Magnus kept one eye on the g**g of Martians. Five of them, roaring with laughter in the corner of the bar. They were going to be trouble. s*******r-tourists up from the equatorial cities, Wells or Bradbury. A few days running wild on the lawless Strip and they could go back home and tell everyone how crazy it had been. It was always the same. The people who actually lived on Möbius were rarely the trouble-makers.
It occurred to him, once again, that running a bar was pretty similar to combat. Long periods of boredom, constant vigilance, the occasional explosion of violence. He scanned the room as he poured Mars Red for one of his regulars. In truth the raucous Martians didn"t concern him much. He could deal with them easily enough. It was the ghost two tables over that really worried him
