Never knew what Elmero's was going to look like week to week. Most businesses strove for a consistent exterior. Elmero strove for the opposite. Never knew when he was going to change the holographic front. Today it was suddenly the Bar-X Saloon in old Tucson, Arizona. Even had a couple of horses drinking from a trough in the bright noonday sun.

The sun never shone down here at ground level.

The usual crowd was holding up the bar inside, however. The usual mix of aimless chatter and straying vapors filled the air. And as usual, the datastream was playing in the near corner where I recognized Newsface Seven's features as she doled out the latest tidbits from CenDat. A howl came from the enclosure in the dimmest of the dim corners where someone was playing Procyon Patrol. Whoever he was — never saw him before — he spun out of the enclosure and rolled on the floor, all the while swatting at his left shoulder where the fabric of his jacket was burning. He got the fire out, stood up, shook himself, then re-entered the enclosure. People had been paying extra to play Procyon Patrol at Elmero's since he partially disabled the dampers on the enemy lasers. When those aliens shot back, they really shot back. You could get hurt real bad in that game. That's why altered machines were illegal.

Elmero's specialized in illegalities.

Doc waved at me from his table. Minn spotted me from behind the bar. She held up a vial of Dewar's green — my usual — and raised her eyebrows. Waved her off. Wasn't in the mood for a whiff right now. Needed to talk to the boss. Pointed toward the back room and she nodded.