Don took the ring back and hesitated. The ring could not possibly be worth a tenth of that sum... and his stomach was reminding him that flesh has its insistent demands. Still-his mother had spent at least twice that amount to make sure that this ring reached him (or the paper it had been wrapped in, he corrected himself) and Dr. Jefferson had died in a fashion somehow connected with this same bauble.
He put it back on his finger. "That wouldn't be fair. I guess I had better find a job."
"A man of pride. There is always work to be found in a new and growing city; good luck. When you have found employment come back and we can arrange an advance against your wages." The banker reached into the folds of his gown, pulled out a single credit note. "But eat first-a full belly steadies the judgment. Do me the honor of accepting this as our welcome to the newcomer."
His pride said no; his stomach said YES! Don took it and said, "Uh, thanks! That's awfully kind of you. I'll pay it back, first chance."
"Instead, pay it forward to some other brother who needs it." The banker touched a button on his desk, then stood up.
Don said goodbye and left.
There was a man loitering at the door of the bank. He let Don get a step or two ahead, then followed him, but Don paid him no attention, being very busy with his own worries. It was slowly beginning to grow on him that the bottom had dropped out of his world and that there might be no way to put it back together. He had lived in security all his life; he had never experienced emotionally, in his own person, the basic historical fact that mankind lives always by the skin of its teeth, sometimes winning but more often losing-and dying.
But never quitting. In a hundred yards of muddy street he began to grow up, take stock of his situation. He was more than a hundred million miles from where he meant to be. He had no way at once to let his parents know where be was, nor was it a simple matter of waiting two weeks-he was flat broke, unable to pay the high tariff.
Broke, hungry, and no place to sleep... no friends, not even an acquaintance unless, he recalled, you counted "Sir Isaac," but, for all he knew, his dragon friend might be on the other side of the planet. Certainly not close enough at hand to affect the ham-and-eggs problem!
He decided to settle that problem at once by spending the note the banker had given him. He recalled a restaurant a short distance back and stopped suddenly, whereupon a man jostled him.
Don said, "Excuse me," and noted that the man was another Chinese-noted it without surprise as nearly half of the contract labor shipped in during the early days of the Venerian colonies had been Orientals. It did seem to him that the man's face was familiar-a fellow passenger in the Nautilus? Then he recalled that he had seen him at the dock at the foot of the street.
"My fault," the man answered. "I should look where I'm going. Sorry I bumped you." He smiled most charmingly.
"No harm done," Don replied, "but it was my fault. I suddenly decided to turn around and go back."
"Back to the bank?"
"Huh?"
"None of my business, but I saw you coming out of the bank."
"As a matter of fact," Don answered, "I wasn't going back to the bank. I'm looking for a restaurant and I remembered seeing one back there."
The man glanced at his bags. "Just get in?"
"Just down in the Nautilus."
"You don't want that restaurant-not unless you have money to throw away. It's strictly a tourist trap."
Don thought about the single credit note in his pocket and worried. "Uh, where can a chap get a bite to eat? A good, cheap restaurant?"
The man took his arm. "I'II show you. A place down by the water, run by a cousin of mine."
"Oh, I wouldn't want to put you to any trouble."
"Not at all. I was about to refresh the inner man myself. By the way, my name is Johnny Ling."
"Glad to know you, Mr. Ling. I'm Don Harvey."
The restaurant was in a blind alley off the foot of Buchanan Street. Its sign advertised TWO WORLDS DINING ROOM-Tables for Ladies-WELCOME SPACEMEN. Three move-overs were hanging around the entrance, sniffing the odors and pressing their twitching noses against the screen door. Johnny Ling pushed them aside and ushered Don in.
A fat Cantonese stood behind the counter, presiding over both range and cash register. Ling called out, "Hi Charlie!"
The fat man answered, "Hello, Johnny," then broke into fluent cursing, mixing Cantonese, English, Portuguese, and whistle speech impartially. One of the move-overs had managed to slip in when the door was opened and was making a beeline for the pie rack, his little hooves clicking on the floor. Moving very fast despite his size the man called Charlie headed him off, took him by the ear and marched him out. Still cursing, Charlie returned to the pie rack, picked out half a pie that had seen better times and re turned to the door. He tossed the pie to the fauns, who scrambled for it, bleating and whimpering.
"If you didn't feed them, Charlie," commented Ling, "they wouldn't hang around."
"You damn mind your own business!"
Several customers were eating at the counter; they paid no attention to the incident. Ling moved closer to the cook and said, "Back room empty?"
Charlie nodded and turned his back. Ling led Don through a swinging door; they ended up in a booth in the back of the building. Don sat down and picked up a menu, wondering what he could get that would stretch his one credit as far as possible. Ling took it from him. "Let me order for you. Charlie really is a number-one cook."
"But..."
"You are my guest. No, don't argue. I insist." Charlie showed up at that point, stepping silently through the booth's curtain. He and Ling exchanged remarks in a rapid singsong; he went away, returning shortly with crisp, hot egg rolls. The aroma was wonderful and Don's stomach put a stop to his protests.
The egg rolls were followed by a main dish which Don could not place. It was Chinese cooking but it certainly was not the chop suey of the trade. Don thought that he could identify Venerian vegetables out of his childhood in it but he could not be sure. Whatever it was, it was just what he needed; he began to feel a warm glow of content and ceased to be worried about anything.
While he ate he found that he was telling Ling his life history with emphasis on recent events that had landed him unexpectedly on Venus. The man was easy to talk to and it did not seem polite simply to sit, wolfing his host's food and saying nothing.
Ling sat back presently and wiped his mouth. "You've certainly had an odd time of it, Don. What are you going to do now?"
Don frowned. "I wish I knew. I've got to find a job of some sort and a place to sleep. After that I've got to scrape up, or save up, or borrow, enough money to send word to my folks. They'll be worried."
"You brought some money with you?"
"Huh? Oh, sure, but it's Federation money. I can't spend it."
"And Uncle Tom wouldn't change it for you. He's a flinty hearted old so-and-so in spite of his smiles. He's still a pawnbroker at bottom."
" `Uncle Tom?' The banker is your uncle?"
"Eh? Oh, no, no-just a manner of speaking. He set up a hock shop here a long time ago. Prospectors would come in and pawn their Geiger counters. Next time out he'd grubstake 'em. Pretty soon he owned half the hot pits around here and was a banker. But we still call him `Uncle Tom.' "
Don had a vague feeling that Ling was too anxious to deny the relationship but be did not pursue the thought as it did not matter to him. Ling was continuing, "You know, Don, the bank isn't the only place where you can change Federation money."