do with the prisoners?"

"Leave 'em; we couldn't get a Croopster locked up tonight for anything."

He started ahead, leading the way through the remaining trucks and back
to the street that led to Mother Corey's. Murdoch fell in step with him.
"This is the first time I've had to look you up," he said. "I've been
going out nights to help the citizens organize against the Stonewall
gang. But that's over now--they gave me hell for inciting vigilante
action, and confined me inside the dome. The way they hate a decent cop
here, you'd think honesty was contagious."

"Yeah." Gordon preferred to let it drop. Murdoch was being given the
business for going too far on the Stonewall gang, not for refusing to
take normal graft.

They came to the gray three-story building that Mother Corey now owned.
Gordon stopped, realizing for the first time that there was no trace of
efforts to protect it against the coming night and day. The entrance was
unprotected. Then his eyes caught the bright chalk marks around
it--notices to the gangs to keep hands off. Mother Corey evidently had
pull enough to get every mob in the neighborhood to affix its seal.

As he drew near, though, two men edged across the street from a clump
watching the beginning excitement. Then, as they identified Gordon, they
moved back again. Some of the Mother's old lodgers from the ruin outside
the dome were inside now--obviously posted where it would do the most
good.

Corey stuck his head out of the door at the back of the hall as Gordon
entered, and started to retire again--until he spotted Murdoch. Gordon
explained the situation hastily.

"It's your room, cobber," the old man wheezed. He waddled back, to come
out with a towel and key, which he handed to Murdoch. "Number
forty-two."

His heavy hand rested on Gordon's arm, holding the younger man back.
Murdoch gave Gordon a brief, tired smile, and started for the stairs.
"Thanks, Gordon. I'm turning in right now."

Mother Corey shook his head, shaking the few hairs on his head and face,
and the wrinkles in his doughy skin deepened. "Hasn't changed, that one.
Must be thirty years, but I'd know Asa Murdoch anywhere. Took me to the
spaceport, handed me my yellow ticket, and sent me off for Mars. A nice,
clean kid--just like my own boy was. But Murdoch wasn't like the rest of
the neighborhood. He still called me 'sir,' when my boy was walking
across the street, so the lad wouldn't know they were sending me away.
O