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wildest Starman’s Quarter to go with it.
    Whorehouses and gin joints appealing to human and alien tastes were boom industries. Tyree’s would be raking in the credits tonight.
    The streets were still slick and reflective from the afternoon rainstorms. Floaters swooped overhead as the pedestrian traffic made its way across the pavement below. Colored lights danced from the street signs, and music blared from several bars. Savory and not-so-savory aromas from sidewalk food vendors teased and assaulted his senses with exotic meats and spices from across the galaxy. One stand offered a particularly exquisite-smelling snail the size of his fist, swimming in garlic sauce, which might have tempted Chandler except that he knew those critters lived on the droppings of something unspeakably vile.
    As Chandler walked along a back alley, a hairy bisteen wearing drellskin pilot leathers staggered by arm-in-arm with a human female. The woman’s hair was dyed blue, with lipstick to match, and she wore expensive leathers. The bisteen stopped suddenly and doubled over, vomiting a green mush.
    The woman stepped back and covered her mouth and nose.
    The bisteen spoke between heaves. “What’s your problem?” He wiped his face with a hairy paw and reached for her.
    She turned and walked away from the alien pilot.
    “Your loss,” the bisteen snarled, stumbling away down the street.
    Chandler avoided the pair and walked out of the alley.
    He looked up as the sun threw the last of its light across the red clouds and struck the sign, featuring a glowing green caterpillar wrapped around the word “Tyree’s.” One of the caterpillar’s arms stuck out and raised and lowered a long, thin pipe to and from the bug’s smiling lips. Every third puff, the caterpillar blew smoke rings that floated above its head and formed the word “Emporium” magically in the air.
    Tyree’s stood at the edge of Starman’s Quarter and attracted a wide range of interesting guests. Apparently the local execs loved to slum there.
    Chandler crossed the street toward the entrance and stepped through the winged doors into the smoke-filled bar. As he entered the room, his eyes scanned the crowd. Typical collection of spacers, down-and-outers, whores of multiple sexes scattered around, with a few exec-types trying to look spiff and, even though Tyree’s didn’t specialize in non-human activities, a couple of aliens. He couldn’t make out an obvious courier anywhere, and the transponder key in his pocket was still.
    The dimly lit club spread out in a circle. A catwalk lined with booth tables stretched around the circumference. Before him, a short staircase dropped into a central pit that held more tables, most of which were occupied. In dead center stood the bar, with six bartenders mixing drinks and quite a crowd lined up before it.
    Chandler took a seat off to one side, facing the door. He checked his watch. If everything went smoothly, it wouldn’t be long.
    A slack-jawed waitress in a black dress sidled up to him. He told her his poison and in a few minutes she returned with a double Blackjack.
    Chandler took a sip of his drink and considered his current situation. He’d already spent a portion of the retainer, making one more payment toward the Marlowe , his combination transportation, office, and home. In another three years, he’d own it outright, just in time to haul it to the junkyard.
    He observed the patrons. Something nagged at him about the guy at the bar wearing the tattered trench coat. The man’s hair was messed up and he needed a shave. He held his drink with both hands, cuddling it like a baby. But something didn’t seem right.
    Just then, he felt the transponder begin to vibrate in his pocket as a woman entered the bar. Her long blonde hair spilled over her shoulders and rained down the back of her black jacket. Under the jacket she wore a silver half shirt that exposed her taut belly. Her skin-tight mesh pants tucked into her boots at the