He surrendered his ticket at the ground-level door and was passed into the men's disrobing room. Naked, except for the waterproof, web belt to which he attached his pouch of personal effects, he folded his clothing into the transparent bag with his berth number stamped on it, dropped it in a marked hopper and stepped into the showers. More signs led him through the soapy, sluicing bath chamber that smelled mildly of phenol, through a gusty, hot drying room, and into the corridor of inoculation booths. It was an ingenious maze of tiny spaces. You stepped in, placing your feet on the painted foot-prints, slipped the steel I.D. plate containing your metabolic data into the slot, and _click_, a measured dose of anti-this-or-that serum shot from a compressed air needle and penetrated the proper area of the body without breaking the skin. Pauker marvelled at the speed with which he moved down the row of booths. The sliding exit panel from one booth into another remained closed until the shot was completed, then flipped open, and you moved on, untouched by human hands. The shots were painless, a mere prickling sensation, and Pauker compared it to the brutal hypo-punching he had endured in his youth during military basic training. By the time he reached the last of the seven booths he was relaxing. The mechanism of murder, robbery and escape which he had spent five years planning had functioned perfectly. From the pull of the trigger to the present moment, the operation was a tribute to his genius of concentrating scrupulous attention to every minute detail. Now he was beginning to enjoy the peace of mind that comes to a craftsman when his work of art nears completion, and he knows success is positive. As inside man on the fabulous Brinks-Interplanetary robbery, it had been necessary to accomplish a very expensive identity change when he dropped out of sight. Over $20,000 of his own savings, spot cash, had been invested beforehand setting this up. But his biggest risk had been in the double-cross. It was his biggest risk, and also his greatest stroke of brilliance. Staging the rendezvous with his seven underworld accomplices for the pay-off, he had arranged that they arrive separately. Each in his individual hideout, had thought it would be a general get-together at the same place, same hour. Each arrived promptly at a different time at a different rented flat, but all collected the same lethal payment something less than an ounce of soft lead. Ten men had died to bring the fortune into Pauker's hands, three guards and seven, hoodlums. And each had been marked from the beginning. Now there were no witnesses, no loose-ends, no chances of meeting an avenging gangster on Mars, no waiting for a slug in the dark. Neat! Clean! Perfection as he'd planned.