Part 3 (1/2)

Except for the lights and water, of course.”

Izzy nodded, and Gordon shrugged. On Mars, it didn't seem odd to begin applying for a police job by carrying in narcotics. He wondered how they'd go about contacting the commissioner.

But that turned out to be simple enough. After collecting, Izzy led the way into a section marked ”Special Taxes” and whispered a few casual words. The man at the desk went into an office marked private, and came back a few minutes later.

”Your friend has no record with us,” he said in a routine voice. ”I've checked through his tax forms, and they're all in order. We'll confirm officially, of course.”

In the Applications section of the big Munic.i.p.al Building, at the center of the dome, there was a long form to fill out at the desk; but the captain there had already had answers typed in.

”Save time, boys,” he said genially. ”And time's valuable, ain't it? Ah, yes.” He took the sums they had ready--there was a standard price--and stamped their forms. ”And you'll want suits. Isaacs? Good, here's your receipt. And you, Corporal Gordon. Right. Get your suits one floor down, end of the hall. And report in eight tomorrow morning!”

It was as simple as that. Bruce Gordon was lucky enough to get a fair fit in his suit. He'd almost forgotten what it felt like to be in uniform.

Izzy was more businesslike. ”Hope they don't give us too bad territory, gov'nor,” he remarked. ”Pickings are always a little lean on the first few beats, but you can work some fairly well.”

Gordon's chest fell; this was Mars!

The room at the new Mother Corey's--an unkempt old building near the edge of the dome--proved to be livable, though it was a shock to see Mother Corey himself in a decent suit, and using perfume.

The beat was in a shabby section where clerks and skilled laborers worked. It wasn't poor enough to offer the universal desperation that gave the gang hoodlums protective coloring, nor rich enough to have major rackets of its own.

Izzy was disgusted. ”Cripes! Hope they've got a few cheap pushers around that don't pay protection direct to the captain. You take that store; I'll go in this one!”

The proprietor was a druggist who ran his own fountain where the synthetics that replaced honest Earth foods were compounded into sweet and sticky messes for the neighborhood kids. He looked up as Gordon came in; then his face fell. ”New cop, eh? 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 d.a.m.ned 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 s.h.i.+ft, 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 grat.i.tude 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 wound, and the old man was already beginning to groan. He opened his eyes and saw the bills in front of him, at which the woman was staring unbelievingly. His hand darted out, clutching it.

”G.o.d!” he moaned softly, and his eyes turned up slowly to Gordon.