Ten minutes later, having used the service elevator to avoid the lobby,
he stood on the corner of Lowell Lane and Builker Avenue. He hailed a
passing jet cab, and climbing in, asked the driver, "Do you know a
restaurant or a bar called Sloppy Sam's?"

"Sure," said the driver. "That where you want to go?"

"As fast as this wagon will get me there," replied Tom.

"Why?" asked the driver strangely. "You look like a nice kid. That
joint's for--for--well, it ain't for a Space Cadet," he concluded
lamely.

"The first thing they teach us at the Academy, buddy," said Tom
impatiently, "is how to take care of ourselves, and the second thing is
to mind our own business."

"Right," said the driver, tight-lipped. He slammed the car into motion
and the force hurled Tom back in his seat.

Tom grinned. He hadn't meant to sound so tough. He leaned over and
apologized. "I'm looking for an old friend. Someone told me he drives a
truck and he might be there."

"Forget it, kid," said the driver. "I wouldn't want you in my cab if you
couldn't take care of yourself. We pay taxes to teach guys like you how
to protect us. A lot of good it would do if you were scared of a taxi
driver."