"Tell me about it."
"Over here." The crowd opened up, made a path. Retief and Magnan
followed across the room to a brightly-lit glass-walled box.
There was an arm-sized opening at waist height. Inside was a hand grip.
A two-foot plastic globe a quarter full of chips hung in the center.
Apparatus was mounted at the top of the box.
"Slam pays good odds," the man said. "You can go as high as you like.
Chips cost you a hundred credits. You start it up by dropping a chip in
here." He indicated a slot.
"You take the hand grip. When you squeeze, it unlocks. The globe starts
to turn. You can see, it's full of chips. There's a hole at the top. As
long as you hold the grip, the bowl turns. The harder you squeeze, the
faster it turns. Eventually it'll turn over to where the hole is down,
and chips fall out.
"On the other hand, there's contact plates spotted around the bowl. When
one of 'em lines up with a live contact, you get quite a little
jolt--guaranteed nonlethal. All you've got to do is hold on long enough,
and you'll get the payoff."
"How often does this random pattern put the hole down?"
"Anywhere from three minutes to fifteen, with the average run of
players. Oh, by the way, one more thing. That lead block up there--" The
man motioned with his head toward a one-foot cube suspended by a thick
cable. "It's rigged to drop every now and again. Averages five minutes.
A warning light flashes first. You can take a chance; sometimes the
light's a bluff. You can set the clock back on it by dropping another
chip--or you can let go the grip."
Retief looked at the massive block of metal.
"That would mess up a man's dealing hand, wouldn't it?"
"The last two jokers who were too cheap to feed the machine had to have
'em off. Their arms, I mean. That lead's heavy stuff."
"I don't suppose your machine has a habit of getting stuck, like
Kippy's?"
The broad-shouldered man frowned.
"You're a stranger," he said, "You don't know any better."
"It's a fair game, Mister," someone called.
"Where do I buy the chips?"