Report expected, overdue. Failure to observe duty will result inpermanent resettlement to Mercury.He swore, coldly and methodically, while his stomach dug knots initself. The damned, stupid, blundering fools! That was all Trench andthe police gang had to see; it was obvious that the letter had beenopened. Sure, report at once. Drop a letter in the mailbox, and the nextmorning it would be turned over to Commissioner Arliss' office. Reportor be kicked off to a planet that Security felt enough worse than Marsto use as punishment!

Report and find Mars a worse place than Mercurycould ever be.He felt sick as he stood up to find paper and pen and write a terse,factual account of his own personal doings—minus any hint of anythingwrong with the system here. Security might think it was enough for themoment, and the local men might possibly decide it a mere requiredformality. At least it would stall things off for a while.But Gordon knew now that he could never hope to get back to Earthlegally. That vague promise by Security was so much hogwash; yet it wassurprising how much he had counted on it.He tore the envelope from Security into tiny shreds, too small forMother Corey to make sense of, and went out to mail the letter, feelingthe few bills in his pocket.

As usual, less than a hundred credits.He passed a sound truck blatting out a campaign speech by candidateNolan, filled with too-obvious facts about the present administration,together with hints that Wayne had paid to have Nolan assassinated.Gordon saw a crowd around it and was surprised, until he recognized themas Rafters—men from the biggest of the gangs supporting Wayne. The fewcitizens on the street who drifted toward the truck took a good look atthem and moved on hastily.It seemed incredible that Wayne could be re-elected, though, even withthe power of the gangs. Nolan was probably a grafter, too; but he'd atleast be a change, and certainly the citizens were aching for that.The next day his relief was later. Gordon waited, trying to swallowtheir petty punishments, but it went against the grain.

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Finally, hebegan making the rounds, acting as his own night man. The owners of thejoints didn't care whether they paid the second daily dole to the sameman or another, but they wouldn't pay it again that same night. He'dmanaged to tap most of the places before his relief showed. He made nocomment, but dutifully filled out the proper portion of both takes forthe Voluntary Donation box. It wouldn't do his record any good withTrench, but it should put an end to the overtime.Trench, however, had other ideas. The overtime continued, but it wasdull after that—which made it even more tiring. But the time he took aspecial release out to the spaceport was the worst.

Seeing the big shipreadying for take-off back to Earth.Then it was the day before election. The street was already bristlingwith barricades around the entrances, and everything ran with a lastdesperate restlessness, as if there would be no tomorrow. The operatorsall swore that Wayne would be elected, but seemed to fear a miracle. Onthe poorer section of the beat, there was a spiritless hope that Nolanmight come in with his reform program.

Men who would normally have beenpunctilious about their payments were avoiding Bruce Gordon, if in hopethat, by putting it off a day or so, they could run into a period whereno such payment would ever be asked—or a smaller one, at least. And hewas too tired to chase them down. His collections had been falling offalready, and he knew that he'd be on the carpet for that, if he didn'tdo better. It was a rich territory, and required careful mining; even asthe week had gone, he still had more money in his wallet than he hadexpected.But there had to be still more before night.He was lucky; he came on a pusher working one of the better houses—longafter his collections should have been over.

He knew by the man's facethat no protection had been paid higher up. The pusher was well-heeled;Gordon confiscated the money.This time, Izzy made no protest. Lifting the roll of anyone outside theenforced part of Mars' laws was apparently honest, in his eyes. Henodded, and pointed to the man's belt. 'Pick up the snow, too.'

The pusher's face paled. He must have had his total capital with him,because stark ruin shone in his eyes. 'Good God, Sergeant,' he pleaded,'leave me something!

I'll make it right. I'll cut you in. I gotta havesome of that for myself!' Gordon grimaced. He couldn't work up any great sympathy for anyone whomade a living out of drugs.They cleaned the pusher, and left him sitting on the steps, a picture ofslumped misery. Izzy nodded approval. 'Let him feel it a while.

No sensejailing him yet. Bloody fool had no business starting without lining thegroove. Anyhow, we'll get a bunch of credits for the stuff when we turnit in.' Gordon asked.' Izzy patted the little package. 'We get a quarter value.

Captainprobably gets fifty per cent from one of the pushers who's lined withhim. Everybody's happy.'

'Why not push it ourselves?' Gordon asked in disgust.' Wouldn't be honest, gov'nor. Cops are supposed to turn it in.'

Trench was almost jovial when he weighed the package and examined it tofind how much it had been cut. He issued them slips, which they added aspart of the contributions. 'Good work—you, too, Gordon. Best week inthe territory for a couple of months. I guess the citizens like you, theway they treat you.'

He laughed at his stale joke, and Gordon waswilling to laugh with him. The credit on the dope had paid for most ofthe contributions. For once, he had money to show for the week.Then Trench motioned Bruce Gordon forward, and dismissed Izzy with a nodof his head. 'Something to discuss, Gordon. Isaacs, we're holding alittle meeting, so wait around.

You're a sergeant already. But, Gordon,I'm offering you a chance. There aren't enough openings for all the goodmen, but. Oh, bother the soft soap.

We're still short on electionfunds, so there's a raffle. The two men holding winning tickets getbucked up to sergeants.

A hundred credits a ticket. He frowned suddenly as Gordon counted out three bills.

'You have abetter chance with more tickets. A much better chance!' The hint was hardly veiled.

