"Your bets!" The croupier stood with his hand on the wheel. "Make your bets!"
Time to make her move; a chip on the red, two on the black, one on low numbers, three on high. A spread which guaranteed nothing but the stretching of her resources yet which needed to be followed in order to eastablish the following wagers.
The wheel spun, the ball settled, came to rest. Black and high won and she felt relief as she scooped up her chips. Now for the next step and she waited as again the ball danced and again she won. Once more now, plunging deep, and then finish. Corcyra had been insistent on that. Three wins in a row and be satisfied-to continue was to invite ruin. And yet, when the luck was with her, it was hard to leave.
The decision was made for her by the settling of the ball and she watched, face impassive, as her chips were raked from the table. Now it was all to do again, to wait and watch and place small bets in an elaborate pattern. To calculate and try to ignore the tightening of her stomach, the mounting panic as luck went against her. Once she had thought Corcya weak-now she knew better. It took guts and courage to sit and risk the sum total of your resources in order to win enough to live on for a day. And then to return on the morrow and do the same. To follow the pattern, losing, still to play, still to follow the system when every nerve and sinew cried out in protest.
And, when winning, to know when to stop.
"Your bets! Place your bets!"
The ball bounced and settled and with a sigh of relief she scooped up her winnings and rose from the table. The net gain this time had been a little more than the last and far more than the disastrous one before, but she still lacked the security she craved. The bracelet she had pledged would have to stay with the jeweler as would her ring and the pendants she had worn in her ears.
"Marta!" Kemmer was heading toward her. "Marta, my dear, how nice to bump into you like this!"
She said, acidly, "Coincidence, Maurice?"
"No." He was bluntly honest. "I've been looking for you. We both have. Earl is downstairs. You weren't at home so we come looking."
"And found me." She moved farther from the table toward a shaded alcove where vending machines dispensed an assortment of drinks. A coin bought her a measure of water laced with alcohol and flavored with lemon. Kemmer joined her as she sat. "Unless you buy a drink you will be ejected," she warned. "You have money?"
"Not for luxuries. Could we walk?"
That at least could be done without charge but she was tired, the tables imparted a greater strain than was apparent, and she was in no mood to wander while he babbled. In no mood either to dispense charity but, as the attendant came edging toward them, she handed the trader a coin. To her surprise he handed it back.
"I'm not here for a handout."
"Then what?"
"Earl will explain." His face lightened as he looked past her. "Here he is now."
Dumarest carried a wrapped package beneath one arm. Setting it on the table, he fed coins into the vending machine, the watchful attendant moving away as he set drinks next to the package. To Kemmer he said, "Have you told her?"
"No."
"Told me what?" Marta looked from one to the other. "What the hell do you want?"
"Money." Dumarest was curt. "Carl is in jail and I want to get him out. You can help me. Don't worry-you won't lose by it."
"You're damned right I won't!"
"That is," he amended, "you won't lose if you cooperate." Casually he touched the package. "Did Maurice mention we looked for you at home? Just as well we did, in a way. Your door-"
"What about it?"
"Nothing." His smile was a mask. "A good, strong door," he mused. "Thumb-print lock too. Usually they're safe but you have to be careful to pull the panel tight when leaving. And even then there are ways-" He broke off, again touching the package, glancing at the busy tables. "Have any luck?"
"That's my business."
"I'm just asking." Dumarest took a sip of his drink. "You know, Marta, we're really in the same position. We all have to find some way of surviving while holding on to enough money to buy a passage on the next ship. Carl's been unlucky. So have you in a way. But if you were to lend Carl money to get out of jail you'd have not only a friend but an income. Interested?"
"I've got an income."
"The tables?" He shrugged. "Follow that route and there can only be one ending. Haven't you learned yet the one inescapable truth about gambling? That those who need to win never do?"
"Some-"
"Yes," he said. "We've all heard of the man who backed all he had on a throw of the dice and won and backed again and kept on winning until he owned a world. The woman who risked her child and ended by gaining freedom for all her tribe. The boy with nothing but his blood who ended with riches. And, of course, there are those who profess to make a living at the tables. Some do, I admit it, but not many and they are of a special type. Sensitives, the near-clairvoyant, those with some unusual talent. Others play the odds but only on games they can control. That wheel has no feelings. That ball obeys no laws. Neither can be bluffed. And the percentages are always with the house."
"Maybe."
"I'm offering you a certain profit."
She said, coldly, "I'm not interested. You go your way and I'll go mine."
"A pity." Dumarest half finished his drink and, again, his hand rested on the package: "I was thinking of your singing jewel. Here it would be a novelty if used correctly; demonstrated at private gatherings, for example, used to add a new dimension to a party or to entertain after dinner. You'd need guards, of course, to protect it. A thing like that could fetch a high price if offered in the right market. That is unless it was stolen first-you get my point?"
"You bastard!" She looked at the package, the same size as the box holding the jewel, remembered what he had said about the door-how else did he know the type of lock it had. "My jewel! You've stolen it!"
"Carl could be one of your guards, Maurice another. It would be safe then. And an agent could be found to find you work. But if you don't want to use it then I'll find another way." Rising he picked up the box. "Stay with her, Maurice. Don't let her call the guards until I'm well away."
"No!" Thought of losing the jewel made her feel sick. "You thief! You can't-"
But he could and would; his face told her that. Hard, firmly set, the mouth a thin, cruel line. A man intent on survival, a beast at war in a familiar jungle. And, once sold, the jewel would be lost. Her complaints would be ignored-who would care about a stranger?
"A loan," whispered Kemmer. "For God's sake, Marta, it's only a loan."
A stack of chips-she had them in her hand. Plastic discs convertible to cash against the loss of her jewel. "Here!" They rattled as she threw them on the table. "How much do you want? A thousand? Twelve hundred? Fifteen?" She watched as Kemmer scooped them up. "Now give me my jewel, you bastards! My jewel!"
"Maurice!" Dumarest waited until the man had gone. Quietly he said, "Your jewel is safe, Marta. I haven't got it, see?" Opening the wrappings he displayed a fiber carton. It was empty. "It's safe at home."
A trick. A bluff and for a moment she wavered between relief and anger. To have been taken in like a stupid child!
Her own fears turned against her, used as a weapon. She looked at the drink Dumarest placed in her hand.