The D.A. hammered at him for half an hour trying to get something out of
Howley, but he didn't get anywhere useful. Howley admitted that he'd
come to Nevada to play the wheels; what was wrong with that? He admitted
that he'd come just to try out his good luck charm--and what was wrong
with that? He even admitted that it worked for him every time--
And what was wrong, pray, with _that_?
Thursby knew he was licked. He'd known it for a long time. His summation
to the jury showed it. The expressions on the faces of the jury as they
listened showed it.
They brought in a verdict of Not Guilty.
* * * * *
When I got back to my office, I picked up the phone and called the
Golden Casino. I asked for George Brockey, the manager. When I got him
on the phone and identified myself, he said, "Oh. It's you." His voice
didn't sound friendly.
"It's me," I said.
"I suppose you're going to slap a suit for false arrest on the Casino
now, eh, counselor?"
"Not a bit of it, George," I said. "The thought occurred to me, but I
think we can come to terms."
"Yeah?"
"Nothing to it, George. You give us the three hundred grand and we don't
do a thing."
"Yeah?" He didn't get it. He had to fork over the money anyway,
according to the court order, so what was the deal?
"If you want to go a little further, I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll
give you one of our little good luck charms, if you'll promise to call
your boys off Howley."
"Nobody's on Howley," he said. "You ought to know better than that. In
this state, if we get whipped in court, we play it square. Did you think
we were going to get rough?"
"No. But you kind of figured on lifting that gadget as soon as he gets
it back from the D.A., didn't you? I saw your boys waiting at his hotel.
I'm just telling you that you don't have to do that. We'll give you the
gadget. There are plenty more where that came from."
"I see," Brockey said after a long pause. "O.K., counselor. It's a
deal."
"Fine. We'll pick up the money later this evening, if that's O.K."
"Sure, counselor. Anytime. Anytime at all." He hung up.
I grinned at Howley, who was sitting across the desk from me. "Well,
that winds it up."
"I don't get it," Howley said. "Why'd you call up Brockey? What was the
purpose of that 'deal'?"
"No deal," I told him. "I was just warning him that killing you and
taking the gadget wouldn't do any good, that we've covered you. He won't
bother having anything done to you if he knows that the secret of the
gadget is out already."
Howley's eyes widened behind those spectacles of his. "You mean they'd
kill me? I thought Nevada gamblers were honest."
"Oh, they are, they are. But this is a threat to their whole industry.
It's more than that, it may destroy them. Some of them might kill to
keep that from happening. But you don't have to worry now."
"Thanks. Tell me, do you think we've succeeded?"
"In what you set out to do? Certainly. When we mail out those gadgets to
people all over the state, the place will be in an uproar. With all the
publicity this case is getting, it'll _have_ to work. You now have a
court decision on your side, a decision which says that a psionic device
can be legally used to influence gambling games.
"Why, man, they'll _have_ to start investigating! You'll have every
politico in the State of Nevada insisting that scientists work on that
thing. To say nothing of what the syndicate will do."
"All I wanted to do," said Howley, "was force people to take notice of
psionics. I guess I've done that."
"You certainly have, brother. I wonder what it will come to?"
"I wonder, myself, sometimes," Howley said.
That was three and a half years ago. Neither Howley nor I are wondering
now. According to the front page of today's _Times_, the first
spaceship, with a crew of eighty aboard, reached Mars this morning. And,
on page two, there's a small article headlined: ROCKET OBSOLETE, SAY
SCIENTISTS.
It sure is.