Rubbing thoughtfully at his lean, dark chin, Jay Kalam found his own companions at another table, where the wheel paid one hundred to one.
Giles Habibula, his moon-face intent, was pointing with his cane, across the spinning wheel, toward the stupendous magnificence of a mural depicting the old Moon’s end.
The croupier behind the table, with a desperate illness in his eyes, was staring slack-jawed at Caspar Hannas.
His hand moved, in a convulsive gesture, to mop his brow.
And the old man’s cane moved swiftly also, pointing.
“And there,” he wheezed, “stands the lovely likeness of Ala-doree!”
“Restrain yourself, Habibula,” rasped Caspar Hannas.
“Or you’ll destroy the New Moon as surely as she did the old!
For honor’s sake—”
The number fell.
The croupier’s mouth opened in a strangled moan.
He gulped, and made a helpless little shrug at Caspar Hannas.
“You are the winner, sir,” at last his voice came squeakily.
“Twenty million played, at one hundred to one. You have won two billion dollars.” He tapped uncertainly at his keys.
“We’ll have it for you in a moment, from the vaults.”
The great white hand of Caspar Hannas caught the old man’s cloak.
“Habibula,” he croaked huskily, “have you no mercy?
In honor’s name—”
The fishy eyes of Giles Habibula blinked reprovingly.
“Ah, me!
But that’s a strange word to hear from you, Caspar Hannas!
Precious little honor has been found hi anything your foul hands have touched, in the forty years that I have known you.”
He turned back to the table.
“I want my two billion.”
In hundred-million-dollar Green Hall certificates, the first his blinking eyes had ever seen, his winnings were pushed toward him.
With that amazing quick dexterity that his fat hands sometimes displayed, he shuffled through them to check the count.
“Pedro,” he wheezed sadly, “you shouldn’t begrudge me this—not when all your New Moon’s splendor is built upon the cornerstone of my poor old brain.
For I find you still using the same simple devices I invented for the tables of the Blue Unicorn!”
He patted his crackling pocket, contentedly.
“It would serve you right, Hannas, if I played all the night.
Ah, so! Even if I broke your New Moon, and made you beg for the black chip of admission to your own Euthanasia Clinic!
“But I won’t do that, Hannas.”
He swung heavily on his cane.
“Because I’m more honest than you ever were, Pedro—aye, there’s a limit to my stealing.
Ah, so, one more play is all I want.
Just one billion dollars, Hannas, at a hundred to one.”
Caspar Hannas staggered, and his white jaw slackened.
“Habibula!” he husked.
“In the name of Ethyra Coran—”
“Don’t utter her name!” gasped Giles Habibula.
“To show you why not, I’ll just play two billion!”
“You can’t do that!” Hannas choked.
“I—I think that table’s out of order.
We’re closing it—”
“Then I’ll find another,” wheezed Giles Habibula.
But Jay Kalam touched his arm.
“Better keep close beside us, Giles,” the Commander whispered.
“Move slowly, so that the plain-clothes men can gather in around you.
And you had better keep your own eyes on Dr. Derrel, for you’ve got just twenty minutes now.”
“I?”