LAST NIGHT OUT By LEE GREGOR They shoved through the hate-filled crowds of Terra, looking for a little pleasure, a little entertainment. For tomorrow Ensign Grey and his blue-furred space-mate, Canopus 43C, would go off to war—if tomorrow ever came. [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories September 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] The unfriendly street stretched ahead of them, pouring bitter waves of hostility through their nervous systems. They had ridden the bus from the space-port into town, and now they stood on the pavement soaking up the profusion of sensations which permeated the atmosphere of the brawly town. Joe, his iridescent fur registering a pale blue of distaste and his antennae quivering in a controlled agitation, kept a warm tentacle curled firmly in the hand of Jed Grey. Since his native name was a soundless, telepathic abstraction, the records of the Solarian Fleet labeled him Canopus 647-B-43C. To Ensign Jed Grey, his Terran team-mate, he was Joe. The blue of Grey's Space Fleet uniform matched, for the moment, the evanescent hue of Joe's pelt, as, in a curious manner, the pattern created by Joe's thoughts matched that of Grey. The sky had created a raucous sunset, challenging the lurid glitter of the neon signs which lined the main street of Selby, Texas. The light reflected garishly from the multicolored and multishaped uniforms which swarmed about the thoroughfare. Terrans, scaly-headed Arcturians, spined Sirians, the dark and stocky inhabitants of a strange planet which circled a star whose name to Terran astronomers was only a number in the star catalogue—all of these walked in small groups along the length of the street, seeking a spot where they could relax for the evening and forget where they had been or where they were going. Jed Grey asked Joe, "Where are the rest of your boys?" Joe allowed his perceptual sense to range through the town, his sensitive antennae erect and rigid. Through the murky welter of conflicting thought patterns he sought the familiar, gentle sensation created by the furred Canopans. "It's hard to find them," he transmitted to Grey. "I know they must be in town somewhere. They came
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