Wild Card: 4/?
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
VII
Squashed between Mark and the dowager, Alan watched the play with professional interest. It was funny to think how his psychic abilities could upset all the carefully calculated laws of probability that gave the bank its advantage.
Of course, psychics with any sense refrained from such tricks unless they had a very good reason to interfere, but if psychic powers ever became an accepted part of society, places like this might have trouble. They'd have to design their gambling machines to resist psychics or possibly assign psychic monitors to detect and prevent cheating. The thought was intriguing. That must be why the Jilectans didn't appear to be interested in gambling. Psychic powers must sort of spoil the suspense for them. They did for him.
The ball dropped smartly into zero and Alan heard disgruntled murmurs from the crowd. Odd. Out of twelve spins, this was the third time it had fallen on zero or double zero.
Alan's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. True, in the long run, cheating generally caused more trouble than it was worth, but sometimes the short term profit was too much temptation to withstand ... especially if one wasn't going to stay around long enough for the long term problems to emerge.
He didn't need to touch Mark. Linley was jammed tightly against him in the mob. Very cautiously, Alan reached telepathically for the croupier's mind.
A mixture of thoughts and emotions reached him. The man was comfortable and satisfied. He was thinking that the little device under the board was working to perfection, and pretty, little Lucy, who was handling the controls, was doing her job expertly ...
Alan felt a strong dislike for the man. Deliberately, now, he turned his attention to the table, reaching out with his extra-sensory gifts and drawing energy from his living power pack beside him.
Linley glanced down at him, evidently aware of the power drain, a questioning expression on his face, but Alan was too busy at the moment to explain. Yes, there it was. Inside the little ivory ball was metal -- and a current coil was snugly embedded in the table. A distant control panel appeared to him as a vague blur, and he had the indistinct impression of a young, Terran female: Lucy, no doubt. The setup was actually very simple -- childishly so.
For an instant he closed his eyes, in order to concentrate more effectively, and a finger of telekinetic energy reached through the table to the coil inside. A connection parted.
That was that. The magnet no longer functioned. Somehow, though, the word should be spread that the tables at the Sunspot might be fixed. Cheating in this form angered him -- unreasonably, he was sure. He was aware that he was far too honest for his own good, but somehow, he was going to see to it that these people regretted their little game.
He looked around. At the end of the table was a young, pretty woman, her arm hooked through that of an equally young man. A honeymooning couple, he thought, and his empathic senses were picking up distress signals. He probed a little farther.
Disappointment, mostly. They had done badly, tonight, and the girl's father would be angry if he discovered that they had blown the money he had given them for a wedding present at the roulette table ...
The man spoke softly to his wife and placed a final chip on 29.
The wheel spun and the little ball dropped into its track. Around and around it went, slowing gradually. Now, Alan thought.
With a sharp click, the ball dropped into slot 29.
For several seconds the croupier stared at the ball and Alan sensed his surprise, followed an instant later by annoyance at the distant Lucy, who obviously had not been attending to her job. He recovered quickly, however, raking in the losing bets and paying the winners. The young couple was paid at thirty-five to one for a winning bet on a single number. Alan could sense their surprise.
The croupier wasn't watching them. He glanced around the table. "Place your bets, gentlemen!"
The honeymooners held a hurried conference, then signaled their intention to let it ride. The croupier's face was unreadable, but his emotions were those of satisfaction. Little Lucy wouldn't miss again.
Alan smiled, faintly. This fellow was in for a big comedown.
The wheel spun and the ivory ball dropped into its track. Around and around it went, Alan watching for the right moment. This must look exactly right ...
With a decisive click, the ball dropped into slot 29.
There was a moment of stunned silence, then a soft murmur of surprise from the crowd. The croupier appeared to be struck dumb. Very slowly, he raked in the losing bets and pushed stacks of chips to the winners, glancing uncertainly at a tall, sleek, dark-haired individual who had appeared beside him. The other gave the barest hint of a nod and the croupier turned quickly back to the table, forcing a smile.
"Place your bets, gentlemen," he said.
