"And the easiest way to stop your epics is to stop you?"
"Like a dropped watch." Whitey nodded. "If there's an agent after your friend Chornoi, he might decide to bump us off, too."
Chornoi screeched to a halt. "Bye-bye." She turned away.
"Come back here." Yorick put out a hand to catch her, then snatched it back as she whirled, chopping out. "See? I knew I could stop you."
"There's not much point in going off by yourself, Miz," Whitey said. "If there's an assassin on the planet, we're in danger. The only difference in having you with us is that we have some idea of where the bastard is."
Chornoi hesitated.
Stroganoff nodded. "It's easier to duck when you know where the knives are coming from."
"There speaks a true organization man," Yorick muttered.
"But a dreamhouse is out." Whitey started walking again. "There's the little matter of cash; I don't have enough of it."
Stroganoff nodded. "Every penny's tied up in this epic."
"We're a little short ourselves," Rod said.
"When PEST took over Terra," Whitey went on, "they also took over my royalties. Oh, not that they've attached my earnings, or anything, but they're censoring the mail, and they won't let my agent send me a check. So the royalties are there, piling up nicely in a trust fund on Terra, and no doubt they'll do my heirs all kinds of good, five hundred years from now—but that doesn't help much, at the moment."
Rod had a faraway look in his eyes. "You say we're going to a casino?"
"Take your choice." Whitey turned to him with a dry smile. "The planet's lousy with 'em. Every pleasure-planet is." But he frowned at the look in Rod's eye, then suddenly grinned and slapped his thigh. "Of course! If your ecclesiastical friend can fix a static generator, he can gimmick a roulette wheel as easy as pi!"
Brother Joey went pale. "Rig a roulette wheel? My heavens, that would be stealing!"
"So what do you think the house is doing?" Whitey demanded. "Come on, Brother, all we're asking is that you make the machines shave a few percentage points in our favor."
"No." Brother Joey's jaw firmed. "I couldn't possibly do anything so immoral."
"That's right, preserve your integrity," Whitey sighed, "and more power to you. Brother, for sticking to your principles. But that still leaves us without admission to a dream-house."
"Oh, not necessarily." Rod was gazing at his wife. "That wasn't exactly what I had in mind, anyway."
Gwen had gained an abstracted, dreamy, fascinated gaze. "'Twould be but a matter of having some whirling wheel come to stop where we wished it to, would it not? Or causing a pair of dice to fall as we chose?"
"That's right, nothing heavy-duty. Think you can handle it, dear?"
"I will be delighted to essay it," Gwen answered, with a smile that made Rod shiver. After all, he knew what she could do when she put her mind to it.
Whitey frowned. "What is she—a telekinetic?"
"Among other things," Yorick muttered.
"Well, well!" Whitey offered Gwen his arm. "Allow me to escort you, Ms. Gallowglass!"
"Lady," she corrected.
"Would I be seen with anything else? Where a reporter can see me, anyway. Shall we go?"
They sauntered off toward the nearest casino, with Rod, Chornoi, Yorick and Brother Joey in tow. Dave and Mirane exchanged glances and followed.
"Lesjeux sontfaits," the croupier pronounced. He wore a satin dressing gown, muttonchop whiskers, and a stuffed raven on his shoulder. At least, Rod thought it was stuffed, but it kept turning its head to regard him with a beady ruby eye. A robot, no doubt, but was its eye really a lens for a surveillance camera?
"Les jeux sontfaits," the croupier said again, "the bets are made."
"The die is cast?" Rod suggested.
"Non, monsieur," the croupier said primly. "We play roulette at this table, not hazard."
"Oh! My apologies." Rod bit his lip in consternation; the last thing he wanted was to stand out enough for the croupier to recognize him.
The wheel spun, and Rod gazed at it, fascinated. He had lost most of the 10-therm stake Yorick had given him, before he had begun to get the knack of just how hard to think at the hopping ball. But he'd picked it up, bit by bit, and was now winning seven games out of thirteen. That was enough; he'd made back his stake, and his profits were rising slowly but steadily. On the other hand, he wasn't winning so flagrantly as to attract notice.
