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