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 mom