The honeymooners seemed undecided for an instant, then, with a fatalistic shrug, the young man looked up. "Let it ride."
Others were pushing chips onto the table, less enthusiastically, this time. Mark looked oddly at him, then placed a tall stack of chips on the odd numbers. Again the wheel and ball spun and again, with deadly precision, the ball dropped straight into 29.
The croupier swallowed, staring as if hypnotized at the little ball. The honeymooning couple looked at each other, and, as the croupier pushed the stacks of chips toward them, picked up their winnings and departed.
Mark nudged him in the ribs and Alan returned his gaze with a wide-eyed, innocent expression. The croupier was glancing around, but the dark-haired man had vanished. He swallowed convulsively. "Place your bets, gentlemen," he squeaked.
Mark pushed four stacks of chips onto 29, looking down at Alan with as innocent an expression as the one that Alan had given him a moment earlier. Several people eyed the croupier suspiciously before placing their own bets, some on odds, many on black. Alan noticed that the bets including 29 were predominant and heavy. This was going to cost the casino.
The wheel spun and the little ivory ball whirled in the opposite direction. A minute later, it clicked unerringly into 29.
Slowly, his hand shaking, the croupier raked in the losing bets -- there weren't many -- then pushed stacks of glittering, golden chips to the winners. The crowd around the table had increased in size, Alan realized suddenly. They had collected quite a number of onlookers and scores of interested and suspicious eyes were fixed on the sweating croupier. The dowager beside Alan lifted her voice over the murmur of the assembled group.
"This damned table's as crooked as Revolthvor's nose! Four times on twenty-nine!"
"The lady ish correct!" It was the Procyon noble, his blue feathers standing up straight on his head. "I demand to be allowed to inshpect the workingsh of thish wheel ..."
The tall, dark man was back, speaking softly to the croupier. The Procyon pressed forward, repeating his demand more loudly, and another of his species joined in. The croupier cleared his throat, turning nervously to the angry aliens.
"Please be patient, ladies and gentlemen; there ... there may be a problem here, and we will be temporarily closing this table until it is repaired ...
"Seems to me it was falling on zero and double zero a lot until it started showing a fancy for twenty-nine!" a young woman across the table from Alan announced, shrilly. A chorus of accusations followed, and Mark scooped up his winnings, glancing at his partner with amusement.
"C'mon, kid," he said.
Alan followed him docilely while he cashed in his chips, and made his way out the doors. Many other people, he noticed, were also leaving. Linley was silent, but a faint grin curved his mouth as they went down the brightly-lighted avenue toward the next casino. Alan knew his partner suspected him of being up to something, but he also maintained his silence, waiting for Linley to speak.
"All right," Mark said, suddenly, "I'll bite. Why the monkeyshines, li'l buddy? That poor guy ain't never gonna recover."
Alan explained, and Linley broke out laughing. "I figured it hadta be somethin' like that. You were kinda takin' a risk, though, weren'tcha?"
"Oh, I don't think so. When they check -- if they don't get lynched first -- they'll find the current coil disconnected. They'll probably decide that it was getting ready to come off and kept pulling the ball into twenty-nine." He smiled a little. "And anyway, even if they *do* decide a Terran psychic was causing the problem, how are they going to pick *me* out? I didn't even bet."
Slowly, but steadily, they worked their way toward the Blue Owl Casino, so named, Mark told him, for the fact that the Procyons were well-known to gamble almost literally about everything. The vaguely avian species had a strong predilection for gambling in all its forms and it was the main choice of recreation for the ruling class. A Procyon who did not gamble was regarded as slightly crazy by his peers.
Alan was beginning to grow accustomed to the glitter and confusion around him, and as they approached the Blue Owl, he found himself glancing uneasily over his shoulder. Mark, apparently happily intoxicated, noticed. "What's the matter, kid?"
"Nerves, I guess." Alan shrugged uncomfortably. "It almost feels like we're being watched." He was silent a long moment, trying to pinpoint the sensation. "It's gone, now. I guess it's nothing."
"You sure?"
