Police Your Planet | Page 4

were churning so busily that he didn't see the blonde girl
until she had forced her way past them on the stairs. Then he turned
back, but she had vanished into one of the rooms.
Chapter II
HONEST IZZY
A lot could be done in ten days, when a man knew what he was after. It
was exactly ten days later. Bruce Gordon stood in the motley crowd
inside the barnlike room where Fats ran a bar along one wall, and filled
the rest of the space with assorted tables--all worn. Gordon was
sweating slightly as he stood at the roulette table, where both zero and
double-zero were reserved for the house.
The croupier was a little wizened man wanted on Earth. His eyes darted
down to the point of the knife that showed under Gordon's sleeve, and
he licked his lips, showing snaggled teeth. The wheel hesitated and
came to a halt, with the ball trembling in a pocket.
"Twenty-one wins again." He pushed chips toward Gordon, as if every
one of them came out of his own pay. "Place your bets."
Two others around the table watched narrowly as Gordon left his chips
where they were; they then exchanged looks and shook their heads. In a
Martian roulette game, numbers with that much riding just didn't turn
up. The croupier shifted his weight, then caught the wheel and spun it
savagely.
Gordon's leg ached from his strained position, but he shifted his weight
onto it more heavily, and sweat popped out on the croupier's face. His
eyes darted down, to where the full weight of Gordon seemed to rest on
the heel that was grinding into his instep. He tried to pull his foot off

the button that was concealed in the floor.
The heel ground harder, bringing a groan from him. And the ball
hovered over Twenty-one and came to rest there once more.
Slowly, painfully, the little man counted stacks of chips and moved
them across the table toward Gordon, his hands trembling.
Gordon straightened from his awkward position, drawing his foot back,
and reached out for the pile of chips. Then he scooped it up and nodded.
"Okay. I'm not greedy."
The strain of watching the games until he could spot the fix, and then
holding the croupier down, had left him momentarily weak, but Gordon
could still feel the tensing of the crowd. Now he let his eyes run over
them--the night citizens of Marsport, lower-dome section. Spacemen
who'd missed their ships; men who'd come here with dreams, and
stayed without them--the shopkeepers who couldn't meet their graft and
were here to try to win it on a last chance; street women and petty
grifters. The air was thick with their unwashed bodies--all Mars
smelled, since water was still too rare for frequent bathing--and their
cheap perfume, and clouded with cheap Marsweed cigarettes.
Gordon swung where their eyes pointed, until he saw Fats Eller sidling
through the groups, then let the knife slip into the palm of his hand as
the crowd seemed to hold its breath. Fats plucked a sheaf of Martian
bank notes from his pocket and tossed them to the croupier.
"Cash in his chips." Then his pouchy eyes turned to Gordon. "Get your
money, punk, and get out! And stay out!"
For a moment, as he began pocketing the bills, Gordon thought he was
going to get away that easily. Fats watched him dourly, then swung on
his heel, just as a shrill, strangled cry went up from someone in the
crowd.
The deportee let his glance jerk to it, then froze. His eyes caught the
sight of a hand pointing behind him, and he knew it was too crude a

trick to bother with. But he paused, shocked to see the girl he'd seen on
Mother Corey's stairs gazing at him in well-feigned warning. In spite of
his better judgment, she caught his eyes and drew them down over
curves and swells that would always be right for arousing a man's
passion.
He glanced back at Fats, who had started to turn again. Gordon took a
step backwards, preparing to duck. Again the girl's finger motioned
behind him; he disregarded it--and then realized it was a mistake.
It was the faintest swish in the air that caught his ear; he brought his
shoulders up and his head down. Fast as his reaction was, it was almost
too late. The weapon crunched against his shoulder and slammed over
the back of his neck, almost knocking him out.
His heel lashed back and caught the shin of the man behind him.
Gordon's other leg spun him around, still crouching; the knife in his
hand started coming up, sharp edge leading, and aimed for the belly of
the bruiser who confronted him. The pug