Giles Habibula blinked at him. “You make me feel like a convict on Devil’s Rock waiting for the ray.”
He touched his pocket again, with a sidewise look at Caspar Hannas.
“I know he’d slit my poor old throat in an instant, Jay.
But surely, with so many of you here, he wouldn’t dare.
For Pedro was ever a white-livered coward at the core.”
“I was speaking, Giles,” Jay Kalam told him gravely, “of your danger at midnight, when the Basilisk has threatened to strike.”
“The B-B-B-Basilisk?” Giles Habibula stuttered through ashen, quivering lips.
“Aye, the mortal Basilisk!
You told me he had threatened to abduct and murder some luckless p-p-p-player.
But why should he pick on m-m-m-m-me?”
Caspar Hannas caught his breath, and his white baby-grin seemed for an instant genuinely mirthful.
“Didn’t we tell you, Giles?” asked Jay Kalam’s grave, astonished voice.
“Didn’t we tell you that the Basilisk has promised to come at midnight—in eighteen minutes now, to rob and murder the highest winner?”
“And your two billions, Habibula, are the richest winnings in the New Moon’s history.”
The great voice of Caspar Hannas had a ring of savage glee.
“But I’ll cash them, if you like—for one black chip!”
8 The Man Who Flickered
Giles Habibula began to tremble.
His bulging middle quivered.
Drops of sweat stood out on his furrowed yellow face.
His small eyes seemed to glaze.
His teeth chattered violently, and then, false to him, fell out on the floor.
“Ahuh!” he gasped.
“Yuh—whuh—l”
He began tearing furiously to get his winnings out of his pocket.
Jay Kalam recovered and returned the teeth.
He took them clattering into the cavern of his mouth, and cried piteously:
“Jay!
Ah, Jay, why didn’t you tell me?
A poor blind old man, tottering on the very brink of life, a creeping famished toothless wretch.
Jay, would you let old Giles thrust his neck into the very noose of death?”
“You’ve Hal’s fleet to guard you,” the Commander sought to reassure him, “and ten thousand of the New Moon’s police.
We’ll protect you, Giles.”
“Aye!”
An eager fighting glint lit the blue eyes of Hal Samdu.
“We’ve set a trap for this Basilisk—and now you’ve baited it well, Giles, with your two billion dollars!”
“Ah, no!” sobbed Giles Habibula.
“Old Giles will bait no traps— not with his poor old flesh!”
He was staggering back to the table he had just left so triumphantly.
“How long did you say, Jay?” he gasped.
“Eighteen minutes—to lose more than two billion dollars?”
The croupier went white again, to see him returning.
“Hasten, man!” The old soldier gasped.
“Call for the bets, and spin your ball!
In life’s mortal name, is this place a hall of chance— or the black Euthanasia Clinic?”
The croupier gulped and whispered hoarsely:
“Place your bets, gentlemen!
Bets on the table!”
The leaden eyes of Giles Habibula were peering along the row of players.
“Some mortal fool has got to win,” he croaked.