Gordon stuck the tickets into his wallet.Mars was a fine planet for picking up easy money—but holding it wasanother matter.Trench counted the money and put it away. 'Thanks, Gordon. That fillsmy quota. Look, you've been on overtime all week. Why not skip themeeting? Isaacs can brief you, later. Go out and get drunk, orsomething.'

The comparative friendliness of the peace offering was probably theultimate in graciousness from Trench. Idly, Gordon wondered what kind ofpressures the captains were under; it must be pretty stiff, judging bythe relief the man was showing at making quota.'

Thanks,' he said, but his voice was bitter in his ears. 'I'll go homeand rest. Drinking costs too much for what I make. It's a good thing youdon't have income tax here.' 'We do,' Trench said flatly; 'forty per cent. Better make out a formnext week, and start paying it regularly.

But you can deduct yourcontributions here.' Gordon got out before he learned more good news.Chapter VII ELECTIONEERINGAs Bruce Gordon came out from the precinct house, he noticed the soundsfirst.

Under the huge dome that enclosed the main part of the city, theheavier air pressure permitted normal travel of sound; and he'd becomesensitive to the voice of the city after the relative quiet of theNineteenth Precinct. But now the normal noise was different. There wasan undertone of hushed waiting, with the sharp bursts of hammering andlast-minute work standing out sharply through it. Voting booths werebeing finished here and there, and at one a small truck was deliveringballots. Voting by machine had never been established here. Wherever thebooths were being thrown up, the nearby establishments were rushinggates and barricades in front of the buildings.Most of the shops were already closed—even some of the saloons.

To makeup for it, stands were being placed along the streets, carrying bannersthat proclaimed free beer for all loyal administration friends. The fewbars that were still open had been blessed with the sign of some mob,and obviously were well staffed with hoodlums ready to protect theproprietor. Private houses were boarded up. The scattering oflast-minute shoppers along the streets showed that most of the citizenswere laying in supplies to last until after election.Gordon passed the First Marsport Bank and saw that it was surrounded bybarbed wires, with other strands still being strung, and with a signproclaiming that there was high voltage in the wires.

Watching theoperation was Jurgens; it was obvious that his hoodlums had been hiredfor the job.Toward the edge of the dome, where Mother Corey's place was, thenarrower streets were filling with the gangs, already half-drunk andmarching about with their banners and printed signs. Curiously enough,all the gangs weren't working for Wayne's re-election. The big StarPoint gang had apparently grown tired of the increasing cost ofprotection from the government, and was actively campaigning for Nolan.Their home territory reached nearly to Mother Corey's, before it raninto the no man's land separating it from the gang of Nick the Croop.The Croopsters were loyal to Wayne.Gordon turned into his usual short-cut, past a rambling plastics plantand through the yard where their trucks were parked. He had halfexpected to find it barricaded, but apparently the rumors that Nick theCroop owned it were true; it would be protected in other ways, with thetrucks used for street fighting, if needed. He threaded his way betweentwo of the trucks.Then a yell reached his ears, and something swished at him.

An egg-sizedrock hit the truck behind him and bounced back, just as he spotted ahoodlum drawing back a sling for a second shot.Gordon was on his knees between heartbeats, darting under one of thetrucks. He rolled to his feet, letting out a yell of his own, andplunged forward. His fist hit the thug in the elbow, just as the man'shand reached for his knife.

His other hand chopped around, and the edgeof his palm connected with the other's nose. Cartilage crunched, and ashrill cry of agony lanced out.But the hoodlum wasn't alone. Another came out from the rear of one ofthe trucks. Gordon ducked as a knife sailed for his head; they werestupid enough not to aim for his stomach, at least. He bent down tolocate some of the rubble on the ground, cursing his folly in carryinghis knife under his uniform. The new beat had given him a false sense ofsecurity.He found a couple of rocks and a bottle and let them fly, then bent formore.Something landed on his back, and fingernails were gouging into hisface, searching for his eyes!Instinct carried him forward, jerking down sharply and twisting.

Thefigure on his back sailed over his head, to land with a harsh thump onthe ground. Brassy yellow hair spilled over a girl's face, and herbreath slammed out of her throat as she hit.

But the fall hadn't beenenough to do serious damage.Bruce Gordon jumped forward, bringing his foot up in a savage swing, butshe'd rolled, and the blow only glanced against her ribs. She jerked herhand down for a knife, and came to her knees, her lips drawn backagainst her teeth. Then he recognized her—SheilaCorey.The two thugs had held back, but now they began edging in.

Gordonslipped back behind another truck, listening for the sound of theirfeet. He'd half-expected another encounter with the Mother'sgranddaughter.They tried to outmaneuver him; he stepped back to his former spot,catching his breath and digging frantically for his knife. It came out,just as they realized he'd tricked them.Sheila was still on her knees, fumbling with something, and apparentlypaying no attention to him. But now she jerked to her feet, her handgoing back and forward.It was a six-inch section of pipe, with a thin wisp of smoke, and thethrow was toward Gordon's feet. The hoodlums yelled, and ducked, whileSheila broke into a run away from him. The little homemade bomb landed,bounced, and lay still, with its fuse almost burned down.Gordon's heart froze in his throat, but he was already in action. Hespat savagely into his hand, and jumped for the bomb.

If the fuse waspowder-soaked, he had no chance. He brought his palm down against it,and heard a faint hissing. Then he held his breath, waiting.No explosion came.

