Delay in Transit (4 page)

 

 

"Every race in the Galaxy," mused Dimanche. "What do men call it?"

 

 

"Cards," said Cassal, "though there are many varieties within that
general classification." He launched into a detailed exposition of the
subiect. If it were something. he was familiar with, all right, but a
foreign deck and strange rules--

 

 

Nevertheless, Dimanche was interested. They stayed and observed.

 

 

The dealer was clumsy. His great hands enfolded the cards.
Not a Godolphian nor quite human, he was an odd type, difficult to
place. Physically burly, he wore a garment chiefly remarkable for its
ill-fitting appearance. A hard round hat jammed closely over his skull
completed the outfit. He was dressed in a manner that, somewhere in the
Universe, was evidently considered the height of fashion.

 

 

"It doesn't seem bad," commented Cassal. "There might be a chance."

 

 

"Look around," said Dimanche. "Everyone thinks that. It's the classic
struggle, person against person and everyone against the house. Naturally,
the house doesn't lose."

 

 

"Then why are we wasting our time?"

 

 

"Because I've got an idea," said Dimanche. "Sit down and take a hand."

 

 

"Make up your mind. You said the house doesn't lose."

 

 

"The house hasn't played against us. Sit down. You get eight cards,
with the option of two more. I'll tell you what to do."

 

 

Cassal waited until a disconsolate player relinquished his seat and
stalked moodily away. He played a few hands and bet small sums in
accordance with Dimanche's instructions. He held his own and won
insignificant amounts while learning.

 

 

It was simple. Nine orders, or suits, of twenty-seven cards each. Each
suit would build a different equation. The lowest hand was a quadratic. A
cubic would beat it. All he had to do was remember his math, guess at
what he didn't remember, and draw the right cards.

 

 

"What's the highest possible hand?" asked Dimanche. There was a note
of abstraction in his voice, as if he were paying more attention to
something else.

 

 

Cassal peeked at the cards that were face-down on the table. He shoved
some money into the betting square in front of him and didn't answer.

 

 

"You had it last time," said Dimanche. "A three dimensional
encephalocurve. A time modulated brainwave. If you had bet right, you
could have owned the house by now."

 

 

"I did? Why didn't you tell me?"

 

 

"Because you had it three successive times. ~Phe probabilities against
that are astronomical. I've got to find out what's happening before you
start betting recklessly."

 

 

"It's not the dealer," declared Cassal. "Look at those hands."

 

 

They were huge hands, more suitable, seemingly, for crushing the life from
some alien beast than the delicate manipulation of cards. Cassal continued
to play, betting brilliantly by the only standard that mattered: he won.

 

 

 

 

One player dropped out and was replaced by a recruit from the surrounding
crowd. Cassal ordered a drink. The waiter was placing it in his hand
when Dimanche made a discovery.

 

 

"I've got it!"

 

 

A shout from Dimanche was roughly equivalent to a noiseless kick in the
head. Cassal dropped the drink. The player next to him scowled but said
nothing. The dealer blinked and went on dealing.

 

 

"What have you got?" asked Cassal, wiping up the mess and trying to keep
track of the cards.

 

 

"How he fixes the deck," explained Dimanche in a lower and less painful
tone. "Clever."

 

 

Muttering, Cassal shoved a bet in front of him.

 

 

"Look at that hat," said Dimanche.

 

 

"Ridiculous, isn't it? But I see no reason to gloat became I have
better taste."

 

 

"That's not what I meant. It's pulled down low over his knobby ears and
touches his jacket. His jacket rubs against his trousers, which in turn
come in contact with the stool on which he sits."

 

 

"True," agreed Cassal, increasing his wager. "But except for his physique,
I don't see anything unusual."

 

 

"It's a circuit, a visual projector broken down into components. The
hat is a command circuit which makes contact, via his clothing, with
the broadcasting unit built into the chair. The existence of a visual
proiector is completely concealed."

 

 

Cassal bit his lip and squinted at his cards. "Interesting. What does
it have to do with anything?"

 

 

"The deck," exclaimed Dimanche excitedly. "The backs are regular,
printed with an intricate design. The front is a special plastic,
susceptible to the influence of the visual projector. He doesn't need
manual dexterity. He can make any value appear on any card he wants. It
will stay there until he changes it."

 

 

Cassal picked up the cards. "I've got a Loreenaroo equation. Can he
change that to anything else?"

 

 

"He can, but he doesn't work that way. He decides before he deals who's
going to get what. He concentrates on each card as he deals it. He can
change a hand after a player gets it, but it wouldn't look good."

 

 

"It wouldn't." Cassal wistfully watched the dealer rake in his wager. His
winnings were gone, plus. The newcomer to the game won.

 

 

He started to get up. "Sit down," whispered Dimanche. "We're just
beginning. Now that we know what he does and how he does it, we're going
to take him."

 

 

 

 

The next hand started in the familiar pattern, two cards of fairly good
possibilities, a bet, and then another card. Cassal watched the dealer
closely. His clumsiness was only superficial. At no time were the faces
of the cards visible. The real skill was unobservable, of course --
the swift bookkeeping that went on in his mind. A duplication in the
hands of the players, for instance, would be ruinous.

 

 

Cassal received the last card. "Bet high," said Dimanche. With
trepidation, Cassal shoved the money into the betting area.

 

 

The dealer glanced at his hand and started to sit down. Abruptly he stood
up again. He scratched his cheek and stared puzzledly at the players
around him. Gently he lowered himself onto the stool. The contact was
even briefer. He stood up in indecision. An impatient murmur arose. He
dealt himself a card, looked at it, and paid off all the way around.
The players buzzed with curiosity.

 

 

"What happened?" asked Cassal as the next hand started.

