_Here's the behind-the-scenes lowdown on Luna City life and a promoter of Martian dancing girls, vaudeville, and--other things. But remember: stop us if you've heard this one!_ SHOW BUSINESS By Boyd Ellanby Illustrated by Mel Hunter Except for old Dworken, Kotha's bar was deserted when I dropped in shortly after midnight. The ship from Earth was still two days away, and the Martian flagship would get in next morning, with seven hundred passengers for Earth on it. Dworken must have been waiting in Luna City a whole week--at six thousand credits a day. That's as steep to me as it is to you, but money never seemed to worry Dworken. He raised the heavy green lids from his protruding brown eyes as I came in. He waved his tail. "Sit down and join me," he invited, in his guttural voice. "It is not good for a man to drink alone. But I haf no combany in dis by-de-gods-deserted hole. A man must somet'ing be doing, what?" I sat down in the booth across from my Venusian friend, and stared at him while he punched a new order into the drinkboard. "For me, another _shchikh_," he announced. "And for you? De same?" Against my better judgment, for I knew I'd have plenty to do handling that mob of tourists--the first crowd of the season is always the roughest--tomorrow, I consented. Dworken had already consumed six of the explosive things, as the empty glasses on the table showed, but he exhibited no effects. I made a mental note, as I'd so often done before, that this time I would not exceed the safe terrestrial limit of two. "You must be in the money again, drinking imported _shchikh_," I remarked. "What are you doing in Luna City this time?" He merely lifted his heavy eyelids and stared at me without expression. "Na, in de money I am not. Dere are too many chiselers in business. Just when I t'ink I haf a goot t'ing, I am shwindeled. It is too bad." He snorted through his ugly snout, making the Venusian equivalent of a sigh. I knew there was a story waiting behind that warty skin, but I was not sure I wanted to hear it. For the next round of drinks would be on me, and _shchikh_ was a hundred and fifty credits a shot. Still, a man on a Moon assignment has to amuse himself somehow. So I said, "What's the latest episode in the Dworken soap opera? What is the merchandise this time? Gems? Pet Mercurian fire-insects? A new supply of _danghaana_?" "I do not smuggle drugs, dat is a base lie," replied my friend stolidly. He knew, of course, that I still suspected him to be the source of the last load of that potent narcotic, although I had no more proof than did the Planetary Bureau of Investigation.