He was getting to believe it. And not liking it. He glared at the woman, then glared down at the heat gun in her hand. He growled indignantly:
"Why you lousy space tramp, I oughta...."
"Hold it!" Something hard was in the woman's voice.
But he didn't hold it. His hand went out darting, and his fingers clutched for the alarm buttons on the bank. And they almost made it, those fingers of his. They came within a thought-space of making it.
But didn't, actually.
The heat gun made a funny sound like a tiny jet biting at solid atmosphere. The greasy man's hand stayed for an instant, his fingers playing little chords of agony in the air.
Somebody like him. After that his body folded forward and his head came down over the machine. His mustache, somehow, didn't look so very good now.
The woman went around the counter, punched the control buttons on the rear of the bank. At once two compartments came out and she looked down into a mess of teel credits that would choke a moon crater. She frowned. Then she transferred the platinum teels to the big pocket in her plastiskin, closed the compartments, went around to the front of the desk again, and looked down at the buttons.
