The sound of a man working up a great wad of saliva was the first thing that greeted the captain as the young woman stepped inside. Henri Fontaine Delacroix, Del to the few people he considered a friend, was the source of the disgusting sound, and he concluded his effort by spitting on the whet stone in his hand. The tall, wirey Cajun looked up briefly at his captain as he worked the battered bit of black metal against the blade of his knife for the briefest of moments to acknowledge that he'd seen her, then set back to work on his weapon. He looked as disheveled and shabby as ever, just like the day he'd stepped out of Tijuanna and signed on with this crew. He had most of his personnal arrsenal layed out on the table, along with the cleaning kit for all of them. 

"Best keep your eyes open on Ganymede. Wallet outta your back pocket too. Lotsa folk make'a livin' pickin' pockets there when they ain't fishin'." He drawled in that odd accent between English and French that was growing rarer and rarer as the years went on. He tested the edge of his knife with a thumb, then grunted and set it aside, immediately reaching for the revolver to his left and starting to disassemble it. "How long we got anyway?"