It had been a crude job, with only a wick for a fuse.Sheila Corey had stopped at a safe distance; now she grabbed at herhelpers, and swung them with her. The three came back, Sheila in thelead with her knife flashing.Gordon side-stepped her rush, and met the other two head-on, his knifeswinging back. His foot hit some of the rubble on the ground at the lastsecond, and he skidded. The leading mobster saw the chance and jumpedfor him.

Gordon bent his head sharply, and dropped, falling onto hisshoulders and somersaulting over. He twisted at the last second, jerkinghis arms down to come up facing the other.Then a new voice cut into the fracas, and there was the sound ofsomething landing against a skull with a hollow thud.

Gordon got hishead up just in time to see a man in police uniform kick aside the firsthoodlum and lunge for the other. There was a confused flurry; then thesecond went up into the air and came down in the newcomer's hands, toland with a sickening jar and lie still. Behind, Sheila Corey laycrumpled in a heap, clutching one wrist in the other hand and cryingsilently.Bruce Gordon came to his feet and started for her. She saw him coming,cast a single glance at the knife that had been knocked from her hands,then sprang aside and darted back through the parked trucks. In thestreet, she could lose herself in the swarm of Nick's Croopsters; Gordonturned back.The iron-gray hair caught his eyes first. Then, as the solidly builtfigure turned, he grunted. It was Captain Murdoch—now dressed in theuniform of a regular beat cop, without even a corporal's stripes.

Andthe face was filled with lines of strain that hadn't been there before.Murdoch threw the second gangster up into a truck after the first oneand slammed the door shut, locking it with the metal bar which hadapparently been his weapon. Then he grinned wryly, and came back towardGordon.' You seem to have friends here,' he commented. 'A good thing I wastrying to catch up with you.

Just missed you at the Precinct House, cameafter you, and saw you turn in here. Then I heard the rumpus. A goodthing for me, too, maybe.' Gordon blinked, accepting the other's hand. And what happened?' He indicated the bare sleeve.' One's the result of the other,' Murdoch told him.

'They've got me sewedup, and they're throwing the book at me. The old laws make me a citizenwhile I wear the uniform—and a citizen can't quit the Force. That putsme out of Earth's jurisdiction. I can't even cable for funds, and Iguess I'm too old to start squeezing money out of citizens. I was comingto ask whether you had room in your diggings for a guest—and I'm hopingnow that my part here cinches it.' Murdoch had tried to treat it lightly, but Gordon saw the red creepingup into the man's face.

'Forget that part. There's room enough for twoin my place—and I guess Mother Corey won't mind.

I'm damned glad youwere following me.' 'So'm I, Gordon. What'll we do with the prisoners?' 'Leave 'em; we couldn't get a Croopster locked up tonight for anything.' He started ahead, leading the way through the remaining trucks and backto the street that led to Mother Corey's. Murdoch fell in step with him.'

This is the first time I've had to look you up,' he said. 'I've beengoing out nights to help the citizens organize against the Stonewallgang. But that's over now—they gave me hell for inciting vigilanteaction, and confined me inside the dome. The way they hate a decent cophere, you'd think honesty was contagious.' Gordon preferred to let it drop.

Murdoch was being given thebusiness for going too far on the Stonewall gang, not for refusing totake normal graft.They came to the gray three-story building that Mother Corey now owned.Gordon stopped, realizing for the first time that there was no trace ofefforts to protect it against the coming night and day. The entrance wasunprotected. Then his eyes caught the bright chalk marks aroundit—notices to the gangs to keep hands off. Mother Corey evidently hadpull enough to get every mob in the neighborhood to affix its seal.As he drew near, though, two men edged across the street from a clumpwatching the beginning excitement. Then, as they identified Gordon, theymoved back again. Some of the Mother's old lodgers from the ruin outsidethe dome were inside now—obviously posted where it would do the mostgood.Corey stuck his head out of the door at the back of the hall as Gordonentered, and started to retire again—until he spotted Murdoch. Gordonexplained the situation hastily.'

It's your room, cobber,' the old man wheezed. He waddled back, to comeout with a towel and key, which he handed to Murdoch. His heavy hand rested on Gordon's arm, holding the younger man back.Murdoch gave Gordon a brief, tired smile, and started for the stairs.'

Thanks, Gordon. I'm turning in right now.'

Mother Corey shook his head, shaking the few hairs on his head and face,and the wrinkles in his doughy skin deepened. 'Hasn't changed, that one.Must be thirty years, but I'd know Asa Murdoch anywhere. Took me to thespaceport, handed me my yellow ticket, and sent me off for Mars. A nice,clean kid—just like my own boy was. But Murdoch wasn't like the rest ofthe neighborhood. He still called me 'sir,' when my boy was walkingacross the street, so the lad wouldn't know they were sending me away.Oh well, that was a long time ago, cobber. A long time.'

He rubbed a pasty hand over his chin, shaking his head and wheezingheavily. Gordon chuckled.

'Well, how—?' Something banged heavily against the entrance seal, and there was thesound of a hot argument, followed by a commotion of some sort. Coreyseemed to prick up his ears, and began to waddle rapidly toward theentrance.It broke open before he could reach it, the seal snapping back to show agiant of a man outside holding the two guards from across the street,while a scar-faced, dark man shoved through briskly.

Corey snapped out aquick word, and the two guards ceased struggling and started back acrossthe street. The giant pushed in after the smaller thug.'

I'm from the Ajax Householders Protection Group,' the dark manannounced officially. 'We're selling election protection. And brother,do you need it, if you're counting on those mugs. We're assessing you—'Not long on Mars, are you?'

