"A dirty job," she offered tentatively. He shrugged. "Yes," he said. "Let's get moving." She turned without a word. All the way back to Avalon, her back was a silent reproach. Friendship, it said, had been offered--and rebuffed. Nolan had his private thoughts, and dwelt in them. Except for the muffled blast of the rockets there was no sound in the skid until they'd jetted into the great cargo lock in Avalon's crystal dome and the handlers had come to slide the skid into a parking space. Then, as they got out, she smiled suddenly. She said, "I guess I misjudged you, Mr. Matthews. I'm sorry I was discourteous, but a girl can't be too careful. Let me take you to dinner for an apology." Nolan paused and stared at her soberly. Then, "No, thanks," he said. "I meant it when I said I wasn't interested in you. I have things on my mind already." He ignored her outstretched hand, turned to leave, then stopped. "Oh, yes," he said. "Thanks for the ride." He walked cumbrously over to a storage cubicle without looking back. He stripped off his heat suit and checked it with a stout man in Pluto-city green. It was time to plan his next move. There was a pilot's hangout, he remembered, a saloon called the Golden Ray. He took a worn notebook from his shirt pocket, thumbed it to the forgotten address and held the page up for the checking attendant to see. "How do I get there?" The man's eyes widened a fraction as he took the address in. He shrugged imperceptibly. "Any slidewalk going north," he said. "Get off at the Hub and you'll be within a couple blocks of it." * * * * * Nolan nodded and headed for a moving sidewalk. The notebook went back into the pocket of his open-necked black shirt, and the hand that put it there paused a second to touch reassuringly the weight of a slim-barreled pyro that swung beneath his armpit, out of sight. It was nice to know it was there, even though he didn't need it--yet. He paused in a robot restaurant to eat. Saloons like the Golden Ray don't sell much food--particularly to those who have tasted it once. It was getting on toward night. The slidewalks were fast, and the first man he stopped at the Hub told him all he needed to know to find the saloon. Once he got within a block of it, it all began to come back. It had been years since he'd been there, but the place hadn't changed. A blast of sound struck him as he clawed his way through thick tobacco smoke and sweet Martian hop-incense fumes to the bar. He nodded his head, and the short motion yanked a fat bartender to him. The man's slitted eyes peeped surprisedly through the surrounding tallow. "Gunner!" he whispered, amiable but hoarse. "Thought you were somewhere around Jupe. What'll it be?" "It'll be nothing right now," Nolan said. "I thought Petersen might be here. I want to see him." "Oh, sure," the bartender said. "He's dealin' red-dog at one o' the tables in the back."