s.” He went away, tearing the slip into small pieces.
“That was a fast pass,” commented the brunette, nodding at the loaded plate. “He dumps a feed-ob on you and you bounce it straight back, leaving all quits. I’ll have to wash dishes to get rid of mine, or kill one Seth has got on somebody else.”
“I stacked a load of canned stuff.” Harrison picked up knife and fork, his mouth watering. There were no knives and forks on the ship. They weren’t needed for powders and pills. “Don’t give you any choice here, do they? You take what you get.”
“Not if you’ve got an ob on Seth,” she informed. “In that case, he’s got to work it off best way he can. You should have put that to him instead of waiting for fate and complaining afterward.”
“I’m not complaining.”
“It’s your right. That’s freedom, isn’t it?” She mused a bit, went on, “Isn’t often I’m a plant ahead of Seth, but when I am I scream for iced pineapple and he comes running. When he’s a plant ahead, I do the running.” Her gray eyes narrowed in sudden suspicion, and she added, “You’re listening like it’s all new to you. Are you a stranger here?”
He nodded, his mouth full of chicken. A little later he managed, “I’m off that spaceship.”
“Good grief!” She froze considerably. “An Antigand! I wouldn’t have thought it. Why, you look almost human.”
“I’ve long taken pride in that similarity,” his wit rising along with his belly. He chewed, swallowed, looked around. The white-coated man came up. “What’s to drink?” Harrison asked.
“Dith, double-dith, shemak or coffee.”
“Coffee. Big and black.”
“Shemak is better,” advised the brunette as the waiter went away. “But why should I tell you?”
The coffee came in a pint-sized mug. Dumping it the waiter said, “It’s your choice seeing Seth’s working one off. What’ll you have for after—apple pie, yimpik delice, grated tarfelsoufers or canimelon in syrup?”
“Iced pineapple.”
“Ugh!” The other blinked at Harrison, gave the brunette an accusing stare, went away and got it.
Harrison pushed it across. “Take the plunge and enjoy yourself.”
“It’s yours.”
“Couldn’t eat it if I tried.” He dug up another load of chicken, stirred his coffee, began to feel at peace with the world. “Got as much as I can manage right here.” He made an inviting motion with his fork. “G’wan, be greedy and to heck with the waistline.”
“No.” Firmly she pushed the pineapple back at him. “If I got through that, I’d be loaded with an ob.”
“So what?”
“I don’t let strangers plant obs on me.”
“Quite right, too. Very proper of you,” approved Harrison. “Strangers often have strange notions.”
“You’ve been around,” she agreed. “Only I don’t know what’s strange about the notions.”
“Dishwasher!”
“Eh?”
“Cynic,” he translated. “One washes dishes in a cynic.” The pineapple got another pass in her direction. “If you feel I’ll be dumping an ob which you’ll have to pay off, you can do it in a seemly manner right here. All I want is some information. Just tell me where I can put my finger on the ripest cheese in the locality.”
“That’s an easy one. Go round to Alec Peters’ place, middle of Tenth Street” With that, she dug into the dish.
“Thanks. I was beginning to think everyone was dumb or afflicted with the funnies.”
He carried on with his own meal, finished it, lay back expansively. Unaccustomed nourishment got his brain working a bit more dexterously, for after a minute an expression of deep suspicion clouded his face and he inquired, “Does this Peters run a cheese warehouse?”
“Of course.” Emitting a sigh of pleasure, she put aside her empty dish.
He groaned low down, then informed, “I’m chasing the mayor.”