Mother Corey asked. The whine was entirelymissing from his voice now, though his face seemed as expressionless asever. 'What does your boss Jurgens figure on doing, punk? Taking overall the rackets for the whole city?' The dark face snarled, while the giant moved a step forward.

Then heshrugged. 'Okay, Fatty. So Jurgens is behind it. So now you know. AndI'm doubling your assessment, right now. To you, it's—'A heavy hand fell on the man's shoulder, and Mother Corey leaned forwardslightly. Even in Mars' gravity, his bulk made the other buckle at theknees.

The hand that had been reaching for the knife yanked the weaponout and brought it up sharply.Gordon started to step in, then, but there was no time. Mother Corey'sfree hand came around in an open-palmed slap that lifted the collectorup from the floor and sent him reeling back against a wall.

The knifefell from the crook's hand, and the dark face turned pale. He saggeddown the wall, limply.The giant opened his mouth, and took half a step forward; but the onlysound he made was a choking gobble.

Mother Corey moved without seeminghaste, but before the other could make up his mind. There was a seriesof motions that seemed to have no pattern. The giant was spun around,somehow; one arm was jerked back behind him, then the other was forcedup to it.

Mother Corey held the wrists in one hand, put his other underthe giant's crotch, and lifted. Carrying the big figure off the floor,the old man moved toward the seal. His foot found the button, snappingthe entrance open. He pitched the giant out overhanded; holding theentrance, he reached for the dark man with one hand and tossed him ontop of the giant.' To me, it's nothing,' he called out.

'Take these two back to youngJurgens, boys, and tell him to keep his punks out of my house.' The entrance snapped shut then, and Corey turned back to Gordon, wipingthe wisps of hair from his face. He was still wheezing asthmatically,but there seemed to be no change in the rhythm of his breathing. 'As Iwas going to say, cobber,' he said, 'we've got a little social gamegoing upstairs—the room with the window. Fine view of the parades. Weneed a fourth.'

Gordon started to protest that he was tired and needed his sleep; thenhe shrugged. Corey's house was one of the few that had kept somerelation to Earth styles by installing a couple of windows in the secondstory, and it would give a perfect view of the street. He followed theold man up the stairs.Two other men were already in the surprisingly well-furnished room, atthe little table set up near the window. Bruce Gordon recognized one asRandolph, the publisher of the little opposition paper. The man's paleblondness, weak eyes, and generally rabbity expression totally beliedthe courage that had permitted him to keep going at his hopeless task oftrying to clean up Marsport. The Crusader was strictly a one-manweekly, against Mayor Wayne's Chronicle, with its Earth-comics anddaily circulation of over a hundred thousand.

Wayne apparently let thepaper stay in business to give himself a talking point about fair play;but Randolph walked with a limp from the last working over he hadreceived.' Hi, Gordon,' he said. His thin, high voice was cool and reserved, inkeeping with the opinion he had expressed publicly of the police as abody. But he did not protest Corey's selection of a partner. 'This is EdPraeger. He's an engineer on our railroad.'

Gordon acknowledged the introduction automatically. He'd almostforgotten that Marsport was the center of a thinly populated area,stretching for a thousand miles in all directions beyond the city,connected by the winding link of the electric monorail. 'So there reallyis a surrounding countryside,' he said.Praeger nodded. He was a big, open-faced man, just turning bald. Hishandshake was firm and friendly. 'There are even cities out there,Gordon. Nothing like Marsport, but that's no loss.

That's where the realpopulation of Mars is—decent people, men who are going to turn thisinto a real planet some day.' 'There are plenty like that here, too,' Randolph said. He picked up thecards.

'First ace deals. Damn it, Mother, sit down-wind from me, won'tyou? Or else take a bath.'

Mother Corey chuckled, and wheezed his way up out of the chair,exchanging places with Gordon. 'I got a surprise for you, cobber,' hesaid, and there was only amusement in his voice. 'I got me in fiftygallons of water today, and tomorrow I do just that. Made up my mindthere was going to be a cleanup in Marsport, even if Wayne does win. Andstop examining the cards, Bruce.

I don't cheat my friends. The readersare put away for old-times' sake.' Randolph shrugged, and went on as if he hadn't interrupted himself.' Ninety per cent of Marsport is decent. They have to be.

It takes atleast nine honest men to support a crook. They come up here to startover—maybe spent half their life saving up for the trip.

They hear aman can make fifty credits a day in the factories, or strike it richcrop prospecting. What they don't realize is that things cost ten timesas much here, too.

They plan, maybe, on getting rich and going back toEarth.' 'Nobody goes back,' Mother Corey wheezed. His eyes rested onGordon.' A lot don't want to,' Praeger said.

'I never meant to go back. I've gotme a farm up north. Another ten years, and I retire to it. My kids areup there now—grandkids, that is. They're Martians; maybe you won'tbelieve me, but they can breathe the air here without a helmet.' The others nodded.

Gordon had learned that a fair number ofthird-generation people got that way. Their chests were only a triflelarger, and their heartbeat only a few points higher; it was an internaladaptation, like the one that had occurred in test animals reared at asimulated forty-thousand-feet altitude on Earth, before Mars was eversettled.' They'll take the planet away from Earth yet,' Randolph agreed.' Marsport is strictly artificial.

