Conspiracy on Callisto

Revolt was flaring on Callisto, and Peter Duane held the secret that would make the uprising a success or failure. Yet he could make no move, could favor no side—his memory was gone—he didn't know for whom he fought.
Duane's hand flicked to his waist and hung there, poised. His dis-gun remained undrawn.
The tall, white-haired man—Stevens—smiled.
You're right, Duane, he said. I could blast you, too. Nobody would win that way, so let's leave the guns where they are.
The muscles twitched in Peter Duane's cheeks, but his voice, when it came, was controlled. Don't think we're going to let this go, he said. We'll take it up with Andrias tonight. We'll see whether you can cut me out!
The white-haired man's smile faded. He stepped forward, one hand bracing him against the thrust of the rocket engines underneath, holding to the guide rail at the side of the ship's corridor.
He said, Duane, Andrias is your boss, not mine. I'm a free lance; I work for myself. When we land on Callisto tonight I'll be with you when you turn our—shall I say, our cargo ?—over to him. And I'll collect my fair share of the proceeds. That's as far as it goes. I take no orders from him.
A heavy-set man in blue appeared at the end of the connecting corridor. He was moving fast, but stopped short when he saw the two men.
Hey! he said. Change of course—get to your cabins. He seemed about to walk up to them, then reconsidered and hurried off. Neither man paid any attention.
Duane said, Do I have to kill you? It was only a question as he asked it, without threatening.
A muted alarm bell sounded through the P.A. speakers, signaling a one-minute warning. The white-haired man cocked his eyebrow.
Not at all, he said. He took the measure of his slim, red-headed opponent. Taller, heavier, older, he was still no more uncompromisingly belligerent than Duane, standing there. Not at all, he repeated. Just take your ten thousand and let it go at that. Don't make trouble. Leave Andrias out of our private argument.