"Then try this," Chornoi snapped. "I used to be a spy for the LORDS. That's right, I'm one of the ones who got us all into this mess! But after the coup, I realized what an amoral, calloused cadre they were, and tried to quit, so they sent me to Wolmar. Gwen Gallowglass and her husband got me out of there, and I'm trying to guide them to Terra."
Whitey stared at her while the slight remaining amount of color drained out of his albino face. Then he said, "That, I believe." He turned to Stroganoff. "Take over, Dave. I suddenly got hit with a yen for a stroll."
"Sounds good to me, too." Stroganoff was pale as a skid row bum with an air conditioned bar available. He turned to Mirane. "Tell 'em to go home."
"Home?" Mirane yelped. "Are you crazy? They each have to be paid for the full day; it's in their contracts!"
"Do it," Whitey said grimly. "It's cheaper than a coffin."
Mirane stared at him for a moment, then threw her computer-pad up in despair. She turned to the cast and crew, stretching out a hand to catch the pad. "Okay, that's it for the day! Strike the setup and go home!"
One or two of the extras cheered, but the principal actors and the technicians stared at her, then scowled and started packing up.
Mirane watched them for a moment, then turned to Whitey. "You run a good company. This is the first time I've ever seen a crew who'd rather finish the shoot than have the day off."
"They're good kids," Whitey agreed, "but I'd rather be shooting with them tomorrow, than having them come to my funeral." He turned to Rod, Gwen, Yorick, Chornoi, and Brother Joey. "I think you'd better come with me."
"I'm not sure whether it's safer with us, or away from us," Stroganoff explained to Mirane.
"Neither am I, but I don't feel safe alone."
Dave nodded. "Let's go, then."
They hurried to catch up with the cortege.
As they came up, Rod was saying, "Why a casino?"
"Safest place," Whitey explained, "except for a dream-house. I mean, you're out there in public, where plenty of people are watching you, and the management doesn't want any unpleasant scenes for the patrons."
"I like the dreamhouse idea better." Chornoi had a happy, faraway look.
"So do I," Whitey grunted. "Whether it's a PEST agent who's after you or not, he's on a free planet now, and he has to adhere to local laws. And the dreamhouses are very good at keeping unwanted clients out." He turned to Rod. "Stroganoff and I aren't exactly popular with PEST, either."
Dave nodded. "They know about our epics. And they know that education is the dictator's enemy."
"And the easiest way to stop your epics is to stop you?"
"Like a dropped watch." Whitey nodded. "If there's an agent after your friend Chornoi, he might decide to bump us off, too."
Chornoi screeched to a halt. "Bye-bye." She turned away.
"Come back here." Yorick put out a hand to catch her, then snatched it back as she whirled, chopping out. "See? I knew I could stop you."
"There's not much point in going off by yourself, Miz," Whitey said. "If there's an assassin on the planet, we're in danger. The only difference in having you with us is that we have some idea of where the bastard is."
Chornoi hesitated.
Stroganoff nodded. "It's easier to duck when you know where the knives are coming from."
"There speaks a true organization man," Yorick muttered.
"But a dreamhouse is out." Whitey started walking again. "There's the little matter of cash; I don't have enough of it."
Stroganoff nodded. "Every penny's tied up in this epic."
"We're a little short ourselves," Rod said.
"When PEST took over Terra," Whitey went on, "they also took over my royalties. Oh, not that they've attached my earnings, or anything, but they're censoring the mail, and they won't let my agent send me a check. So the royalties are there, piling up nicely in a trust fund on Terra, and no doubt they'll do my heirs all kinds of good, five hundred years from now—but that doesn't help much, at the moment."
Rod had a faraway look in his eyes. "You say we're going to a casino?"
"Take your choice." Whitey turned to him with a dry smile. "The planet's lousy with 'em. Every pleasure-planet is." But he frowned at the look in Rod's eye, then suddenly grinned and slapped his thigh. "Of course! If your ecclesiastical friend can fix a static generator, he can gimmick a roulette wheel as easy as pi!"
Brother Joey went pale. "Rig a roulette wheel? My heavens, that would be stealing!"
"So what do you think the house is doing?" Whitey demanded. "Come on, Brother, all we're asking is that you make the machines shave a few percentage points in our favor."
"No." Brother Joey's jaw firmed. "I couldn't possibly do anything so immoral."
"That's right, preserve your integrity," Whitey sighed, "and more power to you. Brother, for sticking to your principles. But that still leaves us without admission to a dream-house."
"Oh, not necessarily." Rod was gazing at his wife. "That wasn't exactly what I had in mind, anyway."
Gwen had gained an abstracted, dreamy, fascinated gaze. "'Twould be but a matter of having some whirling wheel come to stop where we wished it to, would it not? Or causing a pair of dice to fall as we chose?"
"That's right, nothing heavy-duty. Think you can handle it, dear?"
"I will be delighted to essay it," Gwen answered, with a smile that made Rod shiver. After all, he knew what she could do when she put her mind to it.
Whitey frowned. "What is she—a telekinetic?"
"Among other things," Yorick muttered.
"Well, well!" Whitey offered Gwen his arm. "Allow me to escort you, Ms. Gallowglass!"
"Lady," she corrected.
"Would I be seen with anything else? Where a reporter can see me, anyway. Shall we go?"
They sauntered off toward the nearest casino, with Rod, Chornoi, Yorick and Brother Joey in tow. Dave and Mirane exchanged glances and followed.
"Lesjeux sontfaits," the croupier pronounced. He wore a satin dressing gown, muttonchop whiskers, and a stuffed raven on his shoulder. At least, Rod thought it was stuffed, but it kept turning its head to regard him with a beady ruby eye. A robot, no doubt, but was its eye really a lens for a surveillance camera?
"Les jeux sontfaits," the croupier said again, "the bets are made."
"The die is cast?" Rod suggested.
"Non, monsieur," the croupier said primly. "We play roulette at this table, not hazard."
"Oh! My apologies." Rod bit his lip in consternation; the last thing he wanted was to stand out enough for the croupier to recognize him.
The wheel spun, and Rod gazed at it, fascinated. He had lost most of the 10-therm stake Yorick had given him, before he had begun to get the knack of just how hard to think at the hopping ball. But he'd picked it up, bit by bit, and was now winning seven games out of thirteen. That was enough; he'd made back his stake, and his profits were rising slowly but steadily. On the other hand, he wasn't winning so flagrantly as to attract notice.
Since this was his turn to lose, he glanced around the room, seeking out his companions. They were easy to find in the midst of all these mock werewolves, vampires, ancestral ghosts, and decadent aristocrats. Especially the decadent aristocrats; they seemed to be in fashion this year. Rod couldn't decide whether it was the 'aristocrat' part, or the 'decadent,' that made those disguises so attractive to the tourists.
But Rod's people were dressed in ordinary coveralls or, in Gwen's case, in Renaissance peasant garb. They were definitely conspicuous—and that worried Rod, but there was nothing he could do about it.
They seemed to be doing a good job of keeping a low profile in other ways, though. Whitey had given them a brief lecture on how to win and get away with it. "Lose a lot. But make the odd win bigger than all the little losses, so that you make an overall profit. Don't make any fortunes, though, just a dozen therms or so. When we pool our winnings, we'll have enough to buy safe hiding."