me without expression.

"Na, in de money I am not. Dere are too many chiselers in business. Just
when I t'ink I haf a goot t'ing, I am shwindeled. It is too bad." He
snorted through his ugly snout, making the Venusian equivalent of a
sigh. I knew there was a story waiting behind that warty skin, but I was
not sure I wanted to hear it. For the next round of drinks would be on
me, and _shchikh_ was a hundred and fifty credits a shot. Still, a man
on a Moon assignment has to amuse himself somehow.

So I said, "What's the latest episode in the Dworken soap opera? What is
the merchandise this time? Gems? Pet Mercurian fire-insects? A new
supply of _danghaana_?"

"I do not smuggle drugs, dat is a base lie," replied my friend stolidly.
He knew, of course, that I still suspected him to be the source of the
last load of that potent narcotic, although I had no more proof than did
the Planetary Bureau of Investigation.

He took a long pull at his drink before he spoke again. "But Dworken is
never down for long. Dis time it is show business. You remember, how I
haf always been by de t'eater so fascinated? Well, I decided to open a
show here in Luna City. T'ink of all the travelers, bored stiff by space
and de emptiness thereof, who pass through here during the season. Even
if only half of them go to my show, it cannot fail."

I waited for some mention of free tickets, but none was made. I was
about as anxious to see Dworken's show as I was to walk barefoot across
the Mare Imbrium, but I asked with what enthusiasm I could force,

"What sort of act are you putting on? Girls?" I shuddered as I recalled
the pathetic shop-worn chorus girls that Sam Low had tried to pass off
last year on the gullible tourists of the spaceways. That show had
lasted ten nights--nine more than it deserved to. There are limits, even
to the gullibility of Earth-lubbers.

"Yes, girls," replied Dworken. "But not what you are perhaps t'inking.
Martian girls."

* * * * *

This was more interesting. Even if the girls were now a little too old
for the stage in the Martian capital, they would still get loud cheers
on the Moon. I knew. I started to say so, but Dworken interrupted.

"And not de miserable girls dey buy from de slave traders in Behastin.
Dese girls I collected myself, from de country along de Upper Canal."

I repressed my impulse to show my curiosity. It could all be perfectly
true--and if it were not the openi