The man was on him, pinning him to the sand.

Farrell's nostrils were filled with the man's acrid body odor.

A knife glittered in the starlight as it was pressed gently against his throat.

"Tell me where the money is," the man ordered. "It'll save time."

Too stunned to speak, Farrell nodded at his coat pocket.

The man removed the money and counted rapidly, somehow managing to keep the knife in his hand while he flipped the bills.

Satisfied, he stuffed the bills in a pocket and raised the knife for a fatal lunge.

His arms pinned at his sides by the man's knees, Farrell knew only one thing could save him: WORDS.

"I can get you five times that much," he said quickly, the words crowding each other in their haste.

It worked: the knife wavered, hesitated. If he had screamed, "Don't kill me!" he would have been killed instantly but the simple statement had aroused his assailant's curiosity.

"Five times that much?" the man repeated gruffly.

Phobos, the largest and closest of the two moons, moved visibly across the dark sky. Suddenly, they were no longer in the shadow of a building. Moonlight flowed across the man's face and for the first time, he saw his features.

He looked up at a rough, almost brutal face with thick lips, fierce eyes, blunt, broken nose and bushy eyebrows.

"Five thousand dollars," Farrell confirmed.

"Where?"

"Dankor city. You've heard of a Martian game called rhakal?"

He frowned. "Yeah, I heard of it. I also heard Earthmen don't win very often."

"I won," Farrell told him. "Five thousand. I spent most of it but I saved the thousand to go back to Earth. If you don't kill me, I'll win five thousand for you."

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