"But if she should discover--"
"Don't be stupid. She'll never guess you exist. There's a small lump
behind my ear and a small round tube cleverly concealed elsewhere."
"All right," sighed Dimanche resignedly. "I suppose people will always
be a mystery to me."
The dealer reappeared, followed by an unobtrusive man who carried a
new stool. The dealer looked subtly different, though he was the same
person. It took a close inspection to determine what the difference
was. His clothing was new, unrumpled, unmarked by perspiration. During
his brief absence, he had been furnished with new visual projector
equipment, and it had been thoroughly checked out. The house intended
to locate the source of the disturbance.
Mentally, Cassal counted his assets. He was solvent again, but in other
ways his position was not so good.
"Maybe," he suggested, "we should leave. With no further interference
from us, they might believe defective equipment is the cause of their
losses."
"Maybe," replied Dimanche, "you think the crowd around us is composed
solely of patrons?"
"I see," said Cassal soberly.
He stretched his legs. The crowd pressed closer, uncommonly aggressive
and ill-tempered for mere spectators. He decided against leaving.
"Let's resume play." The dealer-manager smiled blandly at each player.
He didn't suspect any one person--yet.
"He might be using an honest deck," said Cassal hopefully.
"They don't have that kind," answered Dimanche. He added absently:
"During his conference with the owner, he was given authority to handle
the situation in any way he sees fit."
Bad, but not too bad. At least Cassal was opposing someone who had
authority to let him keep his winnings, _if he could be convinced_.
The dealer deliberately sat down on the stool. Testing. He could endure
the charge that trickled through him. The bland smile spread into a
triumphant one.
"While he was gone, he took a sedative," analyzed Dimanche. "He also
had the strength of the broadcasting circuit reduced. He thinks that
will do it."
"Sedatives wear off," said Cassal. "By the time he knows it's me, see
that it has worn off. Mess him up."
* * * * *
The game went on. The situation was too much for the others. They
played poorly and bet atrociously, on purpose. One by one they lost and
dropped out. They wanted badly to win, but they wanted to live even
more.
The joint was jumping, and so was the dealer again. Sweat rolled down
his face and there were tears in his eyes. So much liquid began to
erode his fixed smile. He kept replenishing it from some inner source
of determination.
Cassal looked up. The crowd had drawn back, or had been forced back by
hirelings who mingled with them. He was alone with the dealer at the
table. Money was piled high around him. It was more than he needed,
more than he wanted.
"I suggest one last hand," said the dealer-manager, grimacing. It
sounded a little stronger than a suggestion.
Cassal nodded.
"For a substantial sum," said the dealer, naming it.
Miraculously, it was an amount that equaled everything Cassal had.
Again Cassal nodded.
"Pressure," muttered Cassal to Dimanche. "The sedative has worn off.
He's back at the level at which he started. Fry him if you have to."
The cards came out slowly. The dealer was jittering as he dealt. Soft
music was lacking, but not the motions that normally accompanied it.
Cassal couldn't believe that cards could be so bad. Somehow the dealer
was rising to the occasion. Rising and sitting.
"There's a nerve in your body," Cassal began conversationally, "which,
if it were overloaded, would cause you to drop dead."
The dealer didn't examine his cards. He didn't have to. "In that event,
someone would be arrested for murder," he said. "You."
That was the wrong tack; the humanoid had too much courage. Cassal
passed his hand over his eyes. "You can't do this to men, but, strictly
speaking, the dealer's not human. Try suggestion on him. Make him
change the cards. Play him like a piano. Pizzicato on the nerve
strings."
Dimanche didn't answer; presumably he was busy scrambling the circuits.
The dealer stretched out his hand. It never reached the cards. Danger:
Dimanche at work. The smile dropped from his face. What remained was
pure anguish. He was too dry for tears. Smoke curled up faintly from
his jacket.
"Hot, isn't it?" asked Cassal. "It might be cooler if you took off your
cap."
The cap tinkled to the floor. The mechanism in it was destroyed. What
the cards were, they were. Now they couldn't be changed.
"That's better," said Cassal.
* * * * *
He glanced at his hand. In the interim, it had changed slightly.
Dimanche had got there.
The dealer examined his cards one by one. His face changed color. He
sat utterly still on a cool stool.
"You win," he said hopelessly.
"Let's see what you have."
The dealer-manager roused himself. "You won. That's good enough for
you, isn't it?"
Cassal shrugged. "You have Bank of the Galaxy service here. I'll
deposit my money with them _before_ you pick up your cards."
The dealer nodded unhappily and summoned an assistant. The crowd,
which had anticipated violence, slowly began to drift away.
"What did you do?" asked Cassal silently.
"Men have no shame," sighed Dimanche. "Some humanoids do. The dealer
was one who did. I forced him to project onto his cards something that
wasn't a suit at all."
"Embarrassing if that got out," agreed Cassal. "What did you project?"
Dimanche told him. Cassal blushed, which was unusual for a man.
The dealer-manager returned and the transaction was completed. His
money was safe in the Bank of the Galaxy.
"Hereafter, you're not welcome," said the dealer morosely. "Don't come
back."
Cassal picked up the cards without looking at them. "And no accidents
after I leave," he said, extending the cards face-down. The manager
took them and trembled.
"He's an honorable humanoid, in his own way," whispered Dimanche. "I
think you're safe."
It was time to leave. "One question," Cassal called back. "What do you
call this game?"
Automatically the dealer started to answer. "Why, everyone knows...."
He sat down, his mouth open.
It was more than time to leave.
Outside, he hailed an air taxi. No point in tempting the management.
"Look," said Dimanche as the cab rose from the surface of the transport
tide.
A technician with a visual projector was at work on the sign in front
of the gaming house. Huge words took shape: WARNING--NO TELEPATHS
ALLOWED.
There were no such things anywhere, but now there were rumors of them.
* * * * *
Arriving at the habitat wing of the hotel, Cassal went directly to
his room. He awaited the delivery of the equipment he had ordered and
checked through it thoroughly. Satisfied that everything was there, he
estimated the size of the room. Too small for his purpose.
He picked up the intercom and dialed Services. "Put a Life Stage Cordon
around my suite," he said briskly.