The shock of that was more effective than cold water had been. Garth jerked back, for the first time looking at his companions. There were two of them—a man and a girl, their neat tropical outfits looking out of a place in this grimy dive. The man was thin and bronzed, looking as though all the moisture had been boiled out of him by hot suns. He was made of tough leather, Garth thought. His face was the most expressionless one Garth had ever seen—pale, shallow eyes, a rat-trap mouth, and the general air of a tiger taking it easy.
The girl ... sudden sick pain struck through Garth. She looked like Moira. For an incredible moment he thought, with his liquor-dulled mind, that she had come back. But Moira was dead—had been, for nearly five years now.
Five years of living death—hitting the skids on Ganymede, where men go down fast. Garth's ravaged face hardened. He forced himself to look squarely at the girl.
She wasn't Moira, after all. She had the same look of sleek, clean femininity, but her hair was golden-red instead of brown, and her eyes were greenish, not blue. The softness in her face was belied by the stubborn, rounded chin.
"Ten thousand?" Garth repeated softly. "I don't get the picture. Any native could take you to Chahnn."
The girl said, "We know that. We're interested in—something else. Could you use ten grand?"
"Yeah! Yeah, I could," Garth said.
"What would you do with it? Go back to Earth? We might swing it so you could get a job there. There's been a shortage of men ever since the Silver Plague started."
Garth laid his fingers gently around the glass and squeezed, till the transparent plastic was bent out of shape. He didn't look at the girl.