The old man winked mysteriously. He opened his mouth and then seemed
overcome with senile fright. Hurriedly he shuffled away.
Cassal gazed after him, baffled. The old man was afraid for his job,
afraid of the first counselor. Why he should be, Cassal didn't know. He
shrugged and went on. The agency was now in motion in his behalf, but
he didn't intend to depend on that alone.
* * * * *
"The girl ahead of you is making unnecessary wriggling motions as she
walks," observed Dimanche. "Several men are looking on with approval.
I don't understand."
Cassal glanced up. They walked that way back in good old L.A. A pang of
homesickness swept through him.
"Shut up," he growled plaintively. "Attend to the business at hand."
"Business? Very well," said Dimanche. "Watch out for the transport
tide."
Cassal swerved back from the edge of the water. Murra Foray had been
right. Godolphians didn't want or need his skills, at least not on
terms that were acceptable to him. The natives didn't have to exert
themselves. They lived off the income provided by travelers, with which
the planet was abundantly supplied by ship after ship.
Still, that didn't alter his need for money. He walked the streets at
random while Dimanche probed.
"Ah!"
"What is it?"
"That man. He crinkles something in his hands. Not enough, he is
subvocalizing."
"I know how he feels," commented Cassal.
"Now his throat tightens. He bunches his muscles. 'I know where I can
get more,' he tells himself. He is going there."
"A sensible man," declared Cassal. "Follow him."
Boldly the man headed toward a section of the city which Cassal had
not previously entered. He believed opportunity lay there. Not for
everyone. The shrewd, observant, and the courageous could succeed
if--The word that the quarry used was a slang term, unfamiliar to
either Cassal or Dimanche. It didn't matter as long as it led to money.
Cassal stretched his stride and managed to keep the man in sight. He
skipped nimbly over the narrow walkways that curved through the great
buildings. The section grew dingier as they proceeded. Not slums; not
the show-place city frequented by travelers, either.
Abruptly the man turned into a building. He was out of sight when
Cassal reached the structure.
He stood at the entrance and stared in disappointment. "Opportunities
Inc.," Dimanche quoted softly in his ear. "Science, thrills, chance.
What does that mean?"
"It means that we followed a gravity ghost!"
"What's a gravity ghost?"
"An unexplained phenomena," said Cassal nastily. "It affects the
instruments of spaceships, giving the illusion of a massive dark body
that isn't there."
"But you're not a pilot. I don't understand."
"You're not a very good pilot yourself. We followed the man to a
gambling joint."
"Gambling," mused Dimanche. "Well, isn't it an opportunity of a sort?
Someone inside is thinking of the money he's winning."
"The owner, no doubt."
Dimanche was silent, investigating. "It is the owner," he confirmed
finally. "Why not go in, anyway. It's raining. And they serve drinks."
Left unstated was the admission that Dimanche was curious, as usual.
* * * * *
Cassal went in and ordered a drink. It was a variable place, depending
on the spectator--bright, cheerful, and harmonious if he were winning,
garish and depressingly vulgar if he were not. At the moment Cassal
belonged to neither group. He reserved judgment.
An assortment of gaming devices were in operation. One in particular
seemed interesting. It involved the counting of electrons passing
through an aperture, based on probability.
"Not that," whispered Dimanche. "It's rigged."
"But it's not necessary," Cassal murmured. "Pure chance alone is good
enough."
"They don't take chances, pure or adulterated. Look around. How many
Godolphians do you see?"
Cassal looked. Natives were not even there as servants. Strictly a
clip joint, working travelers.
Unconsciously, he nodded. "That does it. It's not the kind of
opportunity I had in mind."
"Don't be hasty," objected Dimanche. "Certain devices I can't control.
There may be others in which my knowledge will help you. Stroll around
and sample some games."
Cassal equipped himself with a supply of coins and sauntered through
the establishment, disbursing them so as to give himself the widest
possible acquaintance with the layout.
"That one," instructed Dimanche.
It received a coin. In return, it rewarded him with a large shower of
change. The money spilled to the floor with a satisfying clatter. An
audience gathered rapidly, ostensibly to help him pick up the coins.
