The Draco Tavern - Larry Niven [13]
Hroyd System was clustered tightly around its small, hot sun. Space was thick with asteroids and planets and other sailing ships. Every so often some massive piece of space junk bombed the sun, or a storm would bubble up from beneath the photosphere, and my boat would surge under the pressure of the flare. I had to fiddle constantly with the shrouds.
The pointer was aimed at black space. Where was that damned spaceport? Huge and massive it had seemed, too big to lose, when I spun out my frail silver sail and launched ... how long ago? The clock told me: twenty hours, though it didn’t feel that long.
The spaceport was coin-shaped, spun for varying gravities. Maybe I was trying to see it edge-on? I tilted the sail to lose some velocity. The fat sun expanded. My mind felt the heat. If my suit failed, it would fail all at once, and I wouldn’t have long to curse my recklessness. Or—Even Chirpsithra-supplied equipment wouldn’t help me if I fell into the sun.
I looked outward in time to see a silver coin pass over me. Good enough. Tilt the sail forward, pick up some speed ... pull my orbit outward, slow down, don’t move the sail too fast or it’ll fold up! Wait a bit, then tilt the sail to spill the light; drop a bit, wait again ... watch a black coin slide across the sun. Tilt to slow, tilt again to catch up. It was another two hours before I could pull into the spaceport’s shadow, fold the sail, and let a tractor beam pull me in.
My legs were shaky as I descended the escalator to Level 6.
There was Earth gravity on 6, minus a few kilos, and also a multispecies restaurant bar. I was too tired to wonder about the domed boxes I saw on some of the tables. I wobbled over to a table, turned on the privacy bubble, and tapped tee tee hatch nex ool, carefully. That code was my life. A wrong character could broil me, freeze me, flatten me, or have me drinking liquid methane or breathing prussic acid.
An Earthlike environment formed around me. I peeled off my equipment and sank into a web, sighing with relief. I still ached everywhere. What I really needed was sleep. But it had been glorious!
A warbling whistle caused me to look up. My translator said, “Sir or madam, what can I bring you?”
The bartender was a small, spindly Hroydan, and his environment suit glowed at dull-red heat.
I said, “Something alcoholic.”
“Alcohol? What is your physiological type?”
“Tee tee hatch nex ool.”
“Ah. May I recommend something? A liqueur, Opal Fire.”
Considering the probable distance to the nearest gin and tonic ...” Fine. What proof is it?” I heard his translator skip a word, and amplified: “What percent ethyl alcohol?”
“Thirty-four, with no other metabolic poisons.”
About seventy proof? “Over water ice, please.”
He brought a clear glass bottle. The fluid within did indeed glitter like an opal. Its beauty was the first thing I noticed. Then, the taste, slightly tart, with an overtone that can’t be described in any human language. A crackling aftertaste, and a fire spreading through my nervous system.
I said, “That’s wonderful! What about side effects?”
“There are additives to compensate: thiamin and the like. You will feel no ugly aftereffects,” the Hroydan assured me.
“They’d love it on Earth. Mmm ... what’s it cost?”
“Quite cheap. Twenty-nine Chirp notes per flagon. Transport costs would be up to the Chirpsithra. But I’ m sure Chignthil Interstellar would sell specs for manufacture.”
“This could pay for my whole trip.” I jotted the names: Chirp characters for Opal Fire and Chignthil Interstellar. The stuff was still dancing through my nervous system. I drank again, so it could dance on my taste buds too.
To hell with sleep; I was ready for another new experience. “These boxes—I see them on all the tables. What are they?”
“Full-sensory entertainment devices. Cost is six Chirp notes for use.” He tapped keys and a list appeared: titles, I assumed, in alien script. “If you can’t read this, there is voice translation.”
I dithered. Tempting; dangerous. But a couple of these might be worth taking back. Some of my customers