"You've been here nine years, then, by Earth time," he said. He had never met Larrabee, but he remembered the pictures of him that had flashed across space on police bands. Larrabee had been a young man then, dark and proud and handsome.
Larrabee guessed his thought. "I've changed, haven't I?"
Stark said lamely, "Everybody thought you were dead."
Larrabee laughed. After that, for a moment, there was silence. Stark's ears were straining for any sound outside. There was none.
He said abruptly, "What about this trap I'm in?"
"I'll tell you one thing about it," said Larrabee. "There's no way out. I can't help you. I wouldn't if I could, get that straight. But I can't, anyway."
"Thanks," Stark said sourly. "You can at least tell me what goes on."
"Listen," said Larrabee. "I'm a cripple, and an old man, and Shuruun isn't the sweetest place in the Solar System to live. But I do live. I have a wife, a slatternly wench I'll admit, but good enough in her way. You'll notice some little dark-haired brats rolling in the mud. They're mine, too. I have some skill at setting bones and such, and so I can get drunk for nothing as often as I will—which is often. Also, because of this bum leg, I'm perfectly safe. So don't ask me what goes on. I take great pains not to know."
Stark said, "Who are the Lhari?"