Astounding Science Fiction (British Edition), April 1944 — page 56: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

54 value. The man would require deft hand- ling, especially since he was “bearing down hard.” “Where, to, bud?” “Uplift Social Club. Know where it is?” “Nope,” said the driver, “but I can find out.” He used his tele-directory on the dash- board. “Downtown..’Way down.” “O.K.,” Gallegher told the man, and- dropped back on the cushions, brooding darkly. Why was everybody so elusive? His clients weren’t usually ghosts. But Fatty remained vague and nameless—a face, that was all, and one Gallegher hadn’t recog- nized. Who J. W. was anyone might guess. Only Dell Hopper had put in an appear- ance, and Gallegher wished he hadn’t.. The summons rustled in his pocket. “What I need,’ Gallegher soliloquized, “is a drink. That was the whole trouble. I didn’t say drunk. Not long enough, any- how. Oh, damn.” Presently the taxi stopped at what had once been a glassbrick mansion, now grimy and forlorn-looking. Gallegher got out, paid the driver, and went up the ramp. A small placard said Uplift Social Club. Since there was no buzzer, he opened the door and went in. Instantly his nostrils twitched like the muzzle of a war horse scenting cordite. There was drinking going on. With the in- stinct of a homing pigeon, Gallegher went directly to the bar, set up against one wall of a huge room filled with chairs, tables, and people. A sad-looking man with a derby was playing a pin-ball machine in a corner. He looked up as Gallegher ap- proached, lurched into his path, and mur- mured, “Looking for somebody?” “Yeah,” Gallegher said. “Max Cuff. They told me he was here.” “Not now,” said the sad man. “What do you want with him?” “It’s about Fatty,” Gallegher hazarded. Cold eyes regarded him. “Who?” “You wouldn’t know him. But Max would.” “Max want to see you?” “Sure.” | “Well,’. the man said doubtfully, “he’s down at the Three-Star on a pub-crawl. When he starts that—” “The Three-Star? Where is it?” “Fourteenth near Broad.” “Thanks,” Gallegher said. He went out, with a longing look at the bar. Not now— not yet. There was business to attend to first. The Three-Star was a gin mill, with dirty ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION pictures on the walls. They moved in a sterosocopic and mildly appalling manner. Gallegher, after a thoughtful examination, looked the customers over. There weren’t many. A huge man at one end of the bar attracted his attention because of the gar- denia in his lapel and the flashy diamond on his ring finger. Gallegher went toward him. “Mr. Cuff?” “Right,” said the big man, turning slowly on the barstool like Jupiter revolving on its axis. He eyed Gallegher, librating slightly. ““Who’re you?” *Tm—”’’ “Never mind,” said Cuff, winking. “Never give your right name after you’ve pulled a job. So you're on the lam, eh?” “What?” “I can spot ’em as far away as I can see em. You... you... hey!” Cuff said, bending forward and sniffing. “You been drinking!”’ | “Drinking,” Gallegher said bitterly. “It’s an understatement.” “Then have a drink with me,” the big man invited. “I’m up to E now. Egg flip. Tim!” he roared. “’Nother egg flip for my pal here! Step it up! And get busy with | Pigg Gallegher slid onto the stool beside Cuff and watched his companion speculatively. The alderman seemed a little tight. “Yes,” Cuff said, “alphabetical drinking’s the only way to do it. You start with A— absinthe—and then work along, brandy, cointreau, daiquiri, egg flip—” “Then what?” “BF, of course,” Cuff said, mildly sur- prised. “Flip. Here’s yours. Good lubrica- tion!” They drank. “Listen,” Gallegher said, “I want to see you about Fatty.” “Who’s he?” “Fatty,” Gallegher explained, winking significantly. “You know. You’ve been bearing down lately. The statute. You know.” “Oh! Him! Cuff suddenly roared with Gargantuan laughter. “Fatty, huh? That’s good. That’s very good. Fatty’s a good name for him, all right.” “‘Not much like his own, is it?”’ Gallegher said cunningly. “Not a bit. Fatty!” “Does he spell his name with an e or an i?” “Both,” Cuff said. “Tim, where’s the flip? You, you got it ready, huh? Well, good lubrication, pal.” Gallegher finished his egg flip and went comiclbooks (©)