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A round was in progress; figures were bent busily over their boards, altering their computations and changing their light-patterns. Alan slid a five-credit piece into the slot and, while waiting for the round to finish and the next to begin, looked around at his fellow patrons. In the semi-dark that prevailed it was difficult to make out faces. He would have trouble recognizing Steve.
"If they had hauled me off I'd be in real trouble." Hawkes nodded. "They're very quick to lock people up when they don't have work cards. But police salaries are notoriously low. A five-credit bill slipped to the right man at the right time can work wonders." "Five credits, was it? Here " Alan started to fumble in his pocket, but Hawkes checked him with a wave of his hand. "Never mind.
Suddenly the gong rang, indicating that someone had achieved a winning pattern, and it was like the fall of a headsman's axe to Alan. He had lost. That was all he could think of. He had lost. As Alan drew out another five-credit piece for the next round, he realized what he was doing. He was being caught up in the nerve-stretching excitement of the game.
He handed a card over to the policeman and Alan noticed that a blue five-credit note went along with the card. The policeman made a great show of studying the card and succeeded in pocketing the bill with the same effortless sleight-of-hand that the other had used in handing it over. "Max Hawkes, eh? That you? Free status?" The man named Hawkes nodded. "And this Spacer's a pal of yours?"
"Twelve point nine kilometers, sir," the young officer replied, subdued. Tarlac whistled softly in honest admiration, then dug into a beltpouch and flipped the Helmsman a five-credit piece. "Empress Lindner?" "Yes, Ranger?" The ship's voice was feminine, slightly metallic. "Log my commendation for Ensign Olorun's piloting, and have a shuttle ready to take me to Personnel Lock Three."
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