Alan didn't answer for almost a full minute. "No, I'm not sure."
"How long you been feelin' it?"
"I don't know, really." Alan closed his eyes for a moment, grasping his partner's arm as he reached out mentally. "I can't feel it anymore. There's too many people around to be sure -- and anyway, how would anybody spot us? We haven't done anything, yet."
"That don't rule out a mugger. Even Luna City's got a few. They toss 'em out the airlock minus a suit if they catch 'em, but there's always some guy willin' t'take the risk. You keep your feelers out."
"Don't worry," Alan said, fervently. "I will."
"Let's get inside," Mark said. "No mugger in his right mind's gonna bother us there."
Considering the nature of their business at the Blue Owl, that was cold comfort. As they entered, Alan looked around, half-expecting to see armed assassins lurking in every corner but, somewhat to his disappointment, it looked exactly the same as all the others. It was lined with the ubiquitous slot machines, and he could see the ever-present roulette wheels, poker, craps, and blackjack games going on, the chuck-a-luck cages with their tumbling dice, and young, attractive waitresses in sparkling, blue-feathered costumes circulating about offering drinks to the suckers. To one side was a small, elite restaurant from which the aroma of exotic food drifted -- and always, always the throng of glittering, beautiful people.
To the back of the room, barely visible through the constant motion of many bodies, he could see doors that presumably led to offices, and a flight of stairs which, a flashing sign announced, led to the Blue Owl Hotel.
"Feel anythin'?" Linley breathed.
For an instant, there was that faint sense of observation, quickly gone, but so mixed with the other emotions from the crowd that he couldn't be certain. He shook his head.
"Not yet. Give me a few minutes."
"Sure. This way." Mark, to all appearances jovially drunk, wended his way across the room, leaning on Alan, and dropped into a chair at one of the Poker tables. Several people glanced curiously at him as he waved for a waitress, who was at his side instantly.
"Complementary drink, sir?"
"You bet, baby." Linley winked broadly at her and selected a tall glass of Wambari firewater. Alan winced at the memory. Mark, an experienced drinker, might think it good, but for himself, he would always remember it as a slug of liquid fire.
The play began, and Mark leant his entire concentration to the game, playing with remarkable skill for a man supposedly more than a little drunk. Alan leaned over the back of his chair, trying to appear absorbed in the play.
But he wasn't. This was the cover they had chosen to give him the opportunity for a little psychic prying.
With careful concentration to detail, he visualized the pale, round face of Woodie Peeks and concentrated on the image. Dark, straight hair, light, blue-grey eyes and a sallow complexion ...
At first, there was nothing, but this fact did not discourage him. He placed a hand on Linley's shoulder, feeling his power level increase at the contact. Months ago, he and Mark had learned that his ability to draw power from Mark increased as the distance between them decreased, with actual physical contact being the best. He concentrated.
A pull. At first he was hardly aware of it, but slowly it became clearer, wavering in and out of his consciousness. The face of the clerk grew suddenly more definite as the pull increased, then faded as it diminished. The feeling was not strong, for he had nothing of emotional attachment belonging to his quarry that would have helped him to focus his clairvoyant sense, but the pull was unmistakably there, minute though it was, and seemed to come from his left and somewhat above him.
He gave Linley's shoulder a light squeeze and drifted inconspicuously through the crowd, following his tenuous guide.
Several times he paused, but always the pull returned, now a little stronger. The man was certainly somewhere above him. Alan turned and went lightly up the stairway that led to the Blue Owl Hotel.
As he moved farther away from his partner his power level dropped slowly as always, but he must be drawing closer to his quarry, for the pull remained, growing steadily, though very gradually, stronger.
He paused on the second level, concentrating. It was hard to be sure. Slowly and hesitantly, he started toward the third level.
He stopped, halfway. No, the signal was fading again. The man must be on the second level.
Quickly, he retraced his steps and again paused on the second level, irresolute. A corridor stretched before him to the right and left, empty. After a moment of concentration, he turned left. Again, following the faint tugging sensation, Alan moved uncertainly forward.
