"Made this trip often?" Pop tried to strike up a conversation with Kane. His long loneliness seemed sharper, somehow, more poignant, when he actually had someone to talk to.
"Not often. I'm no space pig." It was said with scorn.
"There's a lot to spacing, you know," Pop urged.
Kane shrugged. "I know easier ways to make a buck, old timer."
"Like how?"
"A nosey old man, like I said," Kane smiled. Somehow, the smile wasn't friendly. "Okay, Pop, since you ask. Like knocking off wacky old prospectors for their dust. Or sticking up sandcar caravans out in Syrtis. Who's the wiser? The red dust takes care of the leftovers."
Pop shook his head. "Not for me. There's the Patrol to think of."
Kane laughed. "Punks. Bell-boys. They'd better learn to shoot before they leave their school-books."
Pop Ganlon frowned slightly. "You talk big, mister."
Kane's eyes took on that metallic glitter again. He leaned forward and threw a canvas packet on the console. It spilled crisp new EMV certificates. Large ones. "I take big, too," he said.