"Damn," chuckled Maculay. "This is the first time I've ever been inside of a powder room."

"Like it?"

He looked at her. They had lost her former escort in the melee. They had lost some composure, too, and also whatever formality might have been expected.

"Not as well as I thought," he told her. "Where's the hell out?"

Ava pointed to a window.

They left via the window as the door opened. They landed in the gangway between the two buildings, raced for the alley, and ran into a burly man in uniform that stood there stolidly.

Maculay clipped him in a rolling block; the policeman had expected practically anything but a football rush. The pair went down, rolling.

The officer fired one shot at them as they headed into a side-gangway and through to the street beyond. Cliff whistled for a convenient taxicab; they piled into it and were off before the alarm sounded from their rear.

They repaired what damage they could in the taxicab, and carried the rest with them boldly through the finest hotel in Melaxis.

Once in Maculay's suite, Ava opened her handbag and rolled a horde of chips on the table.

Maculay roared with laughter. "Souvenirs," he chortled.

"Can't you cash 'em?"

"M'lady, you are an angel. You turned up just in time to create a diversion. I got out with a whole skin, anyway."

Maculay looked at her curiously. Her eyes were glowing with excitement; her face was flushed, and she bore that slight dishevelment that brings a beautiful woman down from the pedestal of showcase perfection and makes a warm human of her.

She smiled cheerfully. "What do you mean?"

Cliff stepped to the small bar at the end of the room and mixed two very Herculean drinks before answering. Then he said—after Ava had tasted and approved: "They thought I had the cards marked. I didn't; I was playing a formula."

"But aren't formula players usually losers?"

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