"Don't allow us to disturb you," said the man and, waving his companion inside, closed the door. He came stiffly, a little unsteadily, around in front and seated himself in Trev's chair. He was drunk, Gavin realized, drunk as a lord. The girl stood against the wall.
"Not at all, Captain Cabot," said Trev to the newcomer, in a faintly sarcastic voice. "After all it's for your own protection." He patted Gavin's chest, found a small flat dart-gun no larger than a deck of cards. It was secured in a delicate spring clip—strapped beneath his left arm.
"Lethal toy for a legitimate spaceman to be carting around," observed the Martian. "Hand tailored, isn't it?"
When Gavin didn't reply, he added, "He's wearing a plastic dart-proof vest too."
The Captain frowned. "What's the trouble, Trev?"
Trev said, "Mr. Murdock, here, applied for the job as third assistant-engineer on your ship with a forged discharge from United Spaceways. United Spaceways never heard of him."
"Hmmm," said Cabot.
The Martian's long questing fingers continued the search. He discovered Gavin's money belt, unbuckled it, tossed it to the Captain.
"Who do you think he is?" asked Cabot in that faintly blurred voice.
"I don't know," replied Trev. "Take a look in his money belt."