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."