Presently he found Tolomo and gave him the money. The Ganymedean hissed worriedly.
"Only ten?"
"You'll get the rest later. Gimme a bottle."
"I don't think—"
Garth reached across the bar and seized a quart. "Hereafter I do my drinking out-of-doors," he remarked. "I'll feel cleaner."
"Sfant!" Tolomo flung after him as he headed for the door. Garth's cheeks burned red at the word, which is Ganymedean and untranslatable; but he didn't turn. He stepped out into the muddy street, a cold wind, sulphurous and strong, stinging his nostrils.
He looked around at the collection of plastic native huts. Till the Hunter had arrived, he'd been the only Earthman in Oretown. Now—
He didn't feel like talking to natives. The Tor towered against the purple sky, where three of Jupiter's moons were glowing lanterns. At the base of the Tor was Garth's shack.
Swaying a little, clutching the bottle, he headed in that direction. He had waited five years for this moment. Now, when at last he might find the answer to the problem that had turned him into a derelict, he was afraid.
He went into his hut, switched on the radiolite, and stood staring at a door he had not opened for a long time. With a little sigh he pushed at the latch. The smell of musty rot drifted out.