and his head came down over the machine. His mustache, somehow, didn't look so very good now.

The woman went around the counter, punched the control buttons on the rear of the bank. At once two compartments came out and she looked down into a mess of teel credits that would choke a moon crater. She frowned. Then she transferred the platinum teels to the big pocket in her plastiskin, closed the compartments, went around to the front of the desk again, and looked down at the buttons.

She dropped a teel in the slot and touched the 'Coptel button. The greasy man had been right, there were some left. From the side of the machine came her reservation identity key.

She had a last word for the greasy man: "Happy Rain Night, Buster."

She went out of the place, went back to her ship, dropped the identity key in a small slot on the instrument panel and closed the control lever. From here on the 'Coptel would do the directing and controlling of the weary ship. She leaned back, felt at the bulging pocket in her plastiskin.

She needed those teel credits. She didn't know how much, but she knew she'd need a lot, for he could always be found where the money was. Or the women. Or both.

The 'Coptel court was empty. Cold winds just in off the deserts swept little memories of sand around, flicking at 'Coptel walls with a dry, brittle sound. The woman left her ship, went through the 'Coptel lock, dumped the bag she'd taken with her from the ship onto the bed. She looked around. Then sniffed softly. It didn't matter what the place looked like, she wouldn't be here long enough to notice.

She showered, and for the next ten minutes worked hard on her hair. After that she went to the bag over on the bed and took from it a new plastiskin with a gleaming, golden-colored modo-strap. She pulled it over very white thighs, struggled her arms in. All that remained was to transfer the teel credits and the gun. After that she went out to the ship and set the controls for take-off in fifteen minutes.

Going down the 'Coptel ramp to the spacelators she chuckled softly to herself. The ship would go up to the eighth lane and stay there. She wondered what the Security people would think when they found it up there with nobody in it.

The croupier at the telecto-spin table was a funny sort of a guy, a philosophic guy. Standing at one table night after night you 

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