She went out of the place, went back to her ship, dropped the identity
key in a small slot on the instrument panel and closed the control
lever. From here on the 'Coptel would do the directing and controlling
of the weary ship. She leaned back, felt at the bulging pocket in her
plastiskin.
She needed those teel credits. She didn't know how much, but she knew
she'd need a lot, for _he_ could always be found where the money was.
Or the women. Or both.
* * * * *
The 'Coptel court was empty. Cold winds just in off the deserts swept
little memories of sand around, flicking at 'Coptel walls with a dry,
brittle sound. The woman left her ship, went through the 'Coptel lock,
dumped the bag she'd taken with her from the ship onto the bed. She
looked around. Then sniffed softly. It didn't matter what the place
looked like, she wouldn't be here long enough to notice.
She showered, and for the next ten minutes worked hard on her hair.
After that she went to the bag over on the bed and took from it a new
plastiskin with a gleaming, golden-colored modo-strap. She pulled it
over very white thighs, struggled her arms in. All that remained was to
transfer the teel credits and the gun. After that she went out to the
ship and set the controls for take-off in fifteen minutes.
Going down the 'Coptel ramp to the spacelators she chuckled softly to
herself. The ship would go up to the eighth lane and stay there. She
wondered what the Security people would think when they found it up
there with nobody in it.
The croupier at the telecto-spin table was a funny sort of a guy, a
philosophic guy. Standing at one table night after night you get like
that. He liked to study the people who came here to _Half-Century
House_ to gamble. Some could afford it, some could not.
That black-haired woman over by the quarter-teel machines for instance.
The one with the cheap new plastiskin with the phony golden modo-strap
on it. Take her. Ten to one she worked somewhere in a mining office and
managed to put away, by great sacrifice, a little something from her
salary each week.
Ten to one she'd done this for a year just so she could come up here
to Fraon and have herself a whirl in the gaming houses for one or two
days. How do you like that? And ten to one she'd go home broke as hell
and go back to the slaving routine some more. Unless, of course, she
could discover for herself some other less laborious way of making a
fast teel.
Not a bad looking woman, either, he thought. There was something--some
tiny little thing--about her that puzzled him, but he couldn't put
his finger on it. He watched her play the machines, watched her as
she scanned the place with dark eyes that missed about as much as
the teel-collector on tax day. Odd. She didn't seem to be paying any
attention to the machines she was playing, she seemed more interested
in the motley crowd in the place.
Oh, well. Just another woman. Another twenty minutes and they'd be
closing up and he could go home for the big sleep everybody enjoyed
during the synthi-rain. He spun his wheel idly and looked away.
"You running this wheel or just modeling for a space artist?"
The croupier jerked his eyes around. Then he blinked. The woman with
the black hair and the golden modo-strap was standing at his wheel
giving him a sour eye. He pulled himself together, worked a little
house-smile for her.
"Dreaming," he admitted. "Like to try the wheel?" He felt sorry for
her. Poor kid, she should stick to the quarter-teel machines.
He watched her flip the pocket in her plastiskin. He watched her with
eyes that began to bulge as he saw the amount of credits she piled out
on the table in front of him.
"What's the current odds on whether the scientists have figured out
whether space is infinite?" she asked.
His eyes were still bulging, but he looked away, checked on the chart.
My God, the long shots these amateurs take! "One hundred and two
thousand to one," he said. "As of ten twenty-two tonight, which is the
last quotation I have."
The woman nodded. "That gives me plenty of room for my elbows. Spin the
wheel and see how I'm doing."
The croupier hesitated. "Those credits," he said warningly. "You mean
to bet them all?" He made a rapid calculation out of the corner of his
eye. "You must have five or six hundred thousand...."