Police Your Planet | Page 5

saw the blade and tried to
check his lunge.
Gordon felt the blade strike; but he was already pulling his swing, and
it only gashed a long streak. The thug shrieked hoarsely and fell over.
That left the way clear to the door; Bruce Gordon was through it and
into the night in two soaring leaps. After only a few days on Mars, his
legs were still hardened to Earth gravity, and he had more than a double
advantage over the others.
Outside, it was the usual Martian night in the poorer section of the
dome, which meant near-darkness. Most of the street lights had never
been installed--graft had eaten up the appropriations, instead--and the
nearest one was around the corner, leaving the side of Fats' Place in the
shadow. Gordon checked his speed, threw himself flat, and rolled back
against the building, just beyond the steps that led to the street.
Feet pounded out of the door above as Fats and the bouncer broke
through. Gordon's hand had already knotted a couple of coins into his
kerchief; he waited until the two turned uncertainly up the street and

tossed it. It struck the wall near the corner, sailed on, and struck again
at the edge of the unpaved street with a muffled sound.
Fats and the other swung, just in time to see a bit of dust where it had
hit. "Around the corner!" Fats yelled. "After him, and shoot!"
In the shadows, Gordon jerked sharply. It was rare enough to have a
gun here; but to use one inside the dome was unthinkable. His eyes shot
up, to where the few dim lights were reflected off the great plastic sheet
that was held up by air pressure and reinforced with heavy webbing. It
was the biggest dome ever built--large enough to cover all of Marsport
before the slums sprawled out beyond it; it still covered half the city,
and made breathing possible here without a helmet. But the dome
wasn't designed to stand stray bullets; and having firearms inside
it--except for a few chosen men--was a crime punishable by death.
Fats had swung back, and was now herding the crowd inside his place.
He might have been only a small gambling-house owner, but within his
own circle his words carried weight.
Gordon got to his hands and knees and began crawling away from the
corner. He came to a dark alley, smelling of decay where garbage had
piled up without being carted away. Beyond lay a lighted street, and a
sign that announced Mooney's Amusement Palace--Drinks Free to
Patrons! He looked up and down the street, then walked briskly toward
the somewhat plusher gambling hall there. Fats couldn't touch him in a
competitor's place.
Inside Mooney's, he headed quickly for the dice table. He lost steadily
on small bets for half an hour, admiring the skilled palming of the
"odds" cubes. The loss was only a tiny dent in his new pile, but Gordon
bemoaned it properly--as if he were broke--and moved over to the bar.
This one had seats. The bartender had a consolation boilermaker
waiting; he gulped half of it before he realized it had been needled with
ether.
Beside him, a cop was drinking the same slowly, watching another
policeman at a Canfield game. He was obviously winning, and now he

got up and came over to cash in his chips.
"You'd think they'd lose count once in a while," he complained to his
companion. "But nope--fifty even a night, no more ... Well, come on,
Pete. We'd better get back to Fats and tell him the swindler got away."
Gordon followed them out and turned south, down the street toward the
edge of the dome and the entrance where he'd parked his airsuit and
helmet. He kept glancing back, whenever he was in the thicker shadows,
but there seemed to be no one following him.
At the gate of the dome, he looked back again, then ducked into the
locker building. He threaded through the maze of the lockers with his
knife ready in his hand, trying not to attract suspicion. At this hour,
though, most of the place was empty. The crowds of foremen and
deliverymen who'd be going in and out through the day were lacking.
He found his suit and helmet and clamped them on quickly, transferring
the knife to its spring sheath outside the suit. He checked the tiny
batteries that were recharged by generators in the soles of the boots
with every step. Then he paid his toll for the opening of the private slit
and went through, into the darkness outside the dome.
Lights bobbed about--police in pairs, patrolling in the better streets,
walking as far from the houses as they could; a few groups, depending
on numbers for safety;