Denver began a long bill of particulars against Big Ed Caltis of Crystal City. He omitted little, though some of it was mere scandalous gossip with which solo-prospectors who had been the objects of a squeeze-play consoled themselves and took revenge upon their tormentor from safe distance. Denver paused once, briefly, to re-assess and recapture the delight he took in gazing at Darbor's beauty seated opposite. Then he resumed his account of the life and times of Big Ed, an improvised essay into the folly and stupidity of untamed greed which ended upon a sustained note of vituperation. Big Ed smiled with sardonic amusement. He was in his late forties, running a bit to blubber, but still looked strong and capable. He waited until Tod Denver ran down, waited and smiled patiently. "If you've finished," he said. "I should compliment you on the completeness of the picture you paint of me. When I need a biographer, I'll call on you. Just now I have another business proposition. I understand you know the location of some ancient Martian mine-workings. You need a partner. I'm proposing myself." Denver paled. "I have a partner," he said, nodding toward the girl. Big Ed smiled thinly. "That's settled then. Her being your partner makes it easy. What she has is mine. I bought her. She works for me and everything she has is mine." Darbor's eyes held curious despair. But hatred boiled up in her. "Not altogether," she corrected him evenly. "You never got what you wanted most--me! And you never will. I just resigned. Get yourself another dummy." But Ed stood up. "Very good. Maudlin but magnificent. Let me offer my congratulations to both of you. But you're mistaken. I'll get everything I want. I always do. I'm not through with either of you." Darbor ignored him. "Dance?" she asked Denver. He rose and gallantly helped her from her chair. Big Ed Caltis, after a black look, vanished toward the offices and gambling rooms upstairs. He paused once and glanced back. Denver laughed suddenly. Darbor studied him and caught the echo of her own fear in his eyes. He mustered a hard core of courage in himself, but it required distinct effort. "When I was a kid I liked to swing on fence-gates. Once, the hinges broke. I skinned my knee." Her body was trembling. Some of it got into her voice. "It could happen again." He met the challenge of her. She was bright steel, drawn to repel lurking enemies. "I have another knee," he said, grinning. "But yours are too nice to bark up. Where's the back door?" The music was Venusian, a swaying, sensuous thing of weirdest melodies and off-beat rhythms. Plucked and bowed strings blended with wailing flutes and an exotic tympany to produce music formed of passion and movement. Tod Denver and Darbor threaded their way through stiffly-paired swaying couples toward the invisible door at the rear.