 What is the most revealing reason for Miss Casey smelling good?
Confidence Game By JIM HARMON Illustrated by EPSTEIN [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] I admit it: I didn't know if I was coming or going—but I know that if I stuck to the old man, I was a comer ... even if he was a goner! The golden Moon and the silver ship, symbols of greed. "Sure," the man agreed severely, prying a little worriedly at Doc's arthritic fingers that were clamped on his collar. I came alongside and carefully started to lever the old man loose, one finger at a time. If a half dozen winos in Seattle hadn't helped me get them loose, Doc and I would have been wanted for the murder of a North American Mountie. Doc's thin frame, layered with lumpy fat, was beginning to muscle-dance against my side. "He's my father and very old, as you can see." "'Memory Jump,' you mean. All my great-grandfathers have it. But Great-great-grandmother Lupos, funny thing, is like a schoolgirl. I told the human no, thanks, and walked Doc toward the flophouse three doors down. Martians approaching the corner were sensing at Doc and me. It had happened a few times right after I first found him, but now it was worse. I tried not to think about it and helped Doc through the fly-specked flophouse doors. The tubercular clerk looked up from the gaudy comics sections of one of those little tabloids that have the funnies a week in advance. The clerk's hand fell on the coin and slid it off into the unknown before I could move, what with holding up Doc. "Had a quarter all along and yet you Martian me down to twenty cents." "You don't have any nickel. You don't have any quarter, not if I say so. There was a wino singing on the left, a wino praying on the right, and the door didn't have any lock on it. My shaggy scalp still smarted from the alcohol I had stolen from a convertible's gas tank to get rid of Doc's and my cooties. Lucky that I never needed to shave and that my face was so dirty, no one would even notice that I didn't need to. I stared at a jagged cut-out nude curled against a lump of dust and lint, giving it an unreal distortion.
 She has no vices.
 She uses soap to bathe.  She is a police officer.  She uses perfume.  She has no vices.