Since this was his turn to lose, he glanced around the room, seeking out his companions. They were easy to find in the midst of all these mock werewolves, vampires, ancestral ghosts, and decadent aristocrats. Especially the decadent aristocrats; they seemed to be in fashion this year. Rod couldn't decide whether it was the 'aristocrat' part, or the 'decadent,' that made those disguises so attractive to the tourists.
But Rod's people were dressed in ordinary coveralls or, in Gwen's case, in Renaissance peasant garb. They were definitely conspicuous—and that worried Rod, but there was nothing he could do about it.
They seemed to be doing a good job of keeping a low profile in other ways, though. Whitey had given them a brief lecture on how to win and get away with it. "Lose a lot. But make the odd win bigger than all the little losses, so that you make an overall profit. Don't make any fortunes, though, just a dozen therms or so. When we pool our winnings, we'll have enough to buy safe hiding."
They'd paid attention, and seemed to be doing well. Gwen was just one of many at the craps table; and, if her pile of chips was growing steadily larger than those of the other players, nobody seemed to be taking any particular notice of it. Yorick was building up large stacks of chips at the poker table; Whitey was busy demonstrating that he was a better whist player than the dealer. Stroganoff and Mirane were making a valiant try at contract bridge, but doing their part for the overall image of the group by losing—and Brother Joey was walking around in a daze.
Rod turned back to the table, satisfied—everything was going according to plan.
"Red twenty-one," the dealer called, and Rod stared as a pile of chips slid over in front of him. Then he shrugged, scooped them into his palm, and turned away.
"Monsieur?" the croupier inquired politely.
"I'm going to quit while I'm ahead," Rod explained. "That last win wasn't supposed to happen." And he sauntered away from the table, leaving the croupier staring after him. "Red twenty-one," he murmured, and that reminded him; he ambled over to the blackjack table. He'd always wondered if the casino version was really an honest game, and this was his chance to find out. Who better to play blackjack against the house than a mind reader?
Behind the bar at the far end of the hall, the huge 3DT tank suddenly went black, drawing bleats of protest from the loyal few who'd been watching a particularly obnoxious melodrama. Then it lit up again to show a benign, handsome face three feet high, with steel-gray hair turning white at the temples. "Fellow citizens." The face looked stern. "And you, honored guests. The Government of Otranto has just been notified that four dangerous criminals landed their spacer illegally on the surface of our fair planet, during the darkest hours of last night."
Rod's head snapped up. He stared at the screen, then
"covered and turned back to fix his gaze on the blackjack jle. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that his companions had done the same thing, except for Gwen and
Whitey, who were so wrapped up in their games that they didn't seem to have noticed.
"These criminals are convicts, who have escaped from the prison-planet Wolmar," the voice went on. "The High Vampire has just confirmed the report, and believes the criminals are at large on Otranto."
The screen dissolved to a picture of Rod. It was an atrocious likeness, really, obviously a candid, taken while Rod was running somewhere, and he'd never really looked best from his left profile—but he had to admit, with a sinking heart, that it was recognizable.
"This man is their ringleader," the unseen announcer went on, "currently traveling un
der the name of Gallowglass."
The picture dissolved to a shot of Gwen. Even in a mug shot, she was beautiful.
"These are his accomplices," the announcer went on, "a woman, posing as his wife…"
Rod sneaked a quick peek, and was relieved to see that the other patrons were all staring avidly at their games— well, almost all. And none of the croupiers were looking; his own dealer had a clamped and rigid jaw, but he was staring firmly at the cards. No doubt they'd been warned about such distractions, and about what unscrupulous but light-fingered customers do while a dealer's back was turned.
Chornoi's picture was on the screen. "… a young woman," the announcer went on, "no doubt unaware of the company into which she has strayed…"
"Twenty-one," the dealer admitted, as he laid a black jack onto the top of Rod's hand.
"Uh—thanks." Rod slid the chips into his purse and stood up. "Think I need a drink."
"… and a very burly man of particularly repellent aspect," the announcer finished, as a picture of Yorick appeared in the tank. "He even looks like a brute."
