"Farradyne—of the Semiramide?"
"Yes." He felt a peculiar mixture of gratification and resentment. He had been recognized at last, but it should have come from a better source.
She shut him out by turning to Martin. "Do you know who you've hired?" she asked with the same flatness of tone. Profile-wise, she looked about twenty-three at most. Farradyne wondered how a woman that young could possibly have crammed into the brief years all of the experience that showed in her face.
Martin was fumbling for words. "Why, er—" he said lamely.
"This rum-lushing bum is Charles Farradyne, the hot-rock that dumped his spacer into The Bog."
"Is this true?" demanded Martin of Farradyne.
"I did have an accident there," said Farradyne. "But—"
The woman sneered. "Accident, you call it. Sorry, aren't you? Reeking with remorse. But not so grief-stricken that you'll not take this man out and kill him the way you killed my brother."
Farradyne grunted. "I don't know you from Mother Machree. I've had my trouble and I don't like it any more than you do."