He'd stand
by his fiddle--I mean, his _Zloomph_--with a dreamy expression in
those watery eyes, staring at nothing.

But after one number he studied Fat Boy's clarinet for a moment. "Nice
clarinet," he mused. "Has an unusual hole in the front."

Fat Boy scratched the back of his head. "You--you mean here? Where the
music comes out?"

John Smith nodded. "Unusual."

Hummm, I thought again.

Awhile later I caught him eyeing my piano keyboard. "What's the
matter, John?"

He pointed.

"Oh, there," I said. "A cigarette fell out of my ashtray, burnt a hole
in the key. If The Eye sees it, he'll swear at me in seven languages."

"Even there," he said softly, "even there...."

There was no doubt about it. John Smith was peculiar, but he was the
best bass man this side of a musician's Nirvana.

It didn't take a genius to figure out our situation. Item one:
Goon-Face's countenance had evidenced an excellent imitation of
Mephistopheles before John began to play. Item two: Goon-Face had
beamed like a kitten with a quart of cream after John began to play.

Conclusion: If we wanted to keep eating, we'd have to persuade John
Smith to join our combo.

At intermission I said, "How about a drink, John? Maybe a shot of
wine-syrup?"

He shook his head.

"Then maybe a Venusian fizz?"

His grunt was negative.

"Then some old-fashioned beer?"

He smiled. "Yes, I _like_ beer."

I escorted him to the bar and assisted him in his arduous climb onto a
stool.

"John," I ventured after he'd taken an experimental sip, "where have
you been hiding? A guy like you should be playing every night."

John yawned. "Just got here. Figured I might need some money so I went
to the union. Then I worked on my plan."

"Then you need a job. How about playing with us steady? We like your
style a lot."

He made a long, low humming sound which I interpreted as an expression
of intense concentration. "I don't know," he finally drawled.

"It'd be a steady job, John." Inspiration struck me. "And listen, I
have an apartment. It's got everything, solar shower, automatic chef,
'copter landing--if we ever get a 'copter. Plenty of room there for
two people. You can stay with me and it won't cost you a cent. And
we'll even pay you over union wages."

His watery gaze wandered lazily to the bar mirror, down to the
glittering array of bottles and then out to the dance floor.

He yawned again and spoke slowly, as if each word were a leaden weight