t of Mare Serenitatis.

It had an arched interior, bar, stage, blaring jukebox, tables, and a
shoulder-to-shoulder press of tough men, held in curious orderliness in
part by the rigid caution needed in their dangerous and artificial
existences, in part by the presence of police, and in part perhaps by a
kind of stored-up awe and tenderness for girls--all girls--who had been
out of their lives for too long. In a way, it was a crude, tawdry joint;
but it was not the place that Frank and Gimp--or even many of the
others--had come to see.

Eileen Sands was there, dancing crazy, swoopy stuff, possible at lunar
gravity, as Frank and Gimp entered. Her costume was no feminine fluff;
cheesecake, of which she presumably didn't have much, was not on
display, either. Dungarees, still? No, not quite. Slender black
trousers, like some girls use for ballet practice, instead.

Maybe she wasn't terribly good, or sufficiently drilled, yet, in her
routines. But she had a pert, appealing face, a quick smile; her hair
was brushed close to her head. She was a cute, utterly bold pixy to
remember smiling at you--just you--like a spirit of luck and love, far
out in the thick silence.

Her caper ended. She was puffing and laughing and bowing--and maybe
sweating, some, besides. The clapping was thunderous. She came out again
and sang _Fire Streak_ in a haunting, husky voice.

Meanwhile, a barman touched Frank's and Gimp's shoulders. "Hines and
Nelsen? She has spotted you two. She wants to see you in her quarters."

"Hi, lads," she laughed. "Beer for old times?... You look like hell,
Frank. Brief me on the missing chapter. You had everybody scared."

"Uh-uh--you first, Your Majesty," Nelsen chuckled in return.

She wrinkled her nose at him. "Well, I got here. There was a need.
Somebody decided that I was the best available talent. This is the first
step. Maybe I'll have my own spot--bigger and better. Or get back to my
own regular self, working Out There with the men."

Maybe it was bad taste, but Nelsen felt like teasing. "Ever hear of a
person named Miguel Ramos?"

That didn't bother her. She shrugged. "Still around, though I hope not
for long, the buffoon! Who could ever put up with a show-off small boy
like that for more than ten minutes? Besides, he's wasting himself. Why
should he pick me for a bad influence...? Now, your chapter, Frank."

He told her the story, briefly.

At last she said, "Frank, you must be spiritually all jam