He frowned. "Yeah, I heard of it. I also heard Earthmen don't win very often."
"I won," Farrell told him. "Five thousand. I spent most of it but I saved the thousand to go back to Earth. If you don't kill me, I'll win five thousand for you."
His adversary grinned wryly and lowered the knife toward Farrell's throat. "This sounds like a trick."
"Trick? How can I trick you? Dankor is off limits to Earthmen. You and I will be the only—"
The man cocked his head and asked, "You have any Martian friends in Dankor?"
Farrell laughed at the thought, "Martian friends?"
Some of the wariness left the other's face.
Everyone knew no Earthman had a Martian friend. The Martians were a fading but proud race. They resented Earthmen and submitted bitterly to their presence. Martians did not associate with Earthmen. To do so would mean loss of social standing and almost always loss of their lives by the hand of some fanatical anti-Earth group.
Martians submitted to the invasion of their planet by colonists because they had no choice: they were few in number, a weak, dying race. Inwardly, they hated Earthmen and, given the chance, would rid Mars of all colonists.
While his antagonist considered the offer, Farrell's mind whirled rapidly. How could he escape? His body was trapped beneath the man's weight, unable to move. Call for help? He quickly discarded the idea: on one side was a Martian city and on the other was the spaceport. The group of crude stone buildings were inhabited by aliens. Martians might come and watch him die if he called for help but they'd never try to save him. The spaceport was deserted except for the empty, waiting spaceships and the office buildings were too far away for anyone to hear a cry.