It's kept going only because it's theonly place where Earth will set down her ships. If Security doesn't doanything, time will.' Gordon muttered bitterly. Security was good at gettingpeople in trouble, but he had seen no other sign of it.Randolph frowned over his cards. 'Yeah, I know.

The government set themup, gave them a mixture of powers, and has been trying to keep them fromworking ever since. But somehow they did clean up Venus; and every crookhere is scared to death of the name. How come a muckraking newspapermanlike you never turned up anything on them, Gordon?'

Gordon shrugged. It was the first reference he'd heard to hisbackground, and he preferred to let it drop.But Mother Corey cut in, his voice older and hoarser, and the skin onhis jowls even grayer than usual. 'Don't sell them short, cobber. You forget them, here, after a while.

But they'rearound.' Bruce Gordon felt something run down his armpit, and a chill creep uphis back.Out on the street, a sudden whooping began, and he glanced down. Theparade was on, the Croopsters in full swing, already mostly drunk. Themain body went down the street, waving fluorescent signs, whileside-guards preceded them, armed with axes, knocking aside the flimsierbarricades as they went.

He watched a group break into a small grocerystore to come out with bundles. They dragged out the storekeeper, hiswife, and young daughter, and pressed them into the middle of theparade.' If Security's so damned powerful, why doesn't it stop that?' He askedbitterly.Randolph grinned at him. 'They might do it, Gordon. They just might. Butare you sure you want it stopped?'

'All right,' Mother Corey said suddenly. 'This is a social game,cobbers.' Outside, the parade picked up enthusiasm as smaller gangs joined behindthe main one. There were a fair number of plain citizens who had beenimpressed into it, too, judging by the appearance of little frightenedgroups in the middle of the mobsters.Gordon couldn't understand why the police hadn't at least been kept onduty, until Honest Izzy came into the room. The little man found a chairand bought chips silently; he looked tired.'

Mother Corey asked.Izzy nodded. 'Trench took forever giving it to us, Mother. But it's thesame old deal; all the police gees get tomorrow off—you, too, gov'nor.No cops to influence the vote, that's the word. We even gotta wearcivvies when we go out to vote for Wayne.'

Gordon looked down at the rioters, who were now only keeping up apretense of a parade. It would be worse tomorrow, he supposed; and therewould be no cops.

The image of the old woman and her husband in thelittle liquor store where he'd had his first experience came back tohim. He wondered how well barricaded they were.He felt the curious eyes of Mother Corey dancing from him to Izzy andback, and heard the old man's chuckle. 'Put a uniform on some men andthey begin to believe they're cops, eh, cobber?' He shoved up from the table abruptly and headed for his room, swearingto himself.Chapter VIII VOTE EARLY AND OFTENIzzy was up first the next morning, urging them to hurry before thingsbegan to hum. From somewhere, he dug up a suit of clothes that Murdochcould wear.

He found the gun that Gordon had confiscated from O'Neilland filled it from a box of ammunition he'd apparently purchased.' I picked up some special permits,' he said.

'I knew you had thiscannon, gov'nor, and I figured it'd come in handy. Wouldn't be caughtdead with one myself. Knives, that's my specialty. Come on, Cap'n, wegotta get out the vote.' Murdoch shook his head. 'In the first place, I'm not registered.'

Izzy grinned. 'Every cop's registered in his own precinct; Wayne got thehonor system fixed for us. Show your papers and go into any booth inyour territory. And you'd better be seen voting often, too,Cap'n.

What's your precinct?' 'Eleventh, but I'm not voting. I'd like to come along with you toobserve, but I wouldn't make any choice between Wayne and Nolan.'

Downstairs, the rear room was locked, with one of Mother Corey's guardsat the door. From inside came the rare sound of water splashing, mixedwith a wheezing, off-key caterwauling.

Mother Corey was apparentlymaking good on his promise to take a bath. As they reached the hall, oneof Trench's lieutenants came through the entrance, waving his badge atthe protesting man outside.He spotted the three, and jerked his thumb. 'Come on, you. We're late.And I ain't staying on the streets when it gets going.'

A small police car was waiting outside, and they headed for it. BruceGordon looked at the debacle left behind the drunken, looting mob. Mostof the barricades were down. Here and there, a few citizens were rushingabout trying to restore them, keeping wary eyes on the mobsters who hadpassed out on the streets.Suddenly a siren blasted out in sharp bursts, and the lieutenant jumped.' Come on, you gees.

I gotta be back in half an hour.' They piled inside, and the little electric car took off at its topspeed. But now the quietness had been broken. There were trucks comingout of the plastics plant, and mobsters were gathering up their drunks,and chasing the citizens back into their houses.

Some of them werewearing the forbidden guns, but it wouldn't matter on a day when nopolice were on duty.In the Ninth Precinct, the Planters were the biggest gang, and all theothers were temporarily enrolled under them. Here, there were less signsof trouble. The joints had been better barricaded, and the looting hadbeen kept to a minimum.The three got off. A scooter pulled up alongside them almost at once,with a gun-carrying mobster riding it. 'You mugs get the hell outof—Oh, cops! Okay, better pin these on.' He handed out gaudy arm bands, and the three fastened them in place.Nearly everyone else already had them showing.

The Planters were movingefficiently. They were grouped around the booths, and they had begun toline up their men, putting them in position to begin voting at once.Then the siren hooted again, a long, steady blast.

The bunting in frontof the booths was pulled off, and the lines began to move. Izzy led theway to the one at the rich end of their beat, and moved toward the headof the line.