 

 

"I induced a short in the circuit," said Dimanche. "He couldn't sit
down to change the last card he got. He took a chance, as he had to,
and dealt himself a card, anyway."

 

 

"But he paid off without asking to see what we had."

 

 

"It was the only thing he could do," explained Dimanche. "He had
duplicate cards."

 

 

The dealer was scowling. He didn't seem quite so much at ease. The cards
were dealt and the betting proceeded almost as usual. True, the dealer
was nervous. He couldn't sit down and stay down. He was sweating. Again
he paid off. Cassal won heavily and he was not the only one.

 

 

The crowd around them grew almost in a rush. There is an indefinable
sense that tells one gambler when another is winning.

 

 

This time the dealer stood up. His leg contacted the stool
occasionally. He jerked it away each time he dealt to himself. At the
last card he hesitated. It was amazing how much he could sweat. He
lifted a corner of the cards. Without indicating what he had drawn,
determinedly and deliberately he sat down. The chair broke. The dealer
grinned weakly as a waiter brought him another stool.

 

 

"They still think it may be a defective circuit," whispered
Dimanche.

 

 

The dealer sat down and sprang up from the new chair in one motion. He
gazed bitterly at the players and paid them.

 

 

"He had a blank hand," explained Dimanche. "He made contact with the
broadcasting circuit long enough to erase, but not long enough to put
anything in its place."

 

 

The dealer adjusted his coat. "I have a nervous disability," he
declared thickly. "If you'll pardon me for a few minutes while I take
a treatment--"

 

 

"Probably going to consult with the manager," observed Cassal.

 

 

"He is the manager. He's talking with the owner."

 

 

"Keep track of him."

 

 

 

 

A blonde, pretty, perhaps even Earth-type human, smiled and wriggled
closer to Cassal. He smiled back.

 

 

"Don't fall for it," warned Dimanche. "She's an undercover agent for
the house."

 

 

Cassal looked her over carefully. "Not much under cover."

 

 

"But if she should discover--"

 

 

"Don't be stupid. She'll never guess you exist. There's a small lump
behind my ear and a small round tube cleverly concealed elsewhere."

 

 

"All right," sighed Dimanche resignedly. "I suppose people will always
be a mystery to me."

 

 

The dealer reappeared, followed by an unobtrusive man who carried a
new stool. The dealer looked subtly different, though he was the same
person. It took a close inspection to determine what the difference
was. His clothing was new, unrumpled, unmarked by perspiration. During his
brief absence, he had been furnished with new visual projector equipment,
and it had been thoroughly checked out. The house intended to locate
the source of the disturbance.

 

 

Mentally, Cassal counted his assets. He was solvent again, but in other
ways his position was not so good.

 

 

"Maybe," he suggested, "we should leave. With no further interference from
us, they might believe defective equipment is the cause of their losses."

 

 

"Maybe," replied Dimanche, "you think the crowd around us is composed
solely of patrons?"

 

 

"I see," said Cassal soberly.

 

 

He stretched his legs. The crowd pressed closer, uncommonly aggressive
and ill-tempered for mere spectators. He decided against leaving.

 

 

"Let's resume play." The dealer-manager smiled blandly at each player. He
didn't suspect any one person -- yet.

 

 

"He might be using an honest deck," said Cassal hopefully.

 

 

"They don't have that kind," answered Dimanche. He added absently:
"During his conference with the owner, he was given authority to handle
the situation in any way he sees fit."

 

 

Bad, but not too bad. At least Cassal was opposing someone who had
authority to let him keep his winnings, *if he could be convinced*.

 

 

The dealer deliberately sat down on the stool. Testing. He could endure
the charge that trickled through him. The bland smile spread into a
triumphant one.

 

 

"While he was gone, he took a sedative," analyzed Dimanche. "He also
had the strength of the broadcasting circuit reduced. He thinks that
will do it."

 

 

"Sedatives wear off," said Cassal. "By the time he knows it's me, see
that it has worn off. Mess him up."

 

 

 

 

The game went on. The situation was too much for the others. They played
poorly and bet atrociously, on purpose. One by one they lost and dropped
out. They wanted badly to win, but they wanted to live even more.

 

 

The joint was jumping, and so was the dealer again. Sweat rolled down
his face and there were tears in his eyes. So much liquid began to
erode his fixed smile. He kept replenishing it from some inner source
of determination.

 

 

Cassal looked up. The crowd had drawn back, or had been forced back by
hirelings who mingled with them. He was alone with the dealer at the
table. Money was piled high around him. It was more than he needed,
more than he wanted.

 

 

"I suggest one last hand," said the dealer-manager, grimacing. It sounded
a little stronger than a suggestion.

 

 

Cassal nodded.

 

 

"For a substantial sum," said the dealer, naming it.

 

 

Miraculously, it was an amount that equaled everything Cassal had. Again
Cassal nodded.

 

 

"Pressure," muttered Cassal to Dimanche. "The sedative has worn off. He's
back at the level at which he started. Fry him if you have to."

 

 

The cards came out slowly. The dealer was tittering as he dealt. Soft
music was lacking, but not the motions that normally accompanied
it. Cassal couldn't believe that cards could be so bad. Somehow the
dealer was rising to the occasion. Rising and sitting.

 

 

"There's a nerve in your body," Cassal began conversationally, "which,
if it were overloaded, would cause you to drop dead."

 

 

The dealer didn't examine his cards. He didn't have to. "In that event,
someone would be arrested for murder," he said. "You."

 

 

That was the wrong tack; the humanold had too much courage. Cassal
passed his hand over his eyes. "You can't do this to men, but, strictly
speaking, the dealer's not human. Try suggestion on him. Make him change
the cards. Play him like a piano. Pizzicato on the nerve strings."