When we reaches his apartment, he snaps on the lights, like he was nervous somebody might be hidin' inside, and locks the door tight. I watch close. He leaves the key in the lock, which makes me feel some easier.

He has quite a nice little joint. Not gaudy, but nice. He goes to one bookshelf, presses a button, and a shelf slides back. Inside, he's got enough wiggle-water to fill all the Martian canals and irrigate the Moon.

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