_A Bad Town For Spacemen_ BY ROBERT SCOTT There was a reason why the city acted the way it did ... and we were the reason! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I stepped back out of the gutter and watched the tight clot of men disappear around the corner. They hadn't really been menacing, just had made it obvious they weren't going to break up. And that I had better get out of their way. I got. We were well trained. The neon of the bar across the street flickered redly on my uniform. I watched the slush trickle off my boots for a while, then made up my mind and headed into the bar. It was a mistake. New York had always been considered safe for us. Of course there were many parts of the country that were absolutely forbidden "for your own good" and others that were "highly dangerous" or at least "doubtful." But New York had always been a haven. The stares there had even been admiring sometimes, especially in the beginning. But things had changed. I had realized that about half an hour after touchdown, when we were being herded through Health Check, Baggage Check, Security Check ... you know the lot. Before, there had been friendly questions, genuine interest in the Mars colony, speculations about the second expedition to Venus, even a joke or two. This time the examiners' only interest seemed to be in fouling us up as much as possible. And when we finally got through the rat race, New York was bleak. I should have stayed with the rest, I guess, and of course a public bar was the last place any smart spaceboy would have gone to. But I had some nice memories of bars, memories from the early days. The whole room went silent, as though a tube had blown, when I shoved through the door. I got over to an empty table as quickly as I could and inspected the list of drinks on the dispenser. This one had a lot of big nickel handles sticking up over the drink names and the whole job was shaped like one of those beer kegs you used to see pictures of. What I mean is, this was an _authentic_ bar. Phony as hell. * * * * * From the way this sounds, you can guess the kind of mood I'd gotten in. The noise had picked up again right after I sat down and some of the drunker drunks were knocking the usual words around, in loud whispers and with lots of glances at me. One of the pro-girls (her hair was green and her blouse covered her breasts--another change while I was out) gave me a big wink and then jabbed the man next to her and squawked with laughter. I fed a bill into the change machine at the table and then dribbled several coins (prices had gone up too) into the dispenser.