"There was a circuit in it," explained Dimanche. "I gave it a shot of
electrons and it paid out."
"Let's try it again," suggested Cassal.
"Let's not," Dimanche said regretfully. "Look at the man on your right."
Cassal did so. He jammed the money back in his pocket and stood up.
Hastily, he began thrusting the money back into the machine. A large
and very unconcerned man watched him.
"You get the idea," said Dimanche. "It paid off two months ago. It
wasn't scheduled for another this year." Dimanche scrutinized the man
in a multitude of ways while Cassal continued play. "He's satisfied,"
was the report at last. "He doesn't detect any sign of crookedness."
"_Crookedness?_"
"On your part, that is. In the ethics of a gambling house, what's done
to insure profit is merely prudence."
* * * * *
They moved on to other games, though Cassal lost his briefly acquired
enthusiasm. The possibility of winning seemed to grow more remote.
"Hold it," said Dimanche. "Let's look into this."
"Let me give _you_ some advice," said Cassal. "This is one thing we
can't win at. Every race in the Galaxy has a game like this. Pieces of
plastic with values printed on them are distributed. The trick is to
get certain arbitrarily selected sets of values in the plastics dealt
to you. It seems simple, but against a skilled player a beginner can't
win."
"Every race in the Galaxy," mused Dimanche. "What do men call it?"
"Cards," said Cassal, "though there are many varieties within that
general classification." He launched into a detailed exposition of the
subject. If it were something he was familiar with, all right, but a
foreign deck and strange rules--
Nevertheless, Dimanche was interested. They stayed and observed.
The dealer was clumsy. His great hands enfolded the cards. Not a
Godolphian nor quite human, he was an odd type, difficult to place.
Physically burly, he wore a garment chiefly remarkable for its
ill-fitting appearance. A hard round hat jammed closely over his skull
completed the outfit. He was dressed in a manner that, somewhere in the
Universe, was evidently considered the height of fashion.
"It doesn't seem bad," commented Cassal. "There might be a chance."
"Look around," said Dimanche. "Everyone thinks that. It's the classic
struggle, person against person and everyone against the house.
Naturally, the house doesn't lose."
"Then why are we wasting our time?"
"Because I've got an idea," said Dimanche. "Sit down and take a hand."
"Make up your mind. You said the house doesn't lose."
"The house hasn't played against us. Sit down. You get eight cards,
with the option of two more. I'll tell you what to do."
Cassal waited until a disconsolate player relinquished his seat and
stalked moodily away. He played a few hands and bet small sums in
accordance with Dimanche's instructions. He held his own and won
insignificant amounts while learning.
It was simple. Nine orders, or suits, of twenty-seven cards each. Each
suit would build a different equation. The lowest hand was a quadratic.
A cubic would beat it. All he had to do was remember his math, guess
at what he didn't remember, and draw the right cards.
"What's the highest possible hand?" asked Dimanche. There was a note
of abstraction in his voice, as if he were paying more attention to
something else.
Cassal peeked at the cards that were face-down on the table. He shoved
some money into the betting square in front of him and didn't answer.
"You had it last time," said Dimanche. "A three dimensional
encephalocurve. A time modulated brainwave. If you had bet right, you
could have owned the house by now."
"I did? Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because you had it three successive times. The probabilities against
that are astronomical. I've got to find out what's happening before you
start betting recklessly."
"It's not the dealer," declared Cassal. "Look at those hands."
They were huge hands, more suitable, seemingly, for crushing the life
from some alien beast than the delicate manipulation of cards. Cassal
continued to play, betting brilliantly by the only standard that
mattered: he won.
* * * * *
One player dropped out and was replaced by a recruit from the
surrounding crowd. Cassal ordered a drink. The waiter was placing it in
his hand when Dimanche made a discovery.
"I've got it!"
A shout from Dimanche was roughly equivalent to a noiseless kick in the
head. Cassal dropped the drink. The player next to him scowled but said
nothing. The dealer blinked and went on dealing.
"What have you got?" asked Cassal, wiping up the mess and trying to
keep track of the cards.
"How he fixes the deck," explained Dimanche in a lower and less painful
tone. "Clever."
