Starman Jones by Robert A. Heinlein Read Free Book Online Page A

chico was headed this way and I’ve had my eye on him.”
    “He’s a friend of mine. I was waiting for him here.”
    “As you say. We have a lot of trouble with vagrants. They all seem to head for Earthport.”
    “He’s not a vagrant. He’s a young friend of mine from the country and I’m afraid he’s gotten a bit confused. I’ll be responsible.”
    “Very well, sir.”
    “Not at all.” Max let himself be led away. When they were out of earshot Sam said, “That was close. That nosy clown would have had us both in the bull pen. You did all right, kid—kept your lip zipped at the right time.”
    They were around the corner into a less important street before Sam let go his grip. He stopped and faced Max, grinning. “Well, kid?”
    “I should’a’ told that cop about you!”
    “Why didn’t you? He was right there.”
    Max found himself caught by contradictory feelings. He was angry with Sam, no doubt about it, but his first unstudied reaction at seeing him had been the warm pleasure one gets from recognizing a familiar face among strangers—the anger had come a split second later. Now Sam looked at him with easy cynicism, a quizzical smile on his face. “Well, kid?” he repeated. “If you want to turn me in, let’s go back and get it over with. I won’t run.”
    Max looked back at him peevishly. “Oh, forget it!”
    “Thanks. I’m sorry about it, kid. I really am.”
    “Then why did you do it?”
    Sam’s face changed suddenly to a sad, far-away look, then resumed its cheerful cynicism. “I was tempted by an idea, old son—every man has his limits. Someday I’ll tell you. Now, how about a bit to eat and a gab? There’s a joint near here where we can talk without having the nosies leaning over our shoulders.”
    “I don’t know as I want to.”
    “Oh, come now! The food isn’t much but it’s better than mulligan.”
    Max had been ready with a stiff speech about how he would not turn Sam in, but he certainly did not want to eat with him; the mention of mulligan brought him up short. He remembered uneasily that Sam had not inquired as to his morals, but had shared his food.
    “Well…okay.”
    “That’s my boy!” They went on down the street. The neighborhood was a sort to be found near the port in any port city; once off the pompous Avenue of the Planets it became more crowded, noisier, more alive, and somehow warmer and more friendly despite a strong air of “keep your hand on your purse.” Hole-in-the-wall tailor shops, little restaurants none too clean, cheap hotels, honky-tonks, fun arcades, exhibits both “educational” and “scientific,” street vendors, small theaters with gaudy posters and sounds of music leaking out, shops fronting for betting parlors, tattoo parlors fronting for astrologers, and the inevitable Salvation Army mission gave the street flavor its stylish cousins lacked. Martians in trefoil sunglasses and respirators, humanoids from Beta Corvi III, things with exoskeletons from Allah knew where, all jostled with humans of all shades and all blended in easy camaraderie.
    Sam stopped at a shop with the age-old symbol of three golden spheres. “Wait here. Be right out.”
    Max waited and watched the throng. Sam came out shortly without his coat. “Now we eat.”
    “Sam! Did you pawn your coat?”
    “Give the man a cigar! How did you guess?”
    “But… Look, I didn’t know you were broke; you looked prosperous. Get it back, I’ll… I’ll pay for our lunch.”
    “Say, that’s sweet of you, kid. But forget it. I don’t need a coat this weather. Truth is, I was dressed up just to make a good impression at—well, a little matter of business.”
    Max blurted out, “But how did you…” then shut up. Sam grinned. “Did I steal the fancy rags? No. I encountered a citizen who believed in percentages and engaged him in a friendly game. Never bet on percentages, kid; skill is more fundamental. Here we are.”
    The room facing the street was a bar, beyond was