e California border.

Malone had taken a taxi from the airfield, and had supplied himself
with silver dollars there. He gave the cabbie one of them and added
another when the man's expression showed real pain. Still unhappy but
looking a little less like a figure out of the Great Depression, the
cabbie gunned his machine away, leaving Malone standing in the carport
surrounded by suitcases and bags of all sizes and weights.

A robot redcap came gliding along. Inevitably, it was gilded, and
looked absolutely brand new. Behind it, a chunky little man with
bright eyes waved at Malone. "Reserved here?" he said.

"That's right," Malone said. "The name is Malone."

The redcap's escort shrugged. "I don't care if the name is Jack the
Ripper," he said. "Just reservations, that's all I care."

Malone watched the luggage being stowed away, and followed after the
redcap and its escort with mixed feelings. Las Vegas glittered like
mad, but the two inhabitants he had met so far seemed a little dim.
However, he told himself, better things might turn up.

Better things did, almost immediately. In the great lobby of the
Tower, guests were lounging about in little groups. Many of the guests
were dressed in tuxedos, others in sport shirts and slacks. Quite a
number were wearing dresses, skirt-and-blouse combinations or evening
gowns, and Malone paid most of his attention to these.

New York, Washington and even Chicago had nothing to match them, he
thought dazedly. They were magnificent, and almost frightening in
their absolute beauty. Malone however, was not easily daunted. He
followed a snappily-dressed bellman to the registration desk while his
robot purred gently after him. First things first, he thought--but
making friends with the other guests definitely came up number two. Or
three, anyhow, he amended sadly.

He signed his own name to the register, but didn't add: "Federal
Bureau of Investigation" after it. After all, he thought, he was there
unofficially. And even though gambling was perfectly legal in Nevada,
the thought of the FBI still made many of the club owners just the
least little bit nervous. Instead, Malone gave a Chicago firm as his
business address--one which the FBI used as a cover for just such
purposes.

The clerk looked at him politely and blankly. "A room in the Tower,
sir?" he said.

Malone shook his head. "Ground floor," he said. "But not too far from
the Tower. I get airsick easily."

The clerk gav