The girl, who was about twenty-five years old, had a livid mark on her arm. She wore loin cloth and shawl, the usual garb. She was, Pandit observed for the first time, quite pretty.
"Thank you," she said. "I—I'm not sure I like working for the outworlders. But I need the money."
"Don't we all," Pandit told her. "But we're not hired yet. I am Pandit Gandhi Menon."
"Sria Krishna," the girl said, smiling at him. "What sort of work is it?"
"Don't you know, Sria Krishna?"
The girl shook her head and Pandit said: "Actually, I guess I don't know, either. But there are rumors the outworlders want jet-pilots. Not for rocketry. For jets. To fly to the Empty Places."
"The Empty Places? Why?"
Pandit shrugged. "Because they are empty, perhaps. Because they are too dry and too arid to support life. Because Denebian Export can claim whatever it found there, for free export. So go the rumors. But surely you can't pilot a jet."
"Can you?"