Bud Craney! The ring-rat that had stolen Gus' injector! The captain of the Thirty-seven team. "If there was room," Craney grated, "I'd wipe up the floor with you. But since there ain't, I'm just plain going to hammer you down about halfway into it." "But he ain't done nothing!" shrilled Moe. "He's an outsider, ain't he?" demanded Craney. "What business he got coming in here and messing around with things?" "I'm not messing around with things, Mr. Craney," Meek declared, trying to be dignified about it. But it was hard to be dignified with someone lifting one by the shoulder so one's toes just barely touched the floor. [Illustration: _"Ulp!" ulped Mr. Meek shakily._] "All that's the matter with you," insisted the dangling Meek, "is that you know Gus and his men will give you a whipping. They'd done it, anyhow. I haven't helped them much. I haven't helped them hardly at all." Craney howled in rage. "Why ... you ... you...." And then Oliver Meek did one of those things no one ever expected him to do, least of all himself. "I'll bet you my spaceship," he said, "against anything you got." Astonished, Craney opened his hand and let him down on the floor. "You'll what?" he roared. "I'll bet you my spaceship," said Meek, the madness still upon him, "that Twenty-three will beat you." He rubbed it in. "I'll even give you odds." Craney gasped and sputtered. "I don't want any odds," he yelped. "I'll take it even. My moss patch against your ship." Someone was calling Meek's name in the crowd. "Mr. Meek! Mr. Meek!" "Here," said Meek. "What about that story?" demanded Billy Jones, but Meek didn't hear him. A man was tearing his way through the crowd. It was one of the men from Twenty-three. "Mr. Meek," he panted, "you got to come right away. It's Gus. He's all tangled up with rheumatiz!" * * * * * Gus stared up with anguished eyes at Meek. "It sneaked up on me while I slept," he squeaked. "Laid off of me for years until just now. Limped once in a while, of course, and got a few twinges now and then, but that was all. Never had me tied up like this since I left Earth. One of the reasons I never did go back to Earth. Space is good climate for rheumatiz. Cold but dry. No moisture to get into your bones." Meek looked around at the huddled men, saw the worry that was etched upon their faces. "Get a hot water bottle," he told one of them. "Hell," said Russ Jensen, a hulking framed spaceman, "there ain't no such a thing as a hot water bottle nearer than Titan City." "An electric pad, then." Jensen shook his head. "No pads, neither. Only thing we can do is pour whiskey down him and if we pour enough down him to cure the rheumatiz, we'll get him drunk and he won't be no more able to play in that game than he is right now." Meek's weak eyes blinked behind his glasses, staring at Gus. "We'll lose sure if Gus can't play," said Jensen, "and me with everything I got bet on our team."