tever your
reasons, you'll be useful. Take those two and give them some lessons,
while I do the same with these."

For a second, Gordon cursed himself. Murdoch had fixed it so he'd be a
squad leader, and that meant he'd be unable to step out of line. At
double standard pay, with normal Mars expenses, he might be able to pay
for passage back to Earth in three years--if Security let him.
Otherwise, it would take thirty.

He began wondering about Security, then. Nobody had tried to get in
touch with him. Were they waiting for him to get up on a soapbox?

There was a crude lighting system here, put up by the citizens. At the
front of each building, a dim phosphor bulb glowed; when darkness fell,
they would have nothing else to see by.

Murdoch bunched them together. "A good clubbing beats hanging," he told
them. "But it has to be _good_. Go in for business, and don't stop just
because the other guy quits. Give them hell!"

Moving in two groups of threes, at opposite sides of the street, they
began their beat. They were covering an area of six blocks one way, and
two the other.

They had traveled the six blocks and were turning down a side street
when they found their first case; it was still daylight. Two of the
Stonewall boys were working over a tall man in a newer airsuit. As the
police swung around, one of the thugs casually ripped the airsuit open.

A thin screech like a whistle came from Murdoch's Marspeaker, and the
captain went forward, with Gordon at his heels. The hoodlums tossed the
man aside easily, and let out a yell. From the buildings around, an
assortment of toughs came at the double, swinging knives, picks, and
bludgeons.

There was no chance to save the citizen, who was dying from lack of air.
Gordon felt the solid pleasure of the finely turned club in his hands.
It was light enough for speed, but heavy enough to break bones where it
hit. A skilled man could knock a knife, or even a heavy club, out of
another's hand with a single flick of the wrist. And he'd had practice.

He saw Murdoch's club dart in and take out two of the gang, one on the
forward swing, one on the recover. Gordon's eyes popped at that. The man
was totally unlike a Martian captain, and a knot of homesickness for
Earth ran through his stomach.

He swallowed the sentiment; his own club was moving now. Standing beside
Murdoch, they were moving forward. The other four cops had come in
reluctantly.

"Knock them out and kick them