The hand on his shoulder fell away. Someone said, "That's it, Paula! The Ancient Tongue!"
And a girl's voice, doubtful, a little disgusted.
"You're sure? But how in the System did this—this—"
"Bum. Tramp," Garth muttered, peering blearily at the pale ovals of unfocused faces above him. "Don't mind me, sister. Beachcomber is the word—drunk, right now. So please get the hell out and let me finish my bottle."
More water was sluiced on Garth. He shook his head, groaning, and saw Tolomo, the Ganymedean trader, scowling down at him. The native's three-pupiled eyes were angry.
English hissed, oddly accented, on his tongue.
"You wake up, Garth! Hear me? This is a job for you. You owe me too much already. These people come looking for you, say they want a guide. Now you do what they want, and pay me for all that liquor you buy on credit."
"Sure," Garth said wearily. "Tomorrow. Not now."
Tolomo snorted. "I get you native guides, Captain Brown. They know way to Chahnn."
The man's voice said stubbornly, "I don't want natives. I want Ed Garth."