"He's talking about you, you know," Rod muttered into Yorick's ear.
"Not a word of truth in it," the caveman said automatically. He looked up. "I don't mean to gripe, Major, but I've got a hell of a hand going, here, and… HUH?"
"These convicts are presumed armed, and are highly dangerous." The announcer was back on the screen, gazing somberly out at the customers. "Please, if you are a right-minded citizen who values your personal safety, and the safety of your beloved Otranto—if you see any one or more of these criminals, notify a Public Safety official immediately."
He droned on, but Yorick said grimly, "I think I got the gist of it."
"So does he," Rod pointed out. "In fact, he's got the gist of both of us. Not to mention…"
"So don't." Yorick's glance flicked around the room. He sat up a little straighter, and the grim set of his mouth actually seemed to be curving in a slight smile.
"Damn it," Rod hissed, "you're enjoying this!"
"No, but I get a thrill out of it. If I didn't, I'd go into another line of work." Yorick looked up at Rod, his eyes narrowed. "Look, my face was on the screen; they might recognize me. Or you, for that matter—or Chornoi, or Lady Gallowglass. We'll have to depend on our local friends for a way out of this."
Rod looked furtively over his head at Whitey. "Think we can trust him?"
"You know his history as well as I do, Major. And, as they've pointed out, they're in kind of the same class of pickle jar as ourselves."
"So we can trust them—as much as we can trust anybody here." Rod slapped Yorick's shoulder. "You might think about cashing in your chips."
Yorick nodded. "At the end of the play. I don't want to look conspicuous."
This was analogous to a wolf claiming he didn't want to stand out in a flock of sheep, but Rod let it pass. He sauntered over to the whist table where Whitey was holding away, the gleam of battle in his eye. Rod leaned down and murmured, "The party's over."
"You're out of your mind," Whitey snorted. "I'm on a roll."
"The ones who're going to be rolling you, are the neighborhood police. Their local hallucination was just on the screen, identifying me and my three companions as dangerous criminals. He even showed the nice people our pictures."
"I fold." Whitey laid down his cards, raked in his chips, and stood up. The dealer looked up in surprise, but Whitey was already on his way over to the cashier's cage. "You'd better round up your crew. I'll get Dave and Mirane moving."
Rod nodded. "Meet you at the exit." He turned away toward the craps table and sidled up to a comely woman who was staring at the dice in fascination, lower lip caught between her teeth, a damp strand of hair straggling loose at the side of her forehead. "Sorry to interrupt, dear, but I think you'd better wrap it up."
"Tis what I'm attempting, yet they have so cursedly much money that I nearly despair of gaining it all."
"Spoken like a true housewife." Rod glanced at the mountain of chips in front of her, then stared in horror. "My lord! They'll never let us out of here with all that!"
"Assuredly thou canst make it to disappear, and appear again where we may find it." Gwen shook the dice in her hand.
"No!" Rod hissed. "Don't you remember what Whitey said? If we win too much, they'll steal it back!"
"Not whiles I've breath in my body!"
"They can fix that. Not that they'll have to; the whole casino just got the message that the four of us are on the lam. Showed everyone our pictures, too."
Gwen froze, paling. "Wherefore did I not hear this message?"
"You were a little preoccupied."
Gwen held still a moment longer, then nodded once. "True."
With her free hand, she shoved about half her pile of chips out. The croupier stared at the mound, astonished. Then Gwen's arm flashed down, and the dice sprang out, bounced up against the board, and fell back onto the baize, two gleaming ivories with single black dots in the center.
The croupier released his breath with a hiss. "Snake eyes!"
"Oh!" Gwen clenched her fists in exasperation. "I've lost!" She stooped to scoop her chips into her apron. "Well, I've wisdom enough to quit while I may."
"Naw, you can get it back. Come on, double or nothing," the croupier urged.
Gwen shook her head with decision. "I thank thee, but I've wanted to try my skill at that little hopping ball within the wheel."
The croupier relaxed, with only a slight smile. "Right, lady. Roulette. Yeah, go ahead." And he smiled, showing fangs.
