"If you—"
"You wouldn't understand kid. Well, let's go back to camp."
"The trophy—" Gilbert began.
"Forget about the trophy, damnit!"
Gilbert followed Mulveen in silence to camp. The beaters and camp-boys had the evening meal prepared. The sun went down over the swamplands. Gilbert ate alone. He was a cut above the beaters and camp-boys, who had willingly surrendered their civilized birthright, but he was several cuts above the hunter from the Sirian System.
Mulveen drank heavily after dinner. Gilbert watched, not caring. Of course, that might make it dangerous when they hunted tomorrow: Mulveen's reflexes might be slower. Well, it had happened before.
"Boy!" Mulveen shouted, his voice thick with alcohol.
Gilbert trotted up obediently. "Sir?"
Mulveen smiled at him. "How would you like to earn five thousand credits?"