"Or is it maybe?"
"Maybe it's maybe."
"Stop sounding like a parrot. As I heard it that tomato in the bar on Ganymede must have known something. You spent four years as flat on your duff as a musclebound wrestler and then you come bouncing along in a last-year model Lancaster. Since we know damned well that you're no hellblossom runner, where did you get the stack?"
"Thrift and good management."
"Yeah. How'd you do it?"
"I told you."
"Maybe it's a rich uncle?"
"I haven't one. I'm just a capable operator."
"The label is sour, Farradyne."
"Then what do you make of this?" asked Farradyne, handing Cahill his license folder.