"I'm through with Earth. If I could collect—ten thousand?—I'd commit suicide, in a very funny way. I'd go into the Black Forest. The money could get me the men and equipment I'd need, but—well, nobody gets out of the Black Forest alive."
"You did," Captain Brown said.
"Eh? You heard about that?"
"We've heard stories—plenty of them. About how you came out of the Black Forest six years ago, raving with fever and talking in a language nobody could understand. And how you've been taking trips into the Forest ever since. Just what happened? I know you tried to get up expeditions to rescue a man named Willard—he was with you, wasn't he?"
Garth felt again that sick deadness in his brain—the monstrous question that had been tormenting him for five years now. Abruptly he slammed his fist on the table. Tolomo's face appeared behind a curtain and vanished again as Brown waved him back.
"Forget it," Garth said. "Even on Ganymede, men mind their own business—usually."
Brown stroked his cheek with a calloused thumb. "Suit yourself. Here's the set-up, then. It's strictly confidential, or the deal's off. You'll know why later. Anyhow—we want you to guide us into the Black Forest."
Garth's laughter rang harsh and bitter. Brown and the girl watched him with impassive eyes.
"What's so funny about it?" she asked, scowling.