"He's got a joint on the other side of town called Bad Richard's. But
they're friends now. Get along fine."

Tom paid the driver and stood on the sidewalk, watching the silver cab
shoot away into the darkness. Then he took a deep breath and slowly
moved toward the open door of Sloppy Sam's.

Inside, Tom saw that most of the customers were lined up at the bar,
drinking rocket juice, a dark foul-tasting liquid that Tom had sipped
once and vowed he would never try again. But as he looked around, he
didn't think it was the type of place you could order anything milder,
so he walked up to the bar and ordered loudly, "A bucket of juice."

Some of the men at the bar turned away from the stereo screen to look at
the newcomer. They eyed the crisp, clean uniform narrowly, and then
turned silently back to the play on the screen.

The husky bartender placed the small glass of dark liquid in front of
Tom. "Twenty credits," he announced in a hoarse voice.

"Twenty!" exclaimed Tom. "Don't give me that rocket wash! It's five
credits a shot."

"To a Space Cadet that wants to keep his reputation, Corbett," replied
the burly man, "it's twenty."

Tom realized that the man had seen his picture on the stereo news that
afternoon and that it would be impossible to get out of paying this
blatant form of blackmail. He handed over the money and picked up the