Nor could Belmont have guessed or Meek formed in words the romanticism that glowed within the middle-aged bookkeeper's heart ... a thing that sometimes hurt ... something earthbound that forever cried for space. Nor the night classes Oliver Meek had attended to learn the theory of space navigation and after that more classes to gain an understanding of the motors and controls that drove the ships between the planets. Nor how he had stood before the mirror in his room hour after hour, practicing, perfecting the art of pistol handling. Nor of the afternoons he had spent at the shooting gallery. Nor of the nights he had read avidly, soaking up the lore and information and color of those other worlds that seemed to beckon him. "How old are you, Oliver?" asked Belmont. "Fifty next month, sir," Meek answered. "I wish you were taking one of the passenger ships," said Belmont. "Now, one of those tours aren't so bad. They're comfortable and ..." Meek shook his head and there was a stubborn glint in the weak blue eyes behind the thick lensed glasses. "No tour for me, sir. I'm going to some of those places the tours never take you. I've missed a lot in these thirty years. I've waited a long time and now I'm going out and see the things I've dreamed about." * * * * * Oliver Meek pushed open the swinging doors of the Silver Moon and stepped timidly inside. Just through the door he stopped and stared, for the place hit him squarely in the face ... the acrid smoke of Venusian leaf, the high-pitched laughter of the Martian dancing girls, the soft whirr of wheels, the click of balls as they bounced around the spinning wheels, the clatter of poker chips, the odor of strange liquors, the chirping and growling of a dozen tongues, the strange, exotic music of Ganymede. Meek blinked through his heavy lenses, moved forward cautiously. In the far corner of the place stood a table occupied by one man ... an old, grizzled veteran of the Asteroids with his muzzle in a flagon of cheap beer. Meek sidled toward the table, drew out a chair. "Do you mind if I sit here?" he asked and Old Stiffy Grant choked on a mouthful of beer in his amazement. "Go ahead, stranger," he finally croaked. "I don't give a dang. I don't own the joint." Meek sat down on the edge of the chair. His eyes swept the room. He smelled the smoke, the raw liquor, the sweat-stained clothing of the men, the cheap perfumery of the dancing girls. He shifted his gun belt so the two energy pistols hung more easily, and cautiously slid farther back upon the chair. So this was Asteroid City on Juno. The place he'd read about. The place the pulp paper writers used as background for their more lurid tales. This was the place where guns flamed and men were found dead in the streets and a girl or a game of chance or just one spoken word could start a fight.