"I'm Timothy Martin of the Martian Water Commission. I'd like to hire you for a trip to Uranus."

"My name is Charles Farradyne, and maybe we can make a deal. What's the job, Mr. Martin?" Farradyne eyed the room furtively, wondering if the mention of the name would ring any cracked bells among the spacemen. It did not seem to, and Farradyne did not know whether to be gratified at the forgetfulness or depressed at his lack of notoriety.

"Three of us and some instruments," said Martin.

"That's hiking all the way to Uranus empty, you know."

"I know, but this is of the utmost importance. Government business."

"It's up to you; I'll haul you out there on a three-passenger charter, since you probably haven't enough gear to make it a payload. Okay?"

"It's a bit high," Martin grunted, "but this is necessity. Can you be ready for an early morning hop-off?"

"You be there with your gear and we'll hike it at dawn." Farradyne turned to the barkeep and wagged for a refill, then indicated that Martin be served. The government man took real bourbon but Farradyne stuck to his White Star Trail. The two of them clinked glasses and drank, and Farradyne was about to say something when he felt a touch against his elbow. It was the girl in the over-tired cocktail dress. Her glazed eyes were wide and glittering, her face hard and thin-lipped.

"You're Charles Farradyne?" she asked in a flat voice. Beneath a tone of distrust and hatred the voice had what might have been a pleasant throatiness if it had not been strained.

Farradyne nodded.

"Farradyne--of the Semiramide?"

"Yes." He felt a peculiar mixture of gratification and resentment. He had been recognized at last, but it should have come from a better source.

She shut him out by turning to Martin. "Do you know who you've hired?" she asked with the same flatness of tone. Profile-wise, she looked about twenty-three at most. Farradyne wondered how a woman that young could possibly have crammed into the brief years all of the experience that showed in her face.

Martin was fumbling for words. "Why, er--" he said lamely.

"This rum-lushing bum is Charles Farradyne, the hot-rock that dumped his spacer into 

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