cored a point. He tossed the space ticket toward the
shoes, closed his bag, and prepared to leave.

"Hey, doc!" The attendant's voice was indignant. "Hey, what about my
reporting fee?"

The doctor stopped. He glanced at the kid, then toward Feldman, his face
a mixture of speculation and dislike. He took a dollar bill from the
wallet. "That's right," he admitted. "The fee for reporting a solvent
case. Medical Lobby rules apply--even to a man who breaks them."

The kid's hand was out, but the doctor dropped the dollar onto Feldman's
cot. "There's your fee, pariah." He left, forcing the protesting
attendant to precede him.

Feldman reached for the bill. It was blood money for letting a man
die--but it meant cigarettes and food--or shelter for another night, if
he could get a mission meal. He no longer could afford pride. Grimly, he
pocketed the bill, staring at the face of the dead man. It looked back
sightlessly, now showing a faint speckling of tiny dots. They caught
Feldman's eyes, and he bent closer. There should be no black dots on the
skin of a man who died of space-stomach. And there should have been
cyanosis....

He swore and bent down to find the wrecks of his shoes. He couldn't
worry about anything now but getting away from here before the attendant
made trouble. His eyes rested on the shoes of the dead man--sturdy boots
that would last for another year. They could do the corpse no good;
someone else would steal them if he didn't. But he hesitated, cursing
himself.

The right boot fitted better than he could have expected, but something
got in the way as he tried to put the left one on. His fingers found the
bronze ticket. He turned it over, considering it. He wasn't ready to
fraud his identity for what he'd heard of life on the spaceships, yet.
But he shoved it into his pocket and finished lacing the boots.

Outside, the snow was still falling, but it had turned to slush, and the
sidewalk was soggy underfoot. There was going to be no work shoveling
snow, he realized. This would melt before the day was over. Feldman
hunched the suitcoat up, shivering as the cold bit into him. The boots
felt good, though; if he'd had socks, they would have been completely
comfortable.

He passed a cheap restaurant, and the smell of the synthetics set his
stomach churning. It had been two days since his last real meal, and the
dollar burned in his pocket. But he had to wait. There was a fair
chance this early that he coul