[Transcriber note: This etext was produced from Astounding Science
Fiction, September 1959. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence
that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
[Illustration: There are lots of things that are considered perfectly
acceptable ... provided they don't work. And of course everyone knows
they really don't, which is why they're acceptable.... ]
There are times when I don't know my own strength. Or, at least, the
strength of my advice. And the case of Jason Howley was certainly an
instance of one of those times.
When he came to my office with his gadget, I heard him out, trying to
appear both interested and co-operative--which is good business. But I
am forced to admit that neither Howley nor his gadget were very
impressive. He was a lean, slope-shouldered individual, five-feet-eight
or nine--which was shorter than he looked--with straight brown hair
combed straight back and blue eyes which were shielded with steel-rimmed
glasses. The thick, double-concave lenses indicated a degree of myopia
that must have bordered on total blindness without glasses, and acute
tunnel vision, even with them.
He had a crisp, incisive manner that indicated he was either a man who
knew what he was doing or a man who was trying to impress me with a
ready-made story. I listened to him and looked at his gadget without
giving any more indication than necessary of what I really thought.
When he was through, I said: "You understand, Mr. Howley that I'm not a
patent lawyer; I specialize in criminal law. Now, I can recommend--"
But he cut me off. "I understand that, counselor," he said sharply.
"Believe me, I have no illusion whatever that this thing is patentable
under the present patent system. Even if it were, this gadget is
designed to do something that may or may not be illegal, which would
make it hazardous to attempt to patent it, I should think. You don't
patent new devices for blowing safes or new drugs for doping horses, do
you?"
"Probably not," I said dryly, "although, as I say, I'm not qualified to
give an opinion on patent law. You say that gadget is designed to cause
minute, but significant, changes in the velocities of small, moving
objects. Just how does that make it illegal?"
He frowned a little. "Well, possibly it wouldn't, except here in Nevada.
Specifically, it is designed to influence roulette and dice games."
I looked at the gadget with a little more interest this time. There was
nothing new in the idea of inventing a gadget to cheat the red-and-black
wheels, of course; the local cops turn up a dozen a day here in the
city. Most of them either don't work at all or else they're too obvious,
so the users get nabbed before they have a chance to use them.
The only ones that really work have to be installed in the tables
themselves, which means they're used to milk the suckers, not rob the
management. And anyone in the State of Nevada who buys a license to
operate and then uses crooked wheels is (a) stupid, and (b) out of
business within a week. Howley was right. Only in a place where gambling
is legalized is it illegal--and unprofitable--to rig a game.
The gadget itself didn't look too complicated from the outside. It was a
black plastic box about an inch and a half square and maybe three and a
half long. On one end was a lensed opening, half an inch in diameter,
and on two sides there were flat, silver-colored plates. On the top of
it, there was a dial which was, say, an inch in diameter, and it was
marked off just exactly like a roulette wheel.
"How does it work?" I asked.
He picked it up in his hand, holding it as though it were a flashlight,
with the lens pointed away from him.
"You aim the lens at the wheel," he explained, "making sure that your
thumb is touching the silver plate on one side, and your fingers
touching the plate on the other side. Then you set this dial for
whatever number you want to come up and concentrate on it while the ball
is spinning. For dice, of course, you only need to use the first six or
twelve numbers on the dial, depending on the game."
* * * * *
I looked at him for a long moment, trying to figure his angle. He looked
back steadily, his eyes looking like small beads peering through the
bottoms of a couple of shot glasses.
"You look skeptical, counselor," he said at last.
"I am. A man who hasn't got the ability to be healthily skeptical has no
right to practice law--especially criminal law. On the other hand, no
lawyer has any right to judge anything one way or the other without
evidence.
"But that's neither here nor there at the moment. What I'm interested in
is, what do you want me to do? People rarely come to a criminal lawyer
unless they're in a jam. What sort of jam are you in at the moment?"
"None," said Howley. "But I will be very soon. I hope."
Well, I've heard odder statements than that from my clients. I let it
ride for the moment and looked down at the notes I'd taken while he'd
told me his story.
"You're a native of New York City?" I asked.
"That's right. That's what I said."
"And you came out here for what? To use that thing on our Nevada
tables?"
"That's right, counselor."
"Can't you find any games to cheat on back home?"
"Oh, certainly. Plenty of them. But they aren't legal. I wouldn't care
to get mixed up in anything illegal. Besides, it wouldn't suit my
purpose."
That stopped me for a moment. "You don't consider cheating illegal? It
certainly is in Nevada. In New York, if you were caught at it, you'd
have the big gambling interests on your neck; here, you'll have both
them _and_ the police after you. _And_ the district attorney's office."
He smiled. "Yes, I know. That's what I'm expecting. That's why I need a
good lawyer to defend me. I understand you're the top man in this city."
"Mr. Howley," I said carefully, "as a member of the Bar Association and
a practicing attorney in the State of Nevada, I am an Officer of the
Court. If you had been caught cheating and had come to me, I'd be able
to help you. But I can't enter into a conspiracy with you to defraud
legitimate businessmen, which is exactly what this would be."
He blinked at me through those shot-glass spectacles. "Counselor, would
you refuse to defend a man if you thought he was guilty?"
I shook my head. "No. Legally, a man is not guilty until proven so by a
court of law. He has a right to trial by jury. For me to refuse to give
a man the defense he is legally entitled to, just because I happened to
think he was guilty, would be trial by attorney. I'll do the best I can
for any client; I'll work for his interests, no matter what my private
opinion may be."
He looked impressed, so I guess there must have been a note of
conviction in my voice. There should have been, because it was exactly
what I've always believed and practiced.
