As soon as possible after the transit entered Beachhead City’s central area Nicklin got out on to the crowded footpath. He knew by the route diagram that he was still three stages short of his actual destination—which was Garamond Park—but this was his first visit to Beachhead and he wanted to get the feel of the place, something which could best be done on foot. He fanned his sun-hat into a circle, placed it squarely on his head and began to walk.
The first thing he noticed, apart from the seemingly endless throng, was that the environment was much cleaner than he had expected. The shops and small offices on each side of the street looked fresh and well maintained, and the pavement was remarkably free of litter considering the number of people at large. Nicklin allowed himself a wry smile. As a dweller in a small town he had shared the common belief that all big cities were filthy, garbage-strewn places. Another Orangefield illusion which did not travel well!
After walking for only a few minutes he was also struck by the degree of specialisation that was possible for various retail outiets. There were stores which sold nothing but garden tools, or picture frames, or equipment for a single sport such as archery or subaquatics. That fact alone gave Nicklin the sense of being in a metropolis where the consumer population ran into millions. Another exotic note, to him, was the way in which prices were prefixed by the letter M, standing for monits or monetary units. Metagov had long ago decreed that a global economy—one which embraced every one of the cities strung out along Orbitsville’s billion-kilometre equatorial band—could only operate on the basis of a universal currency which had a fixed value at all portals. The monit was therefore the city dwellers’ exchange medium, while rural communities used the more homely orb, whose value fluctuated in accordance with local conditions. Notices displayed in the windows of some of the shops he passed informed Nicklin that Portal One hinterland orbs were worth 83.23 per cent of a monit, but as he had only a few bills in his pocket the pecuniary disadvantage meant little to him.
Attracted by the aromatic coolness wafting out of a bar, he went inside to quench his growing thirst with a glass of beer. The dim interior was devoid of clientele at that time of the morning. He went to the counter, behind which a young man and a woman were engrossed in a game of stacks, a simplified form of 3D chess. The man’s gaze flicked towards Nicklin for an instant, but otherwise the pair did not acknowledge his presence.
It was a situation in which the old Jim Nicklin would have waited timidly for many minutes, scarcely daring to clear his throat in a bid for attention, but the new liberated Jim Nicklin was not so easily put off.
“Take a good look at me,” he said in a loud voice. “I am what’s known as a customer. You two are what’s known as barkeeps, and—this may come as a great surprise to you—your function in this establishment is to serve customers with any drink they ask for, which in my case happens to be a beer.”
The young man looked up from the game, dull-eyed, still digesting what Nicklin had said. “A beer?”
Nicklin nodded. “Yes, you must have heard of beer—it’s that yellow frothy stuff that comes out of those pumps. Or perhaps you missed the relevant lecture at Barkeep Academy.”
The man’s brow wrinkled and he turned for enlightenment to his companion, who appeared to be the older and brighter of the pair. Lips compressed with resentment, she drew a beer and clumped it down in front of Nicklin. The head rocked and some of it slopped over the rim of the glass.
“Eighty cents,” she said in a cold voice.
As Nicklin was setting a one-orb note on the counter he remembered with malicious satisfaction that it was worth only three cents above the price of the drink. “Keep the change,” he said grandly. “Buy yourself something extra nice.”
Feeling well pleased with himself, he carried his glass to the most distant corner of the room and sat at a table. It had taken the mission ten days to reach Beachhead, with stops at two intervening towns, and he had been pleasantly surprised when Montane had announced a short break. The arrival of the caravan at a small town usually generated enough interest to guarantee an audience, but it had scarcely been noticed by the incurious citizens of Beachhead, and Montane needed some time in which to advertise his presence.
Grateful for the chance to be his own master for a while, Nicklin had grabbed his twenty-orb allowance—quaintly described by Montane as a stipend—and had bolted into the city. Visiting the famous Portal One to view the stars for the first time was at the top of his list of priorities, but he also had to have a period of quiet contemplation. The cool, deserted bar was ideal for that purpose, and as he sipped his beer—freed of the continuous pressure of other personalities—he could feel himself beginning to relax. So much had happened in such a short time that he felt rather like a curio collector who had acquired many pieces on a single buying trip and now desperately wanted a lull in which to study and catalogue them.
There was Danea Farthing, for instance—one of the most curious curios of the lot…
Nicklin’s mouth quirked into its U-shaped smile as in his mind he went over the first encounter with her after his road-to-Damascus brainstorm outside Montane’s camper.
He strolled towards the group by the marquee, enjoying being the focus of their attention, and Danea—as though sensing some vital change in him—drew closer to her tall friend, Christine McGivern. He gave Christine an amiable and salacious wink, then addressed himself to Danea.
“I’m sorry about getting a bit prickly a while ago,” he said. “You see, I never paid so much to get laid before, and I was sort of expecting—for that kind of money—to get a few repeat peformances.”
Christine gave a delighted gasp, but the colour drained from Danea’s face.
“I see now that it wouldn’t be good business for you to issue season tickets—not when you’re humping for the Lord,” Nicklin went on. “But I would like some more. Nothing too fancy, you understand—just straight stuff. How much would you charge a regular customer?”
Danea’s mouth opened silently several times, then she pushed her way through the circle of listeners and ran off in the direction of her camper.
“Would a hundred orbs a shot be all right?” Nicklin called after her. “I don’t mind saving up my stipend.” Putting on a look of honest puzzlement, he faced his audience, most of whom were gazing at him with shock or growing resentment. “Is Danea upset about something? I wonder what could have upset her. I hope it wasn’t something I said.”
“You shouldn’t ought’ve talked to Danea like that,” Nibs Affleck muttered. His blue-red dipso’s nose was gleaming with sweat, and he appeared to be full of righteous anger, the most dangerous kind.
“Really?” Nicklin enquired mildly. “What’s so awful about having a little business discussion?”
Affleck moved towards him, his breastbone thrusting forward like the prow of a boat, but those next to him grabbed his arms and pulled him back. With a reproachful glance at Nicklin, he shrugged off his restraints, walked to the flat expanse of the marquee and began tugging on the guy ropes. The rest of the erection crew eagerly joined in the work, and in a few seconds Nicklin found himself alone with Christine.
“Well, hello,” she said warmly, with a look that was both amused and speculative.
He met her gaze directly. “Are you doing anything special tonight?”
“I don’t know—how special can you make it?”