The pull wasn't exactly to his left, but he was getting closer. A few moments later, a corridor crossed before him and now, without hesitation, he turned right. The pull was much stronger now. Woodie Peeks *must* be here! There was no other explanation.
Still, his quarry was not straight ahead. The pull was a little to the left, but the distance between them was gradually lessening. After a time another corridor crossed in front of him. Alan turned left again, went six steps and stopped before a door. He had reached his destination.
There were two people on the other side. That was as obvious to his psychic senses as if he could see them with his eyes. One was the man he sought, Woodrow Peeks, and the other ...
Whoever he was, he radiated an aura of power. Not psychic power, but the power of a man who commands others and expects to be obeyed. It was a familiar aura and Alan knew it well; his partner had it in abundance. Whoever this man was, he possessed a good deal of authority. A moment of concentration produced a name -- several names, one of which seemed somehow familiar. Alan filed them away in his memory, striving to "hear" what was being said.
The clerk was speaking and even through the door, Alan could sense the man's desperation and urgency. "... Of no further use to you. All I want is my money and a ship out. I'll disappear completely."
"Yes, yes." The second man's reply was soothing. "We're making the arrangements as rapidly as possible, but you're going to have to be patient, Woodie, until those two Counterintelligence agents have given up. They seem to have some idea that you're on Luna, since the Spaceport Police have been alerted to look for you. You can't possibly get past them now. Have patience, as I said. We'll have you out of here and safe as soon as possible ..."
Alan knelt next to the door and rapidly untied his shoelace. If anyone happened along, he wanted his presence here to appear completely accidental. He probed the mind of the man who spoke, sensing emotions at variance with his words. His thoughts bore out his emotions. The man -- Alan identified him as Wendlemere, although that was not his true name -- was thinking clearly that Woodrow Peeks was now an unquestioned liability. He had been half-bribed, half-blackmailed to perform this job, and if Terran Counterintelligence got hold of him, he would undoubtedly blurt out the whole story. If that happened, the Jilectan spying operation on Terra would be exposed and Wendlemere's bosses would be very unhappy with Wendlemere. If this small, insignificant man were disposed of, it would be far safer for all concerned.
Alan started to reach for the blaster concealed beneath his light jacket. Now was the time to get Woodie away from Wendlemere, before reinforcements arrived -- if he could manage it quietly.
Someone was approaching down the corridor and Alan returned the blaster quickly to its holster. Again, he began to fumble with his shoelace, tugging now at a very real knot in the string. He had just managed to loosen it and was engaged in tying the lace, when two casino security guards rounded the corner. And following them ...
Alan's heart climbed into his throat and remained there, pounding erratically. His shields snapped up.
The Jilectan surveyed him indifferently. Alan remained kneeling, examining the toe of his shoe after one, rapid glance at the being. He had not sensed the approach of the large alien, indicating that His Lordship must have his shields up as well. It made sense.
"What are you doing here?" one of the guards snapped.
Alan didn't look up. "I was on my way to my room. My shoelace came loose and I was just fixing it."
The Jilectan didn't glance in his direction. "Bring him!" he ordered and swept past Alan to the door. One of the guards also hurried past, pressing the buzzer beside the panel. The second guard bent, reaching for Alan.
Alan scrambled backwards, evading the guard, and came to his feet, bouncing a good meter from the ground as he did so. "What do you want with me? I haven't done anything!"
"His Lordship wants you. That's enough." The guard made a grab for him. Alan spun and bolted.
Or, tried to. With blurring speed, the Jilectan had covered the distance between them and had him by the arm.
The security guards were instantly at his sides, taking him by the elbows. The Jilectan stepped back, brushing his hands fastidiously across his shimmering robes, as if to wipe away some contamination.
Alan struggled uselessly in the grasp of the guards.
*Mark!* He voiced his partner's name in his mind, knowing that their link, which always functioned to perfection in times of danger, would transmit the words. "Help!"
The Jilectan turned away, his chin in the air, and strode through the now-open door, not glancing back. Alan, a security guard on either side, was carried inexorably after him.
**********
(tbc)