'Cops,' he said to the six mobsters who surrounded thebooth. 'We got territory to cover.' A thumb indicated that they could go in. Murdoch remained outside, andone of the thugs reached for him.

Izzy cut him off. 'Just a friend onthe way to his own route. Eleventh Precinct.'

There were scowls, but they let it go. Then Gordon was in the littlebooth. It seemed to be in order. There were the books of registration,with a checker for Wayne, one for Nolan, and a third, supposedlyneutral, behind the plank that served as a desk. The Nolan man wasprotesting.'

He's been dead for ten years. He's my uncle.' 'There's a Mike Thaler registered, and this guy says he's Thaler,' theWayne man said decisively.

One of the Planters passed his gun to the inspector for the Wayne side.The Nolan man gulped, and nodded. 'Heh-heh, yes, just a mix-up. He'sregistered, so he votes.' The next man Gordon recognized as being from one of the small shops onhis beat. The fellow's eyes were desperate, but he was forcing himselfto go through with it. 'Murtagh,' he said, and his voice broke on thesecond syllable.

'Owen Murtagh.' No registration!' The Wayne checker shrugged. 'It's Murtagh. Owen Murtagh, of 738 Morrisy—'Protest!' The Wayne man cut off the frantic wriggling of the Nolanchecker's finger toward the line in the book.

'When a man can't get thename straight the first time, it's suspicious.' The supposedly neutral checker nodded. 'Better check the name off,unless the real Murtagh shows up. Any objections, Yeoman?'

The Nolan man had no objections—outwardly. He was sweating, and thesurprise in his eyes indicated that this was all new to him.Bruce Gordon came next, showing his badge. He was passed with a nod, andheaded for the little closed-off polling place. But the Wayne mantouched his arm and indicated a ballot. There were two piles, and thispile was already filled out for Wayne. 'Saves trouble, unless you wantto do it yourself,' he suggested.Gordon shrugged, and shoved it into the slot. He went outside and waitedfor Izzy to follow.

It was raw beyond anything he'd expected—but atleast it saved any doubt about the votes.The procedure was the same at the next booth, though they had moretrouble. The Nolan man there was a fool—neither green nor agreeable. Heprotested vigorously, in spite of a suspicious bruise along his temple,and finally made some of the protests stick.Gordon began to wonder how it could be anything but a clear unanimousvote, at that rate. Izzy shook his head.

'Wayne'll win, but not thateasy. The sticks don't have strong mobs, and they'll pile up a heavyNolan vote. And you'll see things hum soon!'

Gordon had voted three times under the 'honor system,' before he saw.They were just nearing a polling place when a heavy truck came careeningaround a corner. Men began piling out of the back before it stopped—menarmed with clubs and stones.

They were in the middle of the Planters atonce, striking without science, but with ferocity. The line waiting tovote broke up, but the citizens had apparently organized with care. Agood number of the men in the line were with the attackers.There was the sound of a shot, and a horrified cry. For a second, thecitizens broke; then a wave of fury seemed to wash over them at theneedless risk to the safety of all. The horror of rupturing the dome wasstrongly ingrained in every citizen of Marsport.

They drew back, thenmade a concerted rush. There was a trample of bodies, but no more shots.In a minute, the citizens' group was inside, ripping the fixed ballotsto shreds, filling out and dropping their own. They ignored theregistration clerks.A whistle had been shrilling for minutes.

Now another group came ontothe scene, and the Planters' men began getting out rapidly. Some of thecitizens looked up and yelled, but it was too late. From the approachingcars, pipes projected forward. Streams of liquid jetted out, and theiragonized cries followed.Even where he stood, Gordon could smell the fumes of ammonia. Izzy'sface tensed, and he swore. 'Inside the dome! They're poisoning the air.'

But the trick worked. In no time, men in crude masks were clearing outthe booth, driving the last struggling citizens away, and getting readyfor business as usual.Murdoch turned on his heel. 'I've had enough. I've made up my mind,' hesaid.

'The cable offices must be open for the doctored reports on theelection to Earth. Where's the nearest?' Izzy frowned, but supplied the information.

Bruce Gordon pulled Murdochaside. 'Come off the head-cop role; it won't work.

They must have hadreports on elections before this.' 'Damn the trouble. It's never been this raw before. Look at Izzy's face,Gordon. Even he's shocked.

Something has to be done about this, beforeworse happens. I've still got connections back there—'Okay,' Gordon said bitterly.

He'd liked Asa Murdoch, had begun torespect him. It hurt to see that what he'd considered hardheadedness wasjust another case of a fool fighting dragons with a paper sword.' Okay, it's your death certificate,' he said, and turned back towardIzzy. 'Go send your sob stories, Murdoch.'

They taught a bunch of pretty maxims in school—even slum kids learnedthat honesty was the best policy, while their honest parents rotted inunheated holes, and the racketeers rode around in fancy cars. It had gothim once. He'd refused to take a dive as a boxer; he'd tried to playhonest cards; he'd tried honesty on his beat back on Earth. He'd triedto help the suckers in his column, and here he was.And Gordon had been proud to serve under Murdoch.' Come on, Izzy,' he said. 'Let's vote!' Izzy shook his head.

'It ain't right, gov'nor.' 'Let him do what he damn pleases,' Gordon told him.Izzy's small face puckered up in lines of worry. 'No, I don't mean him.I mean this business of using ammonia. I know some of the gees trying tovote.

They been paying me off—and that's a retainer, you might say. Nowthis gang tries to poison them.

