"People from here to Mars and back," Latham rasped, "are always telling me they knew my father! I'm sick of hearing about it! All I want to know, do you buy this Josmian or not?"
"I may make you another deal. Suppose I give you the thousand credits. But if I do, you don't go to Callisto."
"Where, then?" Latham's brain was throbbing, seeking out the gimmick. There must be a gimmick.
Penger glanced at a tall, angular man who had stayed in the background. A silent signal passed between them.
"They need a chart man at Asteroid Station Three. The work is not hard but it's a thankless, monotonous existence. You're alone on an anchored world a half-mile in diameter. You sign on for three years, and there you stay. You have every need within reason, including technical library and one-way radio. A government ship brings supplies once a year, and they don't include tsith."
Penger paused and peered at Latham, whose face had gone pale beneath the growth of beard. "Your task would be to chart the thousands of rogue asteroids that cause havoc in the spacelanes every year. I understand you once knew ray-screens, co-ordinates and parabolics. You could brush up."
"It seems ... you know a lot about me!" Latham's voice was frightened. It didn't want to leave his throat. He was staring at the glittering blue tsith behind Penger.
Penger motioned to the tall, angular man with the bright eyes. The man stepped to the bar.
"This is George Elston of Interplanet Commerce. He's been looking for months for the right man. Frankly, I don't think it's you"—Latham felt the impact of Penger's scorn—"but he has a cruiser outside, and he can up gravs within half an hour in case you are interested."
"I'm not—" Latham continued to stare at the glittering blue flagon just out of reach.