"I'd give half that quarter million," Neilson groaned, across the darkness, "for a cigarette."
"You mean," corrected Gram Treb, "half your ten thousand."
"It's the winner's grant or nothing, Treb. I promised Jane I'd hand it to her. Then we'll marry."
"But not if you are the loser?"
"I wouldn't—she wouldn't—it's impossible to think of asking her to share poverty and disgrace."
"I'd hardly say that. We lost our first war here on the Satellite. Baryt was obligated to cede a thousand square miles to Tarrance. Most of my ten thousand paid off my family's debts.
"Yet I married. I married Nal who had nursed me back to health. And we were happy. Until the second war with Duristan. I wanted money for her—for the children—for my impoverished valley."
Treb broke off. He backed away several feet and shifted noiselessly to a new position. Every night, and sometimes in the artificial sunlight, they talked together. But they never forgot that they were sworn foes.
"So you won it didn't you?" From his voice Neilson had shifted closer and to the left.
"Sure. And I wish I were as poor as before. For Nal was kicked to death—by the horse I should have been using—while I fought here."