Gwen hurried away with Rod. "Wherefore did that man not recognize me from this picture thou sayest all did see?"
"The house personnel were careful not to look. They figured it might be part of a swindle—somebody putting a fake squawk on the tank to distract them, while their partners cleaned up the tables." Rod saw Yorick heading away from the cage, sliding a billfold back inside his tunic. "Just hand your chips to the man inside the wire net, dear. He'll give you bills for them."
"But wherefore is he gaoled?"
"The wire's to keep us out, not to keep him in. When you have your money, go over by the doorway; I'll meet you there. Right now, I have to go pry Chornoi loose." He steered her toward the cage and left her there. Then Rod turned away toward the fourth member of his crew, but saw Yorick bending over, muttering into her ear. She sat very still, then deliberately set about finishing the hand. Rod approved; she wasn't going to look suspicious, no matter how much it hurt. He turned to find Whitey chatting with Mirane, who was growing paler by the syllable, and saw Dave saunter around the perimeter of the room, admiring the wallpaper—no doubt looking for the back door.
Then, across the big room, Brother Joey waved, catching Stroganoff's attention. The monk must have found an "Authorized Personnel Only" door. Rod turned toward Gwen just as she came up beside him, shaking her head as she held up a wad of bills. "I still cannot believe, my lord, that mere ink on paper can have such worth."
"Don't worry, we'll spend it before the rest of them catch on." Rod tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. "Let's meander on over toward Brother Joey, dear. He seems to have found a bolthole."
Gwen frowned. "Wherefore might we not go out as we came in?"
"What, broke? Oh, you mean the main entrance! No, there is a chance it might be guarded. Besides, you remember the doorman? You know, the one wearing the ghost makeup and the shroud, who looked so bored? Odds are he
was watching the tank, even if nobody else was. No, I think we'd better settle for what our good Brother has found."
Ten feet from the door, someone behind them gasped and yelled, "That's them! The people who were on the tank! Stop them!"
"Somebody would have to be observant!" Rod groaned.
A dozen or so ersatz Rochesters and Janes looked up, staring at them, then nudged their neighbors, nodding toward Rod and Gwen (they were too polite to point). Their neighbors—several score languid Byrons and Wollst
one-crofts—looked up and stared. Then they all started grins that turned into hungry leers, and voices began to call, "Who are they?"
"Convicts! We just saw their pictures on the tank!"
"On the tank?"
"Convicts?"
"Quick! Don't let them get away!"
"Catch them!"
"There they go!"
And in two seconds, the crowd of cultured, refined patrons had turned into a howling mob, boiling toward Rod and his companions.
"I might have known," Rod groaned. "Boredom—and we're something to do!"
Gwen hung back. "They could not stand against us, my lord! There cannot be but an hundred of them!"
"That's too many to be sure we won't kill somebody! And besides, while we're mowing them down, they could maul these people who've been trying to help us!"
He could see her hesitate. "I mislike to run from such as these, my lord."
"I know what you mean, but in this case, discretion is definitely the better part of valor. Fly, dear!"
Fortunately, Gwen didn't take him literally, but they were at the door almost as quickly as though she had. They jammed in between Chornoi and Mirane, just as Brother Joey slammed into the pressure-plate lettered, "Authorized Personnel Only."
"I never expected to be that right!" Rod waved Chornoi through first, then Mirane.
"But I'm not authorized," she protested.
"Yes, you are," said Whitey. "You're one of my personnel, and I'm an author. Git!"
Mirane stopped, gazing up at the dreamhouse facade with foreboding. "I don't like it, Whitey."
"I thought it was a little too rococo, myself." Whitey frowned up at the front of the building. "And all those chubby little angels are definitely declasse. But it's their services we're buying, not their decor."
"You're right; I don't care a fig how it looks. It's just the idea, Whitey. I can't stand the thought of being so helpless!"
"Yeah," the old man said grimly, "I know what you mean. But there isn't much choice."
"There isn't really any danger, either!" Chornoi glared daggers at Whitey. "The dreamhouse will guard you as though you were one of their own, Miz—which you will be, in a way."
"Why does that idea make me shudder?"
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