? No wonder Gable collected
yesterday, ahead of time. All right, you can look at my books. I've been
paying fifty, but you'll have to wait until Friday."

Gordon nodded and swung on his heel, surprised to find that his stomach
was turning. The man obviously couldn't afford fifty credits a week. But
it was the same all along the street. Even Izzy admitted finally that
they'd have to wait.

"That damned cop before us! He really tapped them! And we can't take
less, so I guess we gotta wait until Friday."

* * * * *

The next day, Bruce Gordon made his first arrest. It was near the end of
his shift, just as darkness was falling and the few lights were going
on. He turned a corner and came to a short, heavy hoodlum backing out of
a small liquor store with a knife in throwing position. The crook
grunted as he started to turn and stumbled onto Gordon. His knife
flashed up.

Without the need to worry about an airsuit, Gordon moved in, his arm
jerking forward. He clipped the crook on the inside of the elbow, while
grabbing the wrist with his other hand. The man went sailing over
Gordon's head, to crash into the side of the building. He let out a
yell.

Gordon rifled the hood's pockets, and located a roll of bills stuffed
in. He dragged them out, before snapping cuffs on the man. Then he
pulled the crook inside the store.

A woman stood there, moaning over a pale man on the floor; blood oozed
from a welt on the back of his head. There was both gratitude and
resentment as she looked up at Gordon.

"You'd better call the hospital," he told her sharply. "He may have a
concussion. I've got the man who held you up."

"Hospital?" Her voice broke into another wail. "And who can afford
hospitals? All week we work, all hours. He's old, he can't handle the
cases. I do that. Me! And then you come, and you get your money. And
_he_ comes for his protection. Papa is sick. Sick, do you hear? He sees
a doctor, he buys medicine. Then Gable comes. This man comes. We can't
pay him! So what do we get--we get knifes in the faces, saps on the
head--a concussion, you tell me! And all the money--the money we had to
pay to get stocks to sell to pay off from the profits we don't make--all
of it, he wants! Hospitals! You think they give away at the hospitals
free?"

She fell to her knees, crying over the injured man.

Gordon tossed the roll of bills onto the floor beside her; the injury
seemed only a scalp woun