"That's good, counselor," said Howley. "If I can convince you that I
have no criminal intent, that I have no intention of defrauding anyone
or conspiring with you to do anything illegal, will you help me?"
I didn't have to think that one over. I simply said, "Yes." After all,
it was still up to me to decide whether he convinced me or not. If he
didn't, I could still refuse the case on those grounds.
"That's fair enough, counselor," he said. Then he started talking.
* * * * *
Instead of telling you what Jason Howley _said_ he was going to do, I'll
tell you what he _did_ do. They are substantially the same, anyway, and
the old bromide about actions speaking louder than words certainly
applied in this case.
Mind you, I didn't see or hear any of this, but there were plenty of
witnesses to testify as to what went on. Their statements are a matter
of court record, and Jason Howley's story is substantiated in every
respect.
He left my office smiling. He'd convinced me that the case was not only
going to be worthwhile, but fun. I took it, plus a fat retainer.
Howley went up to his hotel room, changed into his expensive evening
clothes, and headed out to do the town. I'd suggested several places,
but he wanted the biggest and best--the Golden Casino, a big, plush,
expensive place that was just inside the city limits. In his pockets, he
was carrying less than two hundred dollars in cash.
Now, nobody with that kind of chicken feed can expect to last long at
the Golden Casino unless they stick to the two-bit one-armed bandits.
But putting money on a roulette table is in a higher bracket by far than
feeding a slot machine, even if you get a steady run of lemons.
Howley didn't waste any time. He headed for the roulette table right
away. He watched the play for about three spins of the wheel, then he
took out his gadget--in plain sight of anyone who cared to watch--and
set the dial for thirteen. Then he held it in his hand with thumb and
finger touching the plates and put his hand in his jacket pocket, with
the lens aimed at the wheel. He stepped up to the table, bought a
hundred dollars worth of chips, and put fifty on Number Thirteen.
"No more bets," said the croupier. He spun the wheel and dropped the
ball.
"Thirteen, Black, Odd, and Low," he chanted after a minute. With a
practiced hand, he raked in the losers and pushed out Howley's winnings.
There was sixteen hundred dollars sitting on thirteen now. Howley didn't
touch it.
The wheel went around and the little ball clattered around the rim and
finally fell into a slot.
"Thirteen, Black, Odd, and Low," said the croupier. This time, he didn't
look as nonchalant. He peered curiously at Howley as he pushed out the
chips to make a grand total of fifty-one thousand two hundred dollars.
The same number doesn't come up twice in succession very often, and it
is very rare indeed that the same person is covering it both times with
a riding bet.
"Two thousand limit, sir," the croupier said, when it looked as though
Howley was going to let the fifty-one grand just sit there.
Howley nodded apologetically and pulled off everything but two thousand
dollars worth of chips.
The third time around, the croupier had his eyes directly on Howley as
he repeated the chant: "Thirteen, Black, Odd, and Low." Everybody else
at the table was watching Howley, too. The odds against Howley--or
anyone else, for that matter--hitting the same number three times in a
row are just under forty thousand to one.
Howley didn't want to overdo it. He left two thousand on thirteen, raked
in the rest, and twisted the dial on his gadget over a notch.
Everyone at the table gasped as the little ball dropped.
"That was a near miss," whispered a woman standing nearby.
The croupier said: "Fourteen, Red, Even, and Low." And he raked in
Howley's two thousand dollars with a satisfied smile. He had seen runs
of luck before.
Howley deliberately lost two more spins the same way. Nobody who was
actually cheating would call too much attention to himself, and Howley
wanted it to look as though he were trying to cover up the fact that he
had a sure thing.
He took the gadget out of his pocket and deliberately set it to the
green square marked 00. Then he put it back in his pocket and put two
thousand dollars on the Double Zero.
* * * * *
There was more than suspicion in the croupier's eyes when he raked in
all the bets on the table except Howley's. It definitely didn't look
good to him. A man who had started out with a fifty-dollar bet had
managed to run it up to one hundred seventy-four thousand two hundred
dollars in six plays.
Howley looked as innocent as possible under the circumstances, and
carefully dropped the dial on his gadget back a few notches. Then he bet
another two thousand on High, an even money bet.
Naturally, he won.
He twisted the dial back a few more notches and won again on High.
Then he left it where it was and won by betting on Red.
By this time, of course, things were happening. The croupier had long
since pressed the alarm button, and five men had carefully surrounded
Howley. They looked like customers, but they were harder-looking than
the average, and they were watching Howley, not the wheel. Farther back
from the crowd, three of the special deputies from the sheriff's office
were trying to look inconspicuous in their gray uniforms and white
Stetsons and pearl-handled revolvers in black holsters. You can imagine
how inconspicuous they looked.
Howley decided to do it up brown. He reset his gadget as surreptitiously
as possible under the circumstances, and put his money on thirteen
again.
"Thirteen, Black, Odd, and Low," said the croupier in a hollow voice.
The five men in evening dress and the three deputies moved in closer.
Howley nonchalantly scraped in his winnings, leaving the two thousand on
the thirteen spot.
There was a combination of hostility and admiration in every eye around
the table when the croupier said, "Thirteen, Black, Odd, and Low" for
the fifth time in the space of minutes. And everyone of those eyes was
turned on Jason Howley.
The croupier smiled his professional smile. "I'm sorry, ladies and
gentlemen; we'll have to discontinue play for a while. The gentleman has
broken the bank at this table." He turned the smile on Howley.
"Congratulations, sir."
Howley smiled back and began stacking up over three hundred thousand
dollars worth of plastic disks. It made quite a pile.
One of the deputies stepped up politely. "I'm an officer, sir," he said.
"May I help you carry that to the cashier's office?"