Muttering, Cassal shoved a bet in front of him.
"Look at that hat," said Dimanche.
"Ridiculous, isn't it? But I see no reason to gloat because I have
better taste."
"That's not what I meant. It's pulled down low over his knobby ears and
touches his jacket. His jacket rubs against his trousers, which in turn
come in contact with the stool on which he sits."
"True," agreed Cassal, increasing his wager. "But except for his
physique, I don't see anything unusual."
"It's a circuit, a visual projector broken down into components. The
hat is a command circuit which makes contact, via his clothing, with
the broadcasting unit built into the chair. The existence of a visual
projector is completely concealed."
Cassal bit his lip and squinted at his cards. "Interesting. What does
it have to do with anything?"
"The deck," exclaimed Dimanche excitedly. "The backs are regular,
printed with an intricate design. The front is a special plastic,
susceptible to the influence of the visual projector. He doesn't need
manual dexterity. He can make any value appear on any card he wants. It
will stay there until he changes it."
Cassal picked up the cards. "I've got a Loreenaroo equation. Can he
change that to anything else?"
"He can, but he doesn't work that way. He decides before he deals who's
going to get what. He concentrates on each card as he deals it. He can
change a hand after a player gets it, but it wouldn't look good."
"It wouldn't." Cassal wistfully watched the dealer rake in his wager.
His winnings were gone, plus. The newcomer to the game won.
He started to get up. "Sit down," whispered Dimanche. "We're just
beginning. Now that we know what he does and how he does it, we're
going to take him."
* * * * *
The next hand started in the familiar pattern, two cards of fairly good
possibilities, a bet, and then another card. Cassal watched the dealer
closely. His clumsiness was only superficial. At no time were the faces
of the cards visible. The real skill was unobservable, of course--the
swift bookkeeping that went on in his mind. A duplication in the hands
of the players, for instance, would be ruinous.
Cassal received the last card. "Bet high," said Dimanche. With
trepidation, Cassal shoved the money into the betting area.
The dealer glanced at his hand and started to sit down. Abruptly he
stood up again. He scratched his cheek and stared puzzledly at the
players around him. Gently he lowered himself onto the stool. The
contact was even briefer. He stood up in indecision. An impatient
murmur arose. He dealt himself a card, looked at it, and paid off all
the way around. The players buzzed with curiosity.
"What happened?" asked Cassal as the next hand started.
"I induced a short in the circuit," said Dimanche. "He couldn't sit
down to change the last card he got. He took a chance, as he had to,
and dealt himself a card, anyway."
"But he paid off without asking to see what we had."
"It was the only thing he could do," explained Dimanche. "He had
duplicate cards."
The dealer was scowling. He didn't seem quite so much at ease. The
cards were dealt and the betting proceeded almost as usual. True,
the dealer was nervous. He couldn't sit down and stay down. He was
sweating. Again he paid off. Cassal won heavily and he was not the only
one.
The crowd around them grew almost in a rush. There is an indefinable
sense that tells one gambler when another is winning.
This time the dealer stood up. His leg contacted the stool
occasionally. He jerked it away each time he dealt to himself. At the
last card he hesitated. It was amazing how much he could sweat. He
lifted a corner of the cards. Without indicating what he had drawn,
determinedly and deliberately he sat down. The chair broke. The dealer
grinned weakly as a waiter brought him another stool.
"They still think it may be a defective circuit," whispered Dimanche.
The dealer sat down and sprang up from the new chair in one motion. He
gazed bitterly at the players and paid them.
"He had a blank hand," explained Dimanche. "He made contact with the
broadcasting circuit long enough to erase, but not long enough to put
anything in it's place."
The dealer adjusted his coat. "I have a nervous disability," he
declared thickly. "If you'll pardon me for a few minutes while I take a
treatment--"
"Probably going to consult with the manager," observed Cassal.
"He is the manager. He's talking with the owner."
"Keep track of him."
* * * * *
A blonde, pretty, perhaps even Earth-type human, smiled and wriggled
closer to Cassal. He smiled back.
"Don't fall for it," warned Dimanche. "She's an undercover agent for
the house."