She holds it up to the dim round lights, then flats her hand into Jack’s coat.
“Thanks, sweetheart, but I’m working… you know how it is,” he murmurs, grabbing her hand and easing it away from his trousers. Her fingers are minus the card, of course. Ha. Mister Plombkins had probably been on the comm the whole time. Never mix poker and dancing.
With a nod and a wink, Jack backs out of the office building’s three-storey tall double glass doors, heading out again into Mnrva’s red light district of crystal towers and giant stuffed bears eating ramen with their paws. It reminds him of 23rd century Tokyo. He smiles.
On the floating sidewalk, standing in the sunny glare of the asteroid’s artificial imported lighting, he digs the scribbly note from that Ood, Phillip Cake, out of his pocket.
Nostalgia comes looking
On a whim, Jack checks the blue card.
There’s something written on the back of it, in a spidery hand. He knows Prydonia, or Nostalgia, whatever her name is, didn’t have time to write anything. Unless the whole thing was staged by the man upstairs.
For a good time, try
His eyes cross the thin silver street and find a building covered with greasy neon and too many little black scratches on classic white brick, like old shrine wards.
Is that supposed to be hanzi? he wonders as he reaches to push in the door, stuffing a cigarette in his mouth with his free hand. No; it can’t be an authentic dive miniscoped from Old Earth; all the little papers read the same quote: