My feet aching, my throat dry, my energy drained, I loped into the dingy saloon with badly-needed rest and relaxation on my mind. It was a relief just to get indoors away from the wind and the dust which outside had been combining with good effect to attack my face. The place was all a-babble, 200 different conversations in 200 different languages. In the gloom I saw clusters of creatures, some standing in groups, some sitting, some alone. Many eyes watched me as I pushed my way to the bar area, but I was one weary traveller amongst many and did not hold anyone's attention for long.

Except for the bartender's. My spirits brightened as he turned to me and I recognised the face straight away, a little older now but still familiar.

"Willoughby," I gasped in amazement. My old friend, how many drinks had we shared in the past? And how long since we had last shared one? A thousand questions flooded my mind as we shook hands, excitedly asking each other how we were.

"I haven't seen you since I left Macura in '42! I thought you'd been wasted!" I told him to his apparent amusement. "What are you doing here?"

"How I came to be here is a long story," Willoughby mused thoughtfully. "But as you can see, now I'm a bartender! Been wotking here a few years now, the pay is good and my life is simple and uncomplicated."

It was good to see him in such good spirits, knowing his past. He poured me a drink on the house and I brought him up to date on my recent past, my travels across star systems, my brushes with danger, my plans for the future. He listened with keen interest. I was so pleased to see him and knowing that my stay in these parts would be a brief one, I tried to persuade him to join me on the next leg of my journey. He declined politely.

"I like it here," he told me. "For the first time in my life I feel like I have a role to paly in life."

"Serving drinks?" I chuckled, before taking another sip from my glass.

"Drinking isn't why people come here," he said vaguely. I looked around the room, wondering what he meant. It seemed to me that just about everyone was drinking. Then, some metres away, I spied a seven-foot tall Edunan female being approached by an Ammulkan warrior, presumably off-duty.

"Ah, I see what you mean," I said with a knowing look. He smiled back politely.

"No, you don't." He invited me to look around again, and tell him what I saw. I did so, but failing to grasp his meaning I just shrugged.

"The drink is almost irrelevant," he said, "people come here to escape from the universe outside, to take a breather from life. Out there, most of these people are scum: bums on the streets, petty thieves, hated killers, people with no friends and not much future." I did not doubt Willoughby's word. I had been in many similar bars on my travels, and knew from experience just the sort of people who chose to frequent them.

"In here," he continued, "they aren't outcasts. They can relax, forget their troubles for a while. Some choose to conduct their business or meet up with someone and devise a plan that they hope will bring them the riches they crave. Others just chill out. Whatever, this is their sanctuary, their haven. And I'm the man they tell their stories to. Some I believe, some I don't, but I hear all the tales: the men ruined by women, the women tossed aside by men, the small-time crook who reckons that his next job is going to be the big one that'll set him up for life, the man on the run who says he was framed... Yes, I hear them all."

"So?"

"So I listen. And to these people, that means more than you can possibly imagine. I don't make friends, as such, but for a while I am the only link between the innermost thoughts of those poor devils and the outside world."

At last I began to understand. Over further drinks Willoughby told me about a few of the more interesting characters he had met during his time here, and managed to stir up all sorts of emotions in me - sorrow, anger, revulsion, amusement. I eventually asked what became of all these weird and wonderful people, expecting some further anecdotes, but he gave a resigned shrug.

"I don't know," he said, a little sadly. "None of them ever come back here. I like to think that some of them managed to get that break they were looking for, to pull off that big bullion job they were planning so meticulously. But in my heart of hearts, I fear it is more likely that their luck finally ran out. They are all and only losers who come here."

"That's grim," I thought aloud.

"Yes, for most of these poor souls this is their last stop. Perhaps not for the odd traveller like yourself, or the few locals who aren't put off by the clientele, but certainly for most of the others."

Willoughby suddenly seemed to strain his neck for a moment, peering upwards and around to the darkest corners of the room. Then he nudged me, and pointed to the darkest corner of all, where sat all alone at a table was a rather sad looking bearded humanoid. He has a glass of refreshment, but I did not see him drink from it. He just sat there, gazing into it as though he hoped to find answers within it to all his problems.

"See him?" Willoughby murmered. "He's the only one that ever comes back." I looked at the forlorn character again, then back to my friend.

"So what's his story?" I asked.

"Hmm, he's not as forthcoming as most of them. Doesn't give too much away. It was quite some time before he even bothered to have a conversation with me at all. I remember it was very late one night, the place had just about emptied and he was alone at the bar. That was when he first told me about himself. And he talked to me just like all the others did, but with him there was something different..." He paused for a moment, as though he were trying to put his finger on the difference himself.

"Of all the bums in this place, he's the only one who I ever thought could really make something of himself. He's got a burning intelligence, he seems to have easily enough to live on, he's even got grace, which is rare enough in these parts."

"But he is a criminal, like all the others?" I queried.

"Not exactly. He doesn't seem to dream about busting banks or hijacking cruisers. He just talks about this one person all the time. From what I can gather, this other fellow upset him in a big way and ever since, our friend their has been consumed with bitterness. I've seen the same pattern over and over again. He'll turn up here looking broken and dejected, rather like he is now. He'll sulk, he'll drink himself silly, then after a few weeks you'll see his eyes slowly start to blaze with passion again. He'll cheer up as he no doubt comes up with some new dream, then he'll march out of the door with his head held high and I won't see him again for some time. Sometimes weeks, sometimes over a year, but he always returns in the end, as broken and dejected as before."

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