The bar didn’t have any lights advertising its presence, apart from a single slit in the door that hinted there was something inside. It had no windows and no sign, save for a drawing of a donkey lying on the ground, surrounded by flies. But it did have had one thing going for it, he decided as he walked through the door; it was the perfect place to meet someone without the Shore Patrol interrupting the meeting. He gritted his teeth as he looked round, searching for the rendezvous point. The Dead Donkey was a large bar, decorated with pictures of animals in the wild, but the tables were separated by privacy walls, while several expensive—and only semi-legal—ECM generators were operating, making it extremely difficult for anyone to overhear anything. Even the air was tainted with foul-smelling smoke. Gritting his teeth, fighting the instincts that warned him the air was badly contaminated, he walked into the section and sat down. There was no sign of his contact.
