"It's a living," Albin said casually, shrugging. Then: "But I'm serious. One good dose of real enjoyment will cure you, friend. One good dose of fun—by which, kiddo, I mean plain ordinary old sex, such as can be had any free evening around here—and you'll stop being depressed and worried. Uncle Albin Cendar's Priceless Old Recipe, kiddo, and don't argue with me: it works."
Dodd said nothing at all. After a few seconds his eyes slowly closed and he sat like a statue in the room.
Albin, watching him, whistled inaudibly under his breath. A minute went by silently. The light in the room began to diminish.
"Sun's going down," Albin offered.
There was no response. Albin got up again and went to the window.
"Maybe you're right," he said with his back to Dodd's still figure. "There ought to be some way of getting people off-planet, people who just don't want to stay here."
"Do you know why there isn't?" Dodd's voice was a shock, stronger than before.
"Sure I know," Albin said. "There's—"
"Slavery," Dodd said. "Oh, sure, maybe somebody knows about it, but it's got to be kept quiet. And if anybody got back—well, look."
"Don't bother me with it." Albin's voice was suddenly less sure.