Of Death What Dreams

24

The private game room to which Lord Tace conducted Bailey and the Apollo members contrasted sharply with the blighted cold-water flat from which Gus Aroon had rolled his book three months before; but the mathematics of the game were unchanged. Bailey glanced over the record charts, began setting up his lines. After the dazzling action of the Reprise cage, the programming seemed a dry and academic affair; but the expressions of the aristocrats clustered about the stat screen showed that their view of the matter was far different.

“Well, sirs,” Tace rumbled, watching them as the first figures began to flicker across the read-out panels, “the gamble stirs your blood, eh? The statistical fluctuations of the society that seethes like poisoned yeast below us provide a hardier sport than glowing baubles!”

“Those numbers,” Dovo said. “Difficult to realize that each one represents the birth and death of a man—”

“Or of his fortunes,” Tace barked. “Production and consumption, taxes and theft, executions, suicides, the rise and fall of human destinies. One thousand billion people, each the center of his Universe. And we sit here, like gods squatting on Olympus, and tally the score.”

Half an hour later, Tace’s exuberance declined as he assessed the initial hour’s results. After the twenty-two run, he lapsed into a rumbling silence. An hour later, he snarled openly as another five hundred M changed hands, to the profit of the Apollo book. Bailey played steadily, silently, taking no unnecessary risks, outpointing the old man on run after run. At 0200, with Tace’s original capitalization reduced to a few score M, Bailey suggested closing the book. Tace raged. An hour later he had lost another hundred and fifty M.

“I really cannot continue,” Bailey said, leaning back in his chair before the programmer console. “I’m quite exhausted.”

“But such a sportsman as Lord Tace would hardly agree to stop now,” Dovo said eagerly, naked greed shining on his normally bland face. He looked with sly insolence at the embattled oldster. “M’lord deserves his chance to recoup…”

“I am not so young as I once was,” Tace began in a voice which had acquired a distinct whining note. He broke off at a sharp buzz from the communicator plate, snarled, slapped a hand over the sensitive grid.

“I said no interruptions,” he grated, then paused to listen. His expression changed, became one of thoughtful concern. With a show of reluctance, he blanked the grid.

“It seems we must continue another time, sirs,” he said in a tone unctuous with regret. “The Sub-Commandant of Peace is waiting in the foyer. It appears that a criminal enemy of the Order is suspected of having somehow penetrated the Fornax.”

“So? How does that affect us?” Dovo demanded.

“The Commandant wishes to make a physical inspection of all portions of the premises,” Tace went on. “Including the private gaming areas.”

“Unreasonable,” Dovo snapped.

“Still, one must cooperate,” Tace said, throwing the switch which unlocked the doors. “Shall we go along and observe the Bugs at work?” He smiled at his daring use of the vernacular.

“Best we close the bank first,” Dovo murmured.

“Of course!” Tace poked angrily at the keys on the gaming board; a cascade of platinum-edged ten M cred-cards showered from the dispenser. Plandot counted them out, handed fifty to Dovo, the rest of the stack to Bailey/Jannock, who accepted them absently, turned to Sir Swithin. “Would you oblige me, sir? I feel the need of a moment to refresh myself.” He dumped the double-handful of cash into the startled man’s hands and turned toward the discretely marked door. A burst of chatter rose behind him, but no one raised objection.