Guilt-Edge Security
By: James A. Hartley
I sat beside the bar rubbing my glass across polished mahogany and watching trails of moisture it left behind. It must have cost them a fortune to ship real wood way out to the Rim. It didn’t look synthetic. I looked over at the barman and he tossed his head, then went back to polishing the glasses. Real authentic stuff. I was nursing my fourth bourbon when the guy walked in.
He was a florid, heavy-set guy and I could just tell he was a salesman. He had the suit, he had the haircut, and he had the little case. Maybe things would have been different if it had been a different night.
He swaggered up to the bar and planted himself like he owned the place. Maybe he did. He raised two fingers and the barman filled a glass with what looked like scotch. He drained the first one quickly, then signaled for another. When his second arrived, he turned to scan the bar. I studied him out of the corner of my eye. Finally, he turned and looked at me, nodded then smiled. Another quick circuit of the room and he slid his drink down the bar toward me.
“Hey, Mac,” he said to me. “Mind if I join you?”
I shrugged and motioned to the place beside me. Looking back, that might have been the big mistake.
“You’re in the game, right?” he said. “You look like the sort. Marketing and sales, right? No other reason for being out in this backwater. Let me guess. You’re from Earth.” I nodded and he grinned.
“Yeah, me too. Jack. Jack Davis’s the name.” He thrust a meaty paw toward me, and I shook it.
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