Don Mathers fingered through his wallet, brought forth his I.D. card.
Rostoff handed him his tequila, took the card and examined it carefully,
front and back.
Demming huffed and said, "Your collar insignia tells me you pilot a
Scout. What sector do you patrol, Lieutenant?"
Don sipped at the fiery Mexican drink, looked at the fat man over the
glass. "That's military information, Mr. Demming."
* * * * *
Demming made a move with his plump lips. "Did Scotty give you a
thousand-unit note?" He didn't wait for an answer. "You took it. Either
give it back or tell me what sector you patrol, Lieutenant."
Don Mathers was aware of the fact that a man of Demming's position
wouldn't have to go to overmuch effort to acquire such information,
anyway. It wasn't of particular importance.