I'm still running an honest beat, and Ibloody well can't vote for that! Uniform or no uniform, I'm walking beattoday. And the first gee that gives trouble to the men who pay me gets aknife where he eats. When I get paid for a job, I do the job.' Gordon watched him head down the block, and started after the littleman. Then he grimaced.

Even Izzy had one.He went down the row, voting regularly. The Planters had things inorder. The mess had already been cleaned up when he arrived at thecheaper end of the beat. It was the last place where he'd be expected todo his duty by Wayne's administration; he waited in line.Then a voice hit at his ears, and he looked up to see Sheila Corey onlytwo places in front of him. Mary Edelstein,' she was saying. TheWayne man nodded, and there was no protest. She picked up a Wayneballot, and dropped it in the box.Then her eyes fell on Gordon.

She hesitated for a second, bit her lips,and finally moved out into the crowd.He could see no sign of her as he stepped out a minute later, but theback of his neck prickled.He started out of the crowd, trying to act normal, but glancing down tomake sure the gun was in its proper position. Satisfied, he wheeledsuddenly and spotted her behind him, before she could slip out of sight.Then a shout went up, yanking his eyes around with the rest of thosestanding near. The eyes had centered on the alleys along the street, andmen were beginning to run wildly, while others were jerking out theirweapons. He saw a big gray car coming up the street; on its side waspainted the colors of the Planters. Now it swerved, hitting a sirenbutton.But it was too late.

Trucks shot out of the little alleys, jammingforward through the people; there must have been fifty of them. One hitthe big gray car, tossing it aside. It was Trench himself who leapedout, together with the driver. The trucks paid no attention, but boredown on the crowd. From one of them, a machine gun opened fire.Gordon dropped and began crawling in the only direction that was open,straight toward the alleys from which the trucks had come. A few othershad tried that, but most were darting back as they saw the colors ofNolan's Star Point gang on the trucks.Other guns began firing; men were leaping from the trucks and pouringinto the mob of Planters, forcing their way toward the booth in thecenter of the mess.It was a beautifully timed surprise attack, and a well-armed one, eventhough guns were supposed to be so rare here. Gordon stumbled intosomeone ahead of him, and saw it was Trench.

He looked up, and straightinto the swinging muzzle of the machine gun that had started thecommotion.Trench was reaching for his revolver, but he was going to be too late.Gordon brought his up the extra half inch, aiming by the feel, andpulled the trigger. The man behind the machine gun dropped.Trench had his gun out now, and was firing, after a single surprisedglance at Gordon.

He waved back toward the crowd.But Gordon had spotted the open trunk of the gray car. He shook his headand tried to indicate it. Trench jerked his thumb and leaped to hisfeet, rushing back.Gordon saw another truck go by, and felt a bullet miss him by inches.Then his legs were under him, and he was sliding into the big luggagecompartment, where the metal would shield him.Something soft under his feet threw him down.

He felt a body under him,and coldness washed over him before he could get his eyes down. The coldwent away, to be replaced by shock. Between his spread knees layMurdoch, bound and gagged, his face a bloody mess.Gordon reached for the gag, but the other held up his hands and pointedto the gun. It made sense. The knots were tight, but Gordon managed toget his knife under the rope around Murdoch's wrists and slice throughit. The older man's hands went out for the gun; his eyes swung towardthe street, while Gordon attacked the rope around his ankles.The Star Point men were winning, though it was tough going. They hadfought their way almost to the booth, but there a V of Planters' carshad been gotten into position somehow, and gunfire was coming frombehind them.

As he watched, a huge man reached over one of the cars,picked up a Star Point man, and lifted him behind the barricade.The gag had just come out when the Star Point man jumped into viewagain, waving a rag over his head and yelling. Captain Trench followedhim out, and began pointing toward the gray car.' They want me,' Murdoch gasped thickly. 'Get out, Gordon, before theygang up on us!' Gordon jerked his eyes back toward the alley on the other side.

It wentat an angle and would offer some protection.He looked back, just as bullets began to land against the metal of thecar. Murdoch held up one finger and put himself into a position to makea run for it.

Then he brought the finger down sharply, and the twoleaped out.Trench's ex-Marine bellow carried over the fighting. 'Get the old man!' Bruce Gordon had no time to look back.

He hit the alley in fiveheart-ripping leaps and was around the bend. Then he swung, just asMurdoch made it. Bullets spatted against the walls, and he saw bloodpumping from under Murdoch's right shoulder.' Murdoch ordered.A fresh cry from the street cut into his order, however. Gordon risked aquick look, then stepped farther out to make sure.The surprise raid by the Star Pointers hadn't been quite as much of asurprise as expected.

Coming down the street, with no regard for mentrying to get out of their way, the trucks of the Croopsters werebattering aside the few who could not reach safety. There were nomachine guns this time.They smacked into the tangle of Star Point trucks, and came to agrinding halt, men piling out ready for battle. Gordon nodded. In a fewminutes, Wayne's supporters would have the booth again; there'd be adelay before any organized search could be made for the fugitives. Helooked down at Murdoch's shoulder.' Come on,' he said finally. 'Or should I carry you?'

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Murdoch shook his head. Get me to a place where we cantalk—and be damned to this. Gordon, I've got to talk—but I don't haveto live. I mean that!'

