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.”
Another man spoke up. “Meek could play in Gus’ place.”
“Nope, he couldn’t,” declared Jensen. “The rats from Thirty-seven wouldn’t stand for it.”
“They couldn’t do a thing about it,” declared the other man. “Meek’s been here six weeks today. That makes him a resident. Six Earth weeks, the law says. And all that time he’s been in sector Twenty-three. They wouldn’t have a leg to stand on. They might squawk but they couldn’t make it stick.”
“You’re certain of that?” demanded Jensen.
“Dead certain,” said the other. Meek saw them looking at him, felt a queasy feeling steal into his stomach.
“I couldn’t,” he told them. “I couldn’t do it. I… I…”
“You go right ahead, Oliver,” said Gus. “I wanted to play, of course. Sort of set my heart on that cup. Had the mantel piece all dusted off for it. But if I can’t play, there ain’t another soul I’d rather have play in my place than you.”