He lay quietly for a few seconds, trembling in Dave's arms, before he could move. "I'm sorry," he said eventually, in a small weak voice.

"What for?" Dave sounded genuinely surprised.

"Well...that can't have been very good for you, can it? I know I didn't last very long..." Dave smiled at him, seeming amused,

"You're sweet. You know that?" he told him. Rimmer wasn't quite sure what to say to that. He rolled off him and took a few deep breaths, trying to recover. Dave rolled onto his side, facing him, "You okay?"

"Okay?" Rimmer laughed, "I've never felt better in my whole life!"

"Well, that's good to know. This job might never be recognised up there with teaching and nursing and what have you, but sometimes it can be surprisingly rewarding."

Rimmer turned over and looked at him for a long time before he spoke again. He was thinking about the photo he'd see in the lobby, where Dave had looked distinctly rounder... and healthier. "How did you wind up here?" he asked quietly. He thought Dave might take offence, but he didn't seem to. "Are you actually asking what a nice boy like me is doing in a place like this?" he said, laughing.

"Well...Yes. I suppose I am."

"It's a long story."

"We've got half an hour."

"Why do you want to know?"

"I just do. I want to know you better."

"Okay."

Dave tucked his arms around a pillow and settled himself more comfortably. "Truth is I got wasted one night in London with my mates, passed out, and when I woke up I was in the burger bar just down the street from here. I don't even know how I got to Mimas. I managed to call my friends back home and tell them where I was – they were all worried sick, they thought I'd been mugged, murdered and dropped in a ditch somewhere – but it didn't do me much good."

"Why not?"

"Do you know how much the fare back to Earth is?"

"No," Rimmer admitted.

"It's eight hundred dollarpounds. And that would only get me as far as the docking port in Houston Texas. After that it's another hundred for the flight back to London and god-knows how much for the shuttle back to Liverpool. You getting the picture?"

"So, you don't have enough money and your friends don't either. At least not enough to get you home."

"Bingo."

"Still," Rimmer said awkwardly, aware that he was in no position to be pointing fingers, "Surely there's a better way for you to be making money than this?"

"Not legally," Dave replied, "I've got no work permit, no ID, no permanent address, nothing. Believe me, this wasn't my first choice. For a while I tried making money by borrowing hoppers from the shuttle port, but it was useless. I must have got mugged about fifty times within the space of a week. Normally hopper drivers can radio each other for back-up, but having nicked one of their carriers I wasn't really able to do that.

'Finally one night I got hijacked and the guy knocked me out. When I woke up I realised he'd dropped me in a part of the city I didn't know and taken the hopper and all the money I'd saved. So basically I was lost and broke and right back to square one. I remember walking around with this thumping concussion trying to work out where I was, and it was getting dark too. And I just gave up. I just sat down in the middle of the street and cried. And then this guy came up to me, really concerned, wanting to know what was wrong, and I told him everything. And he said he could help. He told me I could come and work here for him. Don't get me wrong, I thought it was kind of icky and everything – smeg, I'm not even gay – but at the time...Well, it was just the only way. And it's not so bad here," he added defensively, "I have a roof over my head which is more than a lot of people can say. And I'm getting paid."

"When will you have enough to get home?" Rimmer asked. Dave shifted uncomfortably, "Eventually."

"Meaning?"

"Well...I make about ten bucks an hour. And depending on how much I'm wanted, I can make seventy to a hundred each month." Rimmer decided not to mention that he'd paid fifty for the two hours with him tonight.

"So how much have you saved so far?"

"Well...I have to pay for room and board. And they like us to have new clothes now and then so we look good for the clients..."

"How much?"

"Forty bucks," Dave admitted with a hint of resentment.

"And how long have you been here?"

"Three months."

Rimmer sighed. Dave, like millions of other young men and women since civilisation began, had fallen into the trap. They took the offer because they were desperate for money – for food or a place to stay, or just to feed a drug habit – and so they accepted the spiel they were given. Hey, it's a great job! You'll earn loads of money, you'll make loads of new friends! And it's only 'til you're back on your feet, right? You can walk away anytime...

Only you couldn't. Because somehow you never saw all that money you'd earned. Suddenly you were working for your keep and you couldn't walk away because you had nowhere else to go. And, as Dave said, at least you had food and a roof over your head; and more than a few of them would remember all too well what it was like not to have that. So you stayed and you worked as hard as you could, because then surely someday you'd have saved enough to get out of here...Right?

Only for most of them that day never came. More often than not the pimps pushed drugs on you, so you were dependant on them for your next fix. And even if you escaped that, after a while this job took its toll on you. It didn't take long before you were too old, or too used up for the clients. The money you were making tapered off because the punters wanted new flesh. And once that day came when you'd outlived your usefulness, you were out on the streets; chewed up and spat out. And all your savings were probably just enough to keep you alive for maybe a week before you starved or froze – and that's if you didn't blow it all in one go on one desperate fix and end up dead of an OD in an alley somewhere.

Rimmer looked at Dave, at his bright hopeful eyes and already thinning face, and felt something deep in his chest start to hurt. He didn't want that to happen to him. He really didn't. "I wish there was something I could do for you," he said, almost to himself, racking his brains for a way he could help. Dave smiled at him,

"You already did. You picked me tonight."

"I mean something else."

"Well, no offence, man; but you don't look like the kind of dude who can spare a thousand dollarpounds. Which means there's not a lot you can do for me."

There was a bang at the door and Dave sighed, "Time's up. You better get out of here." Rimmer stood up and started to pull his clothes on,

"I want to see you again."

"You know where I am," Dave told him, "I think we've established that I'm not going anywhere for a while."

"Is that okay?" Rimmer asked, "If I come back and see you?"

"Well...Of course you can," Dave rather felt he'd forgotten what the situation was here; why he'd come here in the first place, "I mean, if you've got the money it's not really like I could stop you."

"Oh. Yes, of course." Rimmer went to the door but paused before leaving. He turned back to face Dave, who was still sitting on the bed, watching him. "What's your name? Your last name, I mean?"

"Why?"

"So I can try and help you," Rimmer said simply. Dave smiled at him, almost pityingly. He obviously didn't hold out much hope. Nevertheless...

"It's Lister," he told him, "Dave Lister."

Rimmer nodded. Somewhere deep inside, that felt right too. "I'll think of something," he promised. Dave, for all his smiles, didn't look like he believed him.