galley, and Cahill wagged a forefinger at Farradyne.
"That dame's a blank," he said in a low voice.
"I know. She's not my woman, Cahill."
"Maybe not, but it sure looks like it from a distance. What are you doing with her?"
"Delivering her to her parents in Denver."
"That all?"
Farradyne nodded. "She latched onto me on Ganymede; she's the dame that made the loud announcement of my being a hellflower runner."
"Maybe she'll be right sooner or later. But you get rid of her, see?"
Farradyne nodded vigorously. "That I'll do. She's been hell on high heels to have around the joint."
"Looks like she might be fun."
"She hates my guts."
Cahill nodded. "Probably. They usually end up in a case of anger and violence. Tough."
Norma came back with a tray and set food on the table. They ate in silence, with Norma still giving Cahill the full power of her charm. Cahill seemed to enjoy her advances, although he accepted them with a calloused, self-assured smile. Once dinner was finished, Norma jumped up and began to clear the table. This act annoyed Farradyne because he could not account for it, and the only thing that seemed to fit the case was the possibility that Norma was acting as she did to soften his wariness of her; but she was carrying the thing too far. As she left again, Farradyne turned to Cahill and asked, "How can a man tell a love lotus from a gardenia?"
"That takes experience. You'll learn."
"The thing that stops me," said Farradyne, "is that the Sandmen have been trying to stamp out the things for about forty years and they can't even tell where they come from."
"They'll never find out," said Cahill. "Maybe you won't either."
"But I--"
"Better you shouldn't. Just enjoy living off the edges. It's safer that way."
"Where are we going after we leave Denver?"
"I'm not too sure we're going anywhere."
"But--"
"I'm none too sure of you, Farradyne. You've some holes to fill in."
Cahill lit a cigarette and leaned back, letting the smoke trickle through his nostrils. "I don't mind talking to you this way because it would be your word against mine if you happen to be a Sandman. Some of your tale rings true. The rest sticks, hard."
"For instance?"
"Well, let's suppose you are a Sandman. Humans are a hard-boiled lot, but somehow I can't see killing thirty-three people just to establish a bad reputation. So that tends to clear your book. As to the chance of your laying low for four years until the mess blew over, I might buy that except for the place. A guy who can ultimately turn up with enough oil to grease his way into a reinstated license and a Lancaster Eighty-One 

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