"I ain't," said Farradyne, drinking with Cahill.
"Stop sounding like a parrot. The 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. So since we know damned well that you're no hellblossom runner, where did you get the stack?"
"Thrift and good management."
"Maybe it's a rich uncle?"
"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.
"It looks nice and legal, but it's as phony as a ten-cent diamond and both of us know it. So how did you get it—and the Lancaster to go along with it?"
Farradyne sipped his drink. "Look, Cahill, it just happens that I don't care to tell. This is a gentler version of the old bark, 'None of your blank business!' which I've always considered rude and which has started a lot of fights. But the fact remains that I am not telling."
"It might make a difference if you did."