his grin changing to a leer. "You look a little lonely, sister. Me, I'm right there beside you yanking on the same controls. Look, it's Rain Night, sure, and most everything'll be closed in another hour but I know of a place ..." he left the rest unsaid. He raised an eyebrow significantly.

The woman didn't say anything. She dropped a teel credit into the slot on the control box, punched a button. Nothing happened. Then the teel came rattling back at her through the reject. She looked up.

"Something?" the greasy man said.

"Yeah. I punch the button for a room and all that happens is my money coming back."

"A room?" He looked incredulous. "On Rain Night? Don't be absurd, sister. All taken days ago. Might try the 'Coptels. They might have a vacancy. But why worry about that? Like I said...."

He leaned over the counter, leaned over toward the woman. Leaned right into a heat gun that had appeared like old-time magic in the woman's right hand.

"Hey!"

"You're the soul of Martian generosity," the woman said evenly. "On you it sprouts ears. I could see that eight lanes up. Open the bank, I need a fistful of credits."

"Huh?"

"Open the bank."

He was getting to believe it. And not liking it. He glared at the woman, then glared down at the heat gun in her hand. He growled indignantly:

"Why you lousy space tramp, I oughta...."

"Hold it!" Something hard was in the woman's voice.

But he didn't hold it. His hand went out darting, and his fingers clutched for the alarm buttons on the bank. And they almost made it, those fingers of his. They came within a thought-space of making it.

But didn't, actually.

The heat gun made a funny sound like a tiny jet biting at solid atmosphere. The greasy man's hand stayed for an instant, his fingers playing little chords of agony in the air.

Somebody like him. After that his body folded forward 

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