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As bars go, it was brightly lit and noisy, especially considering the small number of patrons so early in the afternoon. On both sides of the traditional louvered doors the inner, full-length doors were propped open with a pair of giant laser drill-bits, souvenirs of the deep-bore mining of Rafa III, whose vacationing practitioners habituated the place.

In the back, the ubiquitous native was emptying ashtrays over a waste can.

The bartender, a scrawny specimen of indeterminate middle age, approached Lando, wringing his knobbly hands in a dark green apron. What little hair he still possessed was restricted to the back and sides of his otherwise highly reflective pate, and cut short. He had a nose friends might have called substantial, others spectacular. Tattooed permanently beneath it, a mild sneer, punctuated by a small mole on his chin.

“Spacers’ bars’re all downtown about three blocks, Mac,” he said in a peculiar drawl. “This here’s a hardrock miners’ joint.”

Lando raised an eyebrow.

“Aint sayin’ y’can’t drink here. Just likely y’won’t want to—once the off-shift R and R crew starts t’fillin’ the place up.”

It seemed a long speech for the wiry little man. He stood there, balanced on the balls of his feet, relaxed but ready, looking down at Lando from under half-closed eyelids, a foul-smelling cigar butt dangling from his mouth. A large, dangerous-looking lumpiness was apparent beneath one side of his apron bib.

Lando nodded slightly. “Thanks for the advice; I’m meeting somebody here. Have you a pot of coffeine to hand?” Until he’d sat down, he’d almost forgotten the night’s sleep he’d lost. Now it was catching up to him.

“Some of m’best friends drink it,” the barkeep replied. “One mug comin’ up.”

He began to walk away, then paused and turned back to Lando. “Remember what I said, Mac. Splints an’ bandages’ll cost ya extra.”

Lando nodded again, extracted one of the governor’s cigars from a breast pocket, and settled back. Then, casually, he pulled the Key from an inside pocket. An optometrist’s nightmare, it wouldn’t hold still visually, even locked firmly in his hands. First it seemed to have three branches, then two, depending on your viewpoint. If you didn’t shift the angle you were watching it from, it would oblige by shifting it for you. Lando averted his eyes.

He sat like that for forty-five minutes without any seeming reaction from anyone. Having long since finished his coffeine and tired of the cigar, at last he rose, left a small tip on the table, nodded amiably at the gnarled little bartender, and stepped outside on the boardwalk.

“Master?”

“Don’t call me Master! Let’s find another bar.”

• VI •

THE NEXT PLACE sported a small bronze plaque beside the door that stated: “FACILITIES ARE NOT PROVIDED FOR MECHANOSAPIENTS.”

It meant “No droids allowed.”

And it wasn’t even true, not in its original rendering. Vuffi Raa had a sort of waiting room to park himself in, nicely furnished, quiet, with recharging receptacles. Only bigotry of the very nicest, highest-class sort was practiced there. Lando left the robot with a couple others of its kind watching a domestic stereo serial.

Inside, three Toka swampers were distributing dirty water evenly all over the floor. That they and their employers probably thought they were washing only demonstrated that pretensions and sanitation don’t necessarily go together.

It was not quite dark, so the real drinking crowd hadn’t arrived there yet, either. It didn’t matter; Lando wasn’t interested in them.

Nearly an hour went by this time, Lando sipping a hot stimulant and toying discreetly with the Key. The thing was as evasive to the tactile senses as it was visually, he discovered, closing his eyes and examining it by touch. “Perverse” might be a better word, and even more nauseating, somehow. He opened his eyes with something resembling relief.

On several occasions, he could have sworn that one or another of the natives was staring at him intently when he wasn’t looking in their direction.

Which was also precisely