The florid color crept back into Bemmelman's gross features. "You may go, Sofi. I want a word with the Renegade."
Sofi shot him a child-like pouting glance, but retreated obediently from the room, drawing the door shut behind her.
The lean young man in the hood watched, weighing his chances. He didn't say anything.
"You're surprised, eh, that I don't turn you in to the Security Patrol?" Bemmelman began. "They'd like to get their hands on the Renegade, they would. But the fact is I want you more than they do. Yes sir, this is a piece of luck for me. I've been trying to contact you for months."
The hooded man said dryly: "I'm listening," and allowed his hands to sink to his side.
"Put your hands back on your head!" Bemmelman's voice registered alarm. "No tricks. I can use you, lad, but no tricks." He glared speculatively at the Renegade, added: "Yes sir, that I can. And now, if you'll take off that hood we'll get down to business."
"If it's business, I'll keep the hood on."
"No sir," the planter blustered. "Off with the hood or I shoot. When I do business with a man, I like to know who he is."
The hooded man's green eyes were reckless. The law on Venus was harsh, implacable. There were no pardons. The disintegration chamber at Venusport yawned for him inexorably.