Police Your Planet | Page 8

At his questions, Gordon told the story tersely.
Mother Corey nodded. "Same old angles, eh? Get enough to do the job,
they mug you. Stop halfway, and the halls are closed to you. Pretty
soon, they'll be trick-proof, anyhow; they're changing over to electric
eyes. Eh, you haven't forgotten me, cobber?"
Gordon hadn't. The old wreck had demanded five per cent of his
winnings for tipping him off. Mother Corey had too many cheap hoods
among his friends to be fooled with. Gordon counted out the money
reluctantly, while Izzy explained that they were going to be cops.
The old man shook his head, estimating what was left to Gordon.
"Enough to buy a corporal's job, pay for your suit, and maybe get by,"
he decided. "Don't do it, cobber. You're the wrong kind. You take what
you're doing serious. When you set out to tinhorn a living, you're a
crook. Get you in a cop's outfit, and you'll turn honest. No place here

for an honest cop--not with elections coming up, cobber. Well, I guess
you gotta find out for yourself. Want a good room?"
Gordon's lips twitched. "Thanks, Mother, but I'll be staying inside the
dome, I guess."
"So'll I," the old man gloated. "Setting in a chair all day, being an
honest citizen. Cobber, I already own a joint there--a nice one, they tell
me. Lights. Two water closets. Big rooms, six-by-ten--fifty of them,
big enough for whole families. And strictly on the level, cobber. It's no
hide-out, like this."
He rolled the money in his greasy fingers. "Now, with what I get from
the pusher, I can buy off that hot spot on the police blotter. I can go in
the dome and walk around, just like you." His eyes watered, and a tear
went dripping down his nose. "I'm getting old. They'll be calling me
'Grandmother' pretty soon. So I'm turning my Chicken House over to
my granddaughter and I'm going honest. Want a room?"
Gordon grinned, and nodded. Mother Corey knew the ropes, and could
be trusted. "Didn't know you had a granddaughter."
Izzy snorted, and Mother Corey grinned wolfishly. "You met her,
cobber. The blonde you shook down! Came up from Earth eight years
ago, looking for me. I sold her to the head of the East Point gang. Since
she killed him, she's been doing pretty well on her own. Mostly. Except
when she makes a fool of herself, like she did with you. But she'll come
around to where I'm proud of her, yet.... If you two want to carry in the
snow, collect, and turn it over to Commissioner Arliss for me--I can't
pass the dome till he gets it--I'll give you both rooms for six months
free. Except for the lights and water, of course."
Izzy nodded, and Gordon shrugged. On Mars, it didn't seem odd to
begin applying for a police job by carrying in narcotics. He wondered
how they'd go about contacting the commissioner.
But that turned out to be simple enough. After collecting, Izzy led the
way into a section marked "Special Taxes" and whispered a few casual

words. The man at the desk went into an office marked private, and
came back a few minutes later.
"Your friend has no record with us," he said in a routine voice. "I've
checked through his tax forms, and they're all in order. We'll confirm
officially, of course."
* * * * *
In the Applications section of the big Municipal Building, at the center
of the dome, there was a long form to fill out at the desk; but the
captain there had already had answers typed in.
"Save time, boys," he said genially. "And time's valuable, ain't it? Ah,
yes." He took the sums they had ready--there was a standard price--and
stamped their forms. "And you'll want suits. Isaacs? Good, here's your
receipt. And you, Corporal Gordon. Right. Get your suits one floor
down, end of the hall. And report in eight tomorrow morning!"
It was as simple as that. Bruce Gordon was lucky enough to get a fair
fit in his suit. He'd almost forgotten what it felt like to be in uniform.
Izzy was more businesslike. "Hope they don't give us too bad territory,
gov'nor," he remarked. "Pickings are always a little lean on the first few
beats, but you can work some fairly well."
Gordon's chest fell; this was Mars!
The room at the new Mother Corey's--an unkempt old building near the
edge of the dome--proved to be livable, though it was a shock to see
Mother Corey himself in a decent suit, and using perfume.
The beat was in a shabby section where clerks and skilled laborers
worked. It wasn't poor enough to offer the universal desperation that
gave the gang hoodlums protective coloring,