Sparks in Cosmic Dust by Robert Appleton

Holmes—suspecting every shape in the sky, figuring out new places or new ways to hide their earnings. It all takes its toll.
    “Then we’re talking alien atmospheres, unpredictable weather, different lengths of day and night. Either no sex or grudge sex for half a year, maybe more. A married couple might sound like a good idea—you know, for stability—but I’ve never yet known one that came out smelling of roses. It’s the gold, the lust in the luster. You get funny ideas when your mind’s bent on the swing of your pick. It’s addictive, like the turn of a card, only a thousand times more potent because there’s no banker or croupier or casino fat-cat between your axe and the honey pot. The harder you work, the richer you get. Catnip for any living thing with a pulse, I’m telling you. Wild dogs couldn’t drag you away from a rich vein of psammeticum. I can vouch for that.”
    “Sounds like you struck it rich, old timer.” The young vamp’s eyes glittered wider than the elderly woman’s. “What are you doing in here with the rest of us, a grid-licker?”
    “Good question. But that’s my story, Maleficent. You go fuck up your own life, come tell me about it someday. Looks of it, you’ve already hit the ground running.”
    “Easy.” The girl chuckled. “We were just curious, that’s all. Some gobshites in here the other night were talking about deep-space prospecting, a snatch and grab before they’re forced to up sticks for good.”
    “Hmm, they might strike. Can’t blame them for trying. I’d go in a second if a spot opened up. Three or four semi-gobshites with a time limit…dig like blazes and bounce back to port…could do well. And if they augured in, least they’d be doing it on their own terms, not waiting for ISPA to whisper the big adios. ”
    Picturing Solomon swinging a pick, and the piles of gold mounting all around them, pricked Varinia’s sluggish mind into gear. “How much would they need?” She slapped a hand over her mouth and couldn’t believe she’d said that out loud.
    “You again?” The old woman sprang up, reached to the floor at the head of her bed and retrieved a flask. She looked at Varinia before pouring her a cup of something black and tepid. “Here. Get some McCormick’s down you.” She handed the cup over and then took a swig directly from the flask. “How much would they need? Depends on how far they’re going. Why?”
    “Just curious.”
    “Ha. That’s exactly what my two friends here keep saying. Don’t stand on ceremony, chick. Speak your mind, by all means.”
    Solomon leaned over Varinia’s shoulder, draped a blanket over her. “What are you folks selling?”
    “The stuff that sells itself, sunshine.” The old woman belched into the side of her fist. “Where are you two headed?”
    “We’re still figuring that out.” Solomon kept the conversation light, and Varinia appreciated his tact. There was something infectious about the old woman’s honesty. Her prospecting stories, doom-laden though they were, smacked of reality and enthusiasm, a difficult combination to achieve in this grim day and age.
    “Grace Peters.” The old woman approached them with a canny smirk and shook their hands. Then she pointed behind her. “This is Clay and…what was your name, Maleficent? Lemon? Liffy?”
    “ Lyssa. ”
    “Sorry, chick. Lyssa.”
    Varinia didn’t want to come across as too ingratiating. After all, she didn’t know anything about them. “I’m Dixie. This is Solomon.”
    “So you’re interested in prospecting, eh?” Grace tested all four of them at once, rubbing her neck. “But you’re reluctant to reveal too much about yourselves? You each have a little something stashed away, only it isn’t enough to make a hundred zee, and you’re intrigued by the verisimilitude in my yarn-spinning?”
    “Say what?” Lyssa frowned.
    “Verisimilitude—reality in the details.” Clay’s long yawn reminded Varinia how long she’d gone without