man right now, and did not want to
anger him unnecessarily. Hawkes was wealthy; it might take money to
build a hyperdrive ship, when the time came. Alan was flatly
cold-blooded about it, and the concept surprised and amused him when he
realized just how single-minded he had become since resigning from the
_Valhalla_.

He turned the single-mindedness to good use at the gaming tables first.
During his initial ten days as a professional, he succeeded in losing
seven hundred credits of Hawkes' money, even though he did manage to win
a three-hundred-credit stake one evening.

But Hawkes was not worried. "You'll make the grade, Alan. A few more
weeks, days maybe, while you learn the combinations, limber up your
fingers, pick up the knack of thinking fast--you'll get there."

"I'm glad _you're_ so optimistic." Alan felt downcast. He had dropped
three hundred credits that evening, and it seemed to him that his
fumbling fingers would never learn to set up the combinations fast
enough. He was just like Steve, a born loser, without the knack the game
required. "Oh, well, it's your money."

"And I expect you to double it for me some day. I've got a five-to-one
bet out now that you'll make Class B before fall."

Alan snorted doubtfully. In order to make Class B, he would have to make
average winnings of two hundred credits a night for ten days running, or
else win three thousand credits within a month. It seemed a hopeless
task.

But, as usual, Hawkes won the bet. Alan's luck improved as May passed
and June dwindled; at the beginning of July he hit a hot streak when he
seemed to be marching up to the winner's rostrum every other round, and
the other Class C patrons began to grumble. The night he came home with
six hundred newly-won credits, Hawkes opened a drawer and took out a
slim, sleek neutrino gun.

"You'd better carry this with you from now on," the gambler said.

"What for?"

"They're starting to notice you now. I hear people talking. They know
you're carrying cash out of the game parlors every night."

Alan held the cool gray weapon, whose muzzle could spit a deadly stream
of energized neutrinos, undetectable, massless, and fatal. "If I'm held
up I'm supposed to use this?"

"Just the first time," Hawkes said. "If you do the job right, you won't
need to use it any more. There won't be any second time."

As it turned out, Alan had no need for the gun, but he carried it within
easy reach whenever he left the apa