But now—” His heavy lenses stared about the hushed, wondering table.
“Now, sirs, he must be acknowledged a mathematical genius!”
“He’s still a fool.” Caspar Hannas spoke to Jay Kalam, not troubling to lower his contemptuous voice.
“A pathological gambler.
I’ve seen thousands like him—egotistical enough to think they can invent some lunatic system to cheat the mathematics of probability.
They never know when they’ve had enough, until they finally come begging for a free black chip.
Davian probably will tomorrow, when he has lost what he wins tonight.”
The commander nodded with a glance of pity at the trembling man, whose frantic fingers were stabbing now at the keyboard of the calculator.
He turned slowly back to the master of the New Moon, his dark face drawn firm as if to veil some unspoken accusation.
“An old client, eh?”
“He has been fighting for twenty years to break me.”
Blinking implacably, Hannas stood watching Davian enter the results of his play in the little black book.
“I’ve got to know him well, from all the times he has come whining for me to cash his worthless I O U’s.
I even met his wife, on their first trip out to my old ship—a charming girl, who tried for years to save him, after he had thrown away everything they had, before she finally realized that euthanasia is the only cure for his kind.
He used to have a responsible position in the statistical department of some research firm.
Look at him now—a ragged nobody.”
Hannas chuckled, with a mirthless scorn.
“They’re all alike,” he said.
“They lose everything, and the syndicate pays their way home.
But they aren’t content.
They never learn.
They’ve got to get even.
They sell their homes.
They break their relatives.
They borrow from their friends, until they have no friends.
They live in squalor, and scrape and beg and steal—and keep coming back out here to try again to break the bank.”
“An unfortunate case.” Jay Kalam turned thoughtfully from the white-faced gambler, to study the idiot smile of Hannas.
“Don’t you ever feel responsible?”
“I didn’t invent human nature,” Hannas shrugged disdainfully.
“But the syndicate doesn’t encourage such patrons.
The personal disasters they bring upon themselves tend to reflect on our establishment, and too many of them finally become bitter and desperate enough to create unpleasant public scenes by killing themselves at the tables, or even sometimes attacking our own people, instead of decently requesting that free black chip.”
He sniffed derisively.
“They’re all alike,” he repeated.
“This Davian is only a little more persistent than the rest—”
Jay Kalam glanced at his chronometer and touched the big man’s arm.
“Twelve minutes to midnight,” he said softly.
“I think we had better be moving along.
But signal your men to keep their eyes on this Dr. Derrel.”
They went on across the vast floor, Hal Samdu stalking impatiently ahead.
Laboring and puffing, Giles Habibula fell behind.
Sweat broke out on his yellow face.
“In life’s name!” he sobbed.
“Jay, Hal, can’t you wait for poor old Giles?
Would you leave him alone with the fearful Basilisk at his heels?
Can’t you feel the tensity of doom in the very air, aye, and see the stark print of fear on every mortal face?”
Jay Kalam had paused, and the old man snatched at his arm.
“Come, Jay!” he gasped.
“For life’s sake, let’s make ready for the moment.
Let’s stand against the wall, Jay, and gather all our men about us, with blasters ready—”
“Shut up, Giles!” rapped Hal Samdu.