"We'll leave at sunfall," the pilot said. "Before the moons lift."
Gunnison stowed his equipment. He checked his dehydrates and chemical nutrients carefully. They would constitute his sole food supply for six months. He also inspected the other vital units of his equipment.
Then he went to the port restaurant and stowed away a meal of vast proportions. He ate with gusto, with grim pleasure, savoring the food, making the meal a sort of farewell symbol; a farewell to his eternally evil luck.
He drank heavily, but when he left the restaurant and went back to the ship he walked erect and his hands were rock-steady. Gunnison had one requirement of a true adventurer. He could hold his liquor.
But in another need of the soldier of fortune, he was sadly lacking. He was not a man of good luck. All his life he had pursued wealth across the System and beyond without a single smile from fortune's gods.
Gunnison had certainly done his part. He was shrewd, daring, ruthless, if the need arose. He was clever and tireless, ever seeking out coups and strikes. But his coups never quite came off. And someone always beat him to the strikes. Once on Pluto he arrived at a diamond field well in advance of the pack but the Johnny-come-latelies walked away with fortunes while Gunnison grubbed doggedly on his barren claim.
So now he had spent his years and had but a handful of time left for a last try. A shot at the Ghanati, and no try could have been more desperate than this because failure meant death under the new laws.
Gunnison waited at the ship. The pilot arrived, wiping the last of an evening meal off his mouth with the back of his hand. The pilot grinned.
"Still set on going?"
Gunnison smiled coldly. "If I've changed my mind can I get my money back?"