Mike Halloran fancied himself a connoisseur of libations, and had been plotting his routes by some of the best alehouses for a while. If he wasn't flying, he'd be drinking, and even if he was flying, he probably would still be drinking. The thing did most of the work, anyway.
He'd been on Sprauge for a few days, trying hard not to tear at his skin wherever the biting insects that seemed to live on every last world had swarmed him, lightly boozing. After laying in a cargo, he'd come back for a few more hours in a table near the bar. He had thought he'd had a pleasant time already, peoplewatching and muttering, but when a less than massive chap walks in and says something like"Give me the strongest thing you have." . . . well.
That got Mike interested. In a place like this...you were safe to be interested in libations. You probably weren't safe to be interested in the strongest libations...or you were safe, and you weren't safe to be around. Not if the things Mike shipped had anything to do with it. As he turned, the chair made just too much of a screech against the floor for him to feel graceful...He hoped nobody noticed he was keeping an eye on this boy.
