Cassal swerved back from the edge of the water. Murra Foray had been right. Godolphians didn't want or need his skills, at least not on terms that were acceptable to him. The natives didn't have to exert themselves. They lived off the income provided by travelers, with which the planet was abundantly supplied by ship after ship.
Still, that didn't alter his need for money. He walked the streets at random while Dimanche probed.
"Ah!"
"What is it?"
"That man. He crinkles something in his hands. Not enough, he is subvocalizing."
"I know how he feels," commented Cassal.
"Now his throat tightens. He bunches his muscles. 'I know where I can get more,' he tells himself. He is going there."
"A sensible man," declared Cassal. "Follow him."
Boldly the man headed toward a section of the city which Cassal had not previously entered. He believed opportunity lay there. Not for everyone. The shrewd, observant, and the courageous could succeed if—The word that the quarry used was a slang term, unfamiliar to either Cassal or Dimanche. It didn't matter as long as it led to money.
Cassal stretched his stride and managed to keep the man in sight. He skipped nimbly over the narrow walkways that curved through the great buildings. The section grew dingier as they proceeded. Not slums; not the show-place city frequented by travelers, either.