Nolan was called "Gunner" by those who knew him by his alias--He'd never taken the trouble to think up a first name for "Matthews." He nodded and stepped away. It wasn't hard to find Petersen when you knew his habits. The wrinkled little man always sat in the noisiest spot he could find. This time it was a table right behind the four-piece orchestra, pride of the proprietor's heart. Nolan stood silently for a moment behind the little man's chair to watch the play. He marveled at the ease with which Petersen's gnarled fingers handled the flying pasteboards. As usual, Petersen's pile of chips was low, and the set of his back was discouraged. Nolan grinned. It was part of Petersen's stock-in-trade to look like the tail end of a losing streak. The sucker trade stays away from a winning gambler. But they flocked to Petersen--and his pockets were always clinking. Petersen's gambler's sixth sense was functioning. He twitched his shoulders uncomfortably, then turned around, glaring up. "Say," he began, "who the hell are--Oh, Gunner!" Nolan nodded. "Hey there, Peter," he said. Petersen grinned and blinked. He looked with regret at his top card, then at Nolan. "No?" he asked wistfully. Nolan shook his head. "No." The little man shrugged and flipped his cards away. "Okay," he said cheerfully, shoveling his chips into his clanking pockets. "Lead on, Gunner." Nolan led on, to a more secluded corner where the clamor of the alleged orchestra was less deafening. He sent a waiter off for a bottle of sealed Terrestrial Scotch, then turned to Petersen. "Where's Woller?" he asked. Petersen scowled. "Listen, Steve," he begged, "stay out of trouble. Woller's big here." "Don't call me Steve," Nolan said mildly. Two living men knew that Nolan and Matthews were the same. Petersen was one of them--Nolan himself the other. "I manage my own affairs. I want to see Woller." "Okay," Petersen groaned. "He's at the Elena. The big hotel near South Lock." Nolan nodded. "Good enough," he said. "I'll take care of my business with him right away." The greasy-aproned waiter came back with the Scotch. Nolan inspected the seal critically, then broke it and poured two generous slugs. "How!" he said. "What've you been doing with yourself, Pete?" Petersen swallowed his Scotch, grimaced non-committally. "Following the prospectors," he said. "Making money and losing it. It's been a long time since you were here." Nolan ignored the implied question. "Pretty long," he agreed. "I wasn't figuring on coming, but I heard Woller was here." Petersen nodded his head sadly. "You're aching for trouble," he observed. "Woller's no man to buck up against. He's got money behind him." "Whose money?" "I dunno. Some Martian syndicate, they say. He's come a long way since he was your boss at Telenews." "Not so long I couldn't follow him."