Gordon started off, disregarding the words; a place of safety had tocome first. He picked his way down alleys and small streets. The olderman kept trying to stop to speak, but Gordon gave him no opportunity.There was one chance.It was farther than he'd thought, and Gordon began to suspect he'dmissed the way, until he saw the drugstore. Now it all fell intoplace—the first beat he'd had with Izzy.He ducked down back alleys until he reached the right section. Hescanned the street, jumped to the door of the little liquor store andbegan banging on it.

There was no answer, though he was sure the oldcouple lived just over the store.He began banging again. Finally, a feeble voice sounded from inside.' 'A man in distress!'

He yelled back. There was no way to identifyhimself; he could only hope she would look.The entrance seal opened briefly; then it flashed open all the way. Hemotioned to Murdoch, and jumped to help the failing man to the entrance.The old lady looked, then moved quickly to the other side.' Ach, Gott,' she breathed. Her hands trembled as she relocked theseal.

Then she brushed the thin hair off her face, and pointed. Gordonfollowed her up the stairs, carrying Murdoch on his back.

She opened adoor, passed through a tiny kitchen, and threw open another door to abedroom.The old man lay on the bed, and this time there was no question ofconcussion. The woman nodded.

Pappa is dead, God forbid it. Hewould try to vote. I told him and told him—and then. With my ownhands, I carried him here.'

Gordon felt sick. He started to turn, but she shook her head quickly.' Pappa is dead. He needs no beds now, and your friend is suffering;put him here.' She lifted the frail body of the old man and lowered him onto the floorwith a strength that seemed impossible. Then her hands were gentle asshe helped lower Murdoch where the corpse had been.

'I'll get alcoholfrom below—and bandages and hot water.' Asa Murdoch opened his eyes, breathing stertoriously. His face wasblanched, his clothes a mess. But he protested as Gordon tried to stripthem.

'Let them go, kid. There's no way to save me now.

'I'm listening!' 'With your mind, Gordon, not your ears. You've heard a lot aboutSecurity.

Well, I'm Security. Top level—policy for Mars.

We never got atop man here without his being discovered and killed—That's why we'vehad to work under all the cover—and against our own government. Nobodyknew I was here—Trench was our man—Sold us out! We've got juniormen—down to your level, clerks, such things. We've got a dozen plans.But we're not ready for an emergency, and it's here—now!'

Gordon, you're a self-made louse, but you're a man underneath itsomewhere. That's why we rate you higher than you think you are. That'swhy I'm going to trust you—because I have to.' He swallowed, and the thin hand of the woman lifted brandy to his lips.' Pappa,' she said slowly. 'He was a clerk once for Security.

But nobodycame, nobody called.' She went back to trying to bandage the.

STOCKHOLM – Izzy Young, a businessman, political activist and founding patron of the Greenwich Village folk music scene who organized Bob Dylan's first major New York concert and devoted decades to supporting other musicians, has died at age 90.

Young's daughter, Philomene Grandin, said Wednesday that her father died of natural causes late Monday at his home in Stockholm. Before he moved to Sweden in 1973 and went into business there, Young ran a folk music shop in New York that nurtured a generation of artists.

Starting in the 1950s, Greenwich Village was the center of a folk music revival that helped launch the careers of Dylan, Joni Mitchell and many others. Young, as much as anyone, made the revival possible. In 1957, he opened the Folklore Center, remembered by Dylan as “the citadel of Americana folk music” and an 'ancient chapel, like a shoebox-sized institute,' a vital stopping point where fans and folk performers would stop by for everything from old sheet music to obscure music books.

In 1960, Young had another inspiration — to expand folk music beyond coffee houses and bring it to a restaurant, an Italian place called Gerde's. When Dylan moved from Minnesota to New York in the winter of 1961, Gerde's was an early stop. He played his first professional gig there, in April. A Dylan performance at Gerde's in September of that year was attended by The New York Times' Robert Shelton, whose review established Dylan as a rising star and brought him his first record deal.

In November 1961, Young organized Dylan's first major show outside of Greenwich Village, at Carnegie Chapter Hall, a small auditorium connected to Carnegie Hall.

Young also gave early breaks to other top folk and folk-rock performers, including Mitchell, John Sebastian of the Lovin' Spoonful and Peter Paul and Mary, and later befriended Patti Smith. He wrote a column for the folk music publication 'Sing Out!' and helped organize a 1961 protest — known and misnamed as 'The Beatnik Riot' — after Parks Commissioner Newbold Morris stopped issuing permits for folk musicians in Washington Square Park. It began as a peaceful gathering, but ended with police harassing protesters, shoving some to the ground, and carrying others off. The city soon resumed allowing folkies in the park.

A film of the event showed Young telling police that it was not up to 'Commissioner Morris to tell the people what kind of music is good or bad. He's telling people folk music brings degenerates, but it's not so.'

In Stockholm, Young reopened his shop as the Folklore Centre. It closed at the end of November due to his age, his daughter said.

The son of Jewish Polish immigrants, Young was born on Manhattan's Lower East Side. After attending Brooklyn College, he worked for a few years at his father's bakery before deciding to go into business for himself. Grandin said her father dedicated over 60 years to promoting folk music and musicians.

'He had opened his heart to so many people, so many poets who came to his shop,' Grandin told The Associated Press. 'And he was a fantastic father.'

She spent several months last year cataloging and packing up Young's library of some 2,000 titles, with a view to selling it as one collection.

He is survived by his daughter, a son and three grandchildren. Funeral services will be held in Stockholm, Grandin said.

Contributing: Jan M. Olsen in Copenhagen, Denmark