A pilot walks into the bar.
Nobody looks round — they see a lot of pilots round here, and this one seems nothing special.
You can always tell when they've been in space too long — anti-grav and pseudo-grav never really compensate for the things the void does to your body. His skin is a little puffy, face too pale, hair too untidy.
So no-one looks.
There's a click on the Cyber News Network. "This just in" says the voice of the announcer. "A single pilot flying a small, civilian ship, today survived a horrific asteroid storm in Altair and succeeded against all odds in clearing an area of space some twenty-four thousand cubic kilometres in volume.
"Regular viewers will know that Altairian storms have this year claimed the lives of seven hundred and forty two space crews, and resulted in a net shipping loss of some fourteen billion credits.
"This unknown pilot who styles himself simply as 'Gus' is fast becoming a legend of the space lanes, with at the last count over fifteen thousand hyper-web sites carrying the news of his exploits."
A picture appears beside the newscaster's face — a non-descript pilot, who looks like he has been too long in space.
The barman pays CNNT no attention. He's seen it all before.
"What'll it be, hotshot?" He says.
"A brandy. And just call me Gus" says the pilot, so quietly that the barman barely hears.
But someone catches the name. A murmur runs through the bar. Eyes flick from the newscast to the pilot, to the newscast, and back to the pilot.
The barman, though, seems not to have noticed.
"Rough day, Gus?" He says. Gus nods.
"Need something for the nerves." He says. "Been out there too long."
The barman nods back. He pours the drink, and leaves it on the counter. He doesn't seem to notice the crowd now gathered around Gus, no-one quite touching him, but each one looking, craning, searching for a better glimpse of his face.
He doesn't notice. He's seen it all before.
"How much?" Says Gus.
"On the house." Says the barman. "Living legends drink for free."
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M A R T I N • T U R N E R
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