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Right now, though, he was looking for a Class Three bar; just a place to have a small, quiet drink and a bite to eat. He had a perfect right to go into a lower class bar, of course, but he had never felt quite comfortable associating with his inferiors in such a manner, and certainly they would feel nervous in his presence because of the sidearm at his hip.

No one below Class Three was allowed to carry a beamgun, and only Ones and Twos were allowed to wear the screening fields that protected them from the nerve-searing effects of the weapon. And they, being Execs, were in no danger from each other.

Finally, after much walking, he decided that he was in the wrong part of town. There were no Class Three bars anywhere along these streets. Perhaps, he thought, he should have gone to the Spacemen’s Club at the spaceport itself. On the other hand, he hadn’t particularly wanted to see any of the other minor officers of his own class after the near-fiasco which had damaged the Naipor. Being a Guesser set him apart, even from other Threes.

He thought for a moment of asking a policeman, but he dismissed it. Cops, as always, were a breed apart. Besides, they weren’t on the streets to give directions, but to preserve order.

At last, he went into a nearby Class Four bar and snapped his fingers for the bartender, ignoring the sudden silence that had followed his entrance.

The barman set down a glass quickly and hurried over, bobbing his head obsequiously. “Yes, sir; yes, sir. What can I do for you, sir? It’s an honor to have you here, sir. How may I serve you?”

The man himself was wearing the distinctive clothing of a Five, so his customers outranked him, but the brassard on his arm showed that his master was a Two, which afforded him enough authority to keep reasonable order in the place.

“Where’s the nearest Class Three bar?” The Guesser snapped.

The barman looked faintly disappointed, but he didn’t lose his obsequiousness. “Oh, that’s quite a way from here, sir–about the closest would be Mallard’s, over on Fourteenth Street and Upper Drive. A mile, at least.”

The Guesser scowled. He was in the wrong section of town, all right.

“But I’d be honored to serve you, sir,” the barman hurried on. “Private booth, best of everything, perfect privacy–“

The Guesser shook his head quickly. “No. Just tell me how to get to Mallard’s.”

The barman looked at him for a moment, rubbing a fingertip across his chin, then he said: “You’re not driving, I suppose, sir? No? Well, then, you can either take the tubeway or walk, sir….” He let the sentence hang, waiting for The Guesser’s decision.

The Guesser thought rapidly. Tubeways were for Fours and Fives. Threes had groundcars; Ones and Twos had aircars; Sixes and below walked. And spacemen walked.

Trouble is, spacemen aren’t used to walking, especially on a planet where they weigh twenty per cent more than they’re used to. The Guesser decided he’d take the tubeway; at the Class Three bar, he might be able to talk someone into driving him to the spaceport later.

But five minutes later, he was walking in the direction the bartender had told him to take for finding Mallard’s on foot. To get to the tubeway was a four-block walk, and then there would be another long walk after he got off. Hoofing it straight there would be only a matter of five blocks difference, and it would at least spare him the embarrassment of taking the tube.

* * * * *

It was a foolish thing to do, perhaps, but once The Guesser had set his mind on something, it took a lot more than a long walk to dissuade him from his purpose. He saw he was not the only spaceman out on the town; one of the Class Five taverns he passed was filled with boisterous singing, and he could see a crowd of men standing around three crewmen who were leading them in a distinctly off-color ballad. The Guesser smiled a little to himself. Let them have their fun while they were on-planet; their lives weren’t exactly bright aboard ship.