At that point, Jorgensen sailed through the curtained doorway between the bar and back room. A craggy, desert look had settled on his red moon-face. He introduced me to two men with him as if someone were counting down from ten. "Glad to meet you and Mr. Howlet," said the one called McNaughton. I recognized "Mr. V'n Uh" as Van Etten, a leading citizen of the dome who had been agitating with McNaughton and others of the Operating Committee to form a regular police department. Jorgensen seemed to have something else on his mind. "Howlet, how about having a word with your shipmate?" "What's he done wrong?" asked Howlet blandly. Jorgensen scowled at a pair of baggy-seated sandeaters who strode through the front door with pale green tickets clutched in their hands. They sniffed once at the bar, but followed their stubbled chins into the back room at max acc. "I don't say it's wrong," growled Jorgensen, glaring after the pair. "It just makes the place look bad." "Oh, it's good advertising, Jorgy," laughed McNaughton. "People were forgetting that game could be beaten. Now, Mr. Howlet--" Jorgensen talked him under. "It's not losing a little money that I mind--" Some of the drink I was sneaking slipped down the wrong way. "Well, it's _not_!" bellowed Jorgensen. "But if they all pick up the broadcast that this is where to get a free ride home, I'll have just another sand trap here." Howlet shrugged and put down his glass. Van Etten nudged me and made a face, so I got up first. "Never mind," I said. "Being the one that took him in there, I'll check." Two more men came through the front door. The big one looked like a bodyguard. The one with the dazed look carried a small metal case that could be unfolded into a portable desk. He went up to Jorgensen and asked where he could set up a temporary ticket office for Interplanet. While I was watching over my shoulder, three or four sandeaters coming out of the back room shoved me aside to get at him. The last I saw before leaving was Van Etten shushing Jorgensen while McNaughton grabbed Howlet by the tunic zipper for a sales talk. Inside, after getting through the crowd at the _planets_ table, I could see that a number of betters were following Meadows' plays, making it that much worse for Jorgensen. Even Konnel had a small pile before him, although he seemed to be losing some of Lilac's attention to Meadows. While the little spheres spun in their orbits, the steward counted out money into twitching palms, wrote names on slips of paper, and placed bets. Somehow, he hit a winner every five or six bets, which kept his stack growing. * * * * * I joggled Lilac's elbow and indicated Konnel. "How about taking him out for a drink so an old customer can squeeze in for a few plays?" I said.