n_, and the waiters are busy mopping up the floor and leaning on
their long-handled sterilizers, and the boys in the band are picking up
their music to go down to Earth to get some shut-eye or maybe an atomic
beer or two before we open that night.

Hotlips Grogan leans over and whispers in my ear. "It is the thrush," he
says.

"The thrush?" I say, loud, before he clamps one of his big hands over my
kisser. "The thrush," I say, softer; "you mean the canary?"

He waves his arms like a bird. "Thrush, canary--I mean Stella
Starlight."

For a minute I stand with my mouth open and think of this. Then I rubber
for the ninety-seventh time at the female warbler, who is standing
talking to Frankie, the band leader. She is a thrush new to the band and
plenty cute--a blonde, with everything where it is supposed to be, and
maybe a little extra helping in a couple spots. I give her my usual
approving once-over, just in case I miss something the last ninety-six
approving once-overs I give her.

"What about her?" I say.

"It is her fault I play like I do," Hotlips Grogan tells me sadly. "Come
on. Leave us go guzzle a beer and I will tell you about it."

Just then Frankie comes over, looking nasty like as usual, and he says
to Grogan, "You are not playing too well today, Hotlips. Maybe you hurt
your lip on a beer bottle, huh?"

As usual also, his tone is pretty short on sweetness and light, and I do
not see why Grogan, who looks something like a gorilla's mother-in-law,
takes such guff from a beanpole like Frankie.

But Grogan only says, "I think something is wrong with my trumpet. I
have it fixed before tonight."

Frankie smirks. "Do that," he says, looking like a grinning weasel. "We
want you to play for dancing, not for calling in Martian moose."

Frankie walks away, and Hotlips shrugs.

"Leave us get our beer," he says simply, and we go to the ferry.

We pile into the space-ferry with the other musicians and anyone else
who is going down to dirty old terra firma, and when everybody who is
going aboard is aboard, the doors close, and the ferry drifts into
space. Hotlips and I find seats, and we look back at the gambling ship.
It is a thrill you do not get used to, no matter how many times you see
it.

The sailor boys who build the _Saturn_--they give it the handle of
_Satellite II_ then--would not know their baby now, Frankie does such a
good job of revamping it. Of course, it is not used as a gambling ship
then--at