"And get your rating upped to a lieutenant," Mother Corey observed. "Without telling cobber Gordon!" "Like I say, honesty pays, Mother--when you know how to collect. Hell, I figured Bruce would do the same. He's a right gee." Mother Corey chuckled. "Yeah, when he forgets he's a machine. How about a game of shanks?" The steps moved away; the door closed again. Bruce Gordon got both eyes open and managed to sit up. The effects of the drug were almost gone, but it took a straining of every nerve to reach his uniform pouch. His fingers, clumsy and uncertain, groped back and forth for a badge that wasn't there! He heard the door open softly, but made no effort to look up. The reaction from his effort had drained him. Fingers touched his head carefully, brushing the hair back delicately from the side of his skull. Then there was the biting sting of antiseptic, sharp enough to bring a groan from his lips. Sheila's hair fell over her face as she bent to replace his bandages. Her eyes wandered toward his, and the scissors and bandages on her lap hit the floor as she jumped to her feet. She turned toward her room, then hesitated as he grinned crookedly at her. "Hi, Cuddles," he said flatly. She bit her lips and turned back, while a slow flush ran over her face. Her voice was uncertain. "Hello, Bruce. You okay?" "How long have I been like this?" "Fifteen hours, I guess. It's almost midnight." She bent over to pick up the bandages and to finish with his head. "Are you hungry? There's some canned soup--I took the money from your pocket. Or coffee..." "Coffee." He forced himself up again; Sheila propped the flimsy pillow behind him, then went into her room to come back with a plastic cup filled with brown liquid that passed for coffee here. It was loaded with caffeine, at least. "Why'd you come back?" he asked suddenly. "You were anxious enough to pick the lock and get out." "I didn't pick it--you forgot to lock it." He couldn't remember what he'd done after he found the badge. "Okay, my mistake. But why the change of heart?" "Because I needed a meal ticket!" she said harshly. "When I saw that Legal cop ready to take you, I had to go running out to save you. Because I don't have the iron guts to starve like a Martian!" It rocked him back on his mental heels. He'd thought that she had been attacking him on the street; but it made more sense this way, at that. "You're a fool!" he told her bitterly. "You bought a punched meal ticket. Right now, I probably have six death warrants out on me, and about as much chance of making a living as--" "I'll stick to my chances. I don't have any others now." She grimaced. "You get things done. Now that you've got a wife to support, you'll support her. Just remember, it was your idea." He'd had a lot of ideas, it seemed. "I've got a wife who's holding onto a notebook that belongs to me, then. Where is it?"