"This could be a swell place," enthused Smith, "if we could get rid of the undesirables. Fine opportunities. Capital would come in. Decent people could settle. We could have some civic improvements. Maybe a Rotary club." Meek wiggled his toes despairingly. "You would earn the eternal gratitude of Asteroid City," urged the Rev. Brown. "We've tried it before but it never worked." "They always killed our man," Smith explained, "or he got scared, or they bought him off." "We never had a man like you before," the Rev. Brown declared. "Luke Blaine is a notorious gunman. No one, ever before, has been able to beat him to...." "There must be some mistake," insisted Meek. "I'm just a bookkeeper. I don't know a thing...." "We'd swear you in as marshal," said Smith. "The office is vacant now. Has been for three months or more. We can't find anyone to take it." "But I'm not staying long," protested Meek. "I'm leaving pretty soon. I just want to try to get a look at the Asteroid Prowler and scout around to see if I can't find some old rocks I read about once." The two visitors stared open mouthed at him. Meek brightened. "You've heard about those old rocks, maybe. Some funny inscriptions on them. Fellow who found them thought they had been made recently, probably just before Earthmen first came here. But no one can read them. Maybe some other race ... from somewhere far away." "But it won't take you long," pleaded Smith. "We got warrants for all of them. All you got to do is serve them." "Look," said Meek in desperation, "you have got me wrong. It must have been an accident, shooting that gun out of Mr. Blaine's hand." Meek felt dull anger stirring within him. What right did these people have of insisting that he help them with their troubles? What did they think he was? A desperado or space runner? Another gangster? Just because he'd been lucky at the Silver Moon. "By gosh," he declared flatly, "I just won't do it!" They looked pained, rose reluctantly. "I suppose we shouldn't have expected that you would," said the Reverend Brown bitingly. * * * * * The Silver Moon was quiet. The bartender was languidly wiping the top of the bar. A Venusian boy was as languidly sweeping out. The dancing girls were gone, the music was silent. Stiffy and Oliver Meek were among the few customers. Stiffy gulped a drink and blew fiercely through his whiskers. "Oliver," he said, "you sure are a ring-tailed bearcat with them guns of yours. I wonder, would you tell me how you do it?" "Look here, Mr. Grant," said Meek. "I wish you'd quit talking about what I did. It was just an accident, anyhow. What I'm mainly interested in is this Asteroid Prowler you were telling me about. Is there any chance I might find him if I went out and looked?" Stiffy choked, almost purple with astonishment. "Good gravy," he said, "now you want to go out and tangle with the Prowler!" "Not tangle with him," Meek declared. "Just look at him."