Her eyes were chill calculation.
"Suit yourself ... if you like to live dangerously."
Denver laughed and sat down. "How important are you? Or is it something else? You don't look so deadly. I'll buy you a drink if you like. Or dance, if you're careless about toes."
Her cold shrug stopped him. "Skip it," she snapped. "Buy yourself a drink if you can afford it. Then go."
"What makes you rate a table to yourself? I could go now but I won't. The liquor here's probably poison but who pays for it makes no difference to me. Maybe you'd like to buy me a short snort. Or just snort at me again. On you, it looks good."
The girl gazed at him languorously, puzzled. Then she let go with a laugh which sparkled like audible champagne.
"Good for you," she said eagerly. "You're just a punk, but you have guts. Guts, but what else? Got any money?"
Denver bristled. "Pots of it," he lied, as any other man would. Then, remembering suddenly, "Not with me but I know where to lay hands on plenty of it."
Her eyes calculated. "You're not the goon who came in from the Appenines today? With a wild tale of murder and claim-jumpers and old Martian workings?"
Quick suspicion dulled Denver's appreciation of beauty.