t you a long time here."

So that was the devil's plan! Latham felt a cold sickness come over
him. He was sick from his wounds, sick from exhaustion, sick for the
desperate need of tsith. He found himself saying, "One drink right
now! And eight hundred credits--"

"No drinks. Not until we make the deal. One thousand glasses of tsith,
and that's my final offer."

Latham stared about him. Any spaceman here would offer five times a
thousand credits for such a gem! But they sensed that this was private
between him and Penger, and no man dared go against Penger here at
Venusport. They watched the tableau in silence.

"I've got to get to Callisto!" Latham cried wretchedly, fighting back
the sickness. "Here--it's yours--just one drink now, and enough
credits for passage!"

"Why Callisto?" Penger's voice was mocking. "So you make another
strike there, and it all ends with tsith anyway!" He reached beneath
the bar, brought out a crystal flagon of tsith. For a moment he held
the sparkling blue liquid to the light, then placed it on the shelf
behind him.

"Damn you!" Latham tried to leap forward, but almost collapsed as
waves of nausea shook him.

"So. You see what I mean? In another year you'll be dead anyway, so
what does it matter?" Penger leaned forward, smiling thinly.
"Earthman, what did you say your name was? Joel Latham, wasn't it?"

Latham swayed and clutched at the bar. He glared at the man, wondering
what diabolical scheme he was planning now.

* * * * *

Penger's eyes bored into him. "Joel Latham, I knew your father years
ago before he died on Mars. He was a fine man. A man of courage. I
wonder what Carl Latham would say now if he could see his son--"

"People from here to Mars and back," Latham rasped, "are always
telling me they knew my father! I'm sick of hearing about it! All I
want to know, do you buy this Josmian or not?"

"I may make you another deal. Suppose I give you the thousand credits.
But if I do, you don't go to Callisto."

"Where, then?" Latham's brain was throbbing, seeking out the gimmick.
There must be a gimmick.

Penger glanced at a tall, angular man who had stayed in the
background. A silent signal passed between them.

"They need a chart man at Asteroid Station Three. The work is not hard
but it's a thankless, monotonous existence. You're alone on an
anchored world a half-mile in diameter. You sign on for three years,
and there you stay. You have