They'd paid attention, and seemed to be doing well. Gwen was just one of many at the craps table; and, if her pile of chips was growing steadily larger than those of the other players, nobody seemed to be taking any particular notice of it. Yorick was building up large stacks of chips at the poker table; Whitey was busy demonstrating that he was a better whist player than the dealer. Stroganoff and Mirane were making a valiant try at contract bridge, but doing their part for the overall image of the group by losing—and Brother Joey was walking around in a daze.
Rod turned back to the table, satisfied—everything was going according to plan.
"Red twenty-one," the dealer called, and Rod stared as a pile of chips slid over in front of him. Then he shrugged, scooped them into his palm, and turned away.
"Monsieur?" the croupier inquired politely.
"I'm going to quit while I'm ahead," Rod explained. "That last win wasn't supposed to happen." And he sauntered away from the table, leaving the croupier staring after him. "Red twenty-one," he murmured, and that reminded him; he ambled over to the blackjack table. He'd always wondered if the casino version was really an honest game, and this was his chance to find out. Who better to play blackjack against the house than a mind reader?
Behind the bar at the far end of the hall, the huge 3DT tank suddenly went black, drawing bleats of protest from the loyal few who'd been watching a particularly obnoxious melodrama. Then it lit up again to show a benign, handsome face three feet high, with steel-gray hair turning white at the temples. "Fellow citizens." The face looked stern. "And you, honored guests. The Government of Otranto has just been notified that four dangerous criminals landed their spacer illegally on the surface of our fair planet, during the darkest hours of last night."
Rod's head snapped up. He stared at the screen, then covered and turned back to fix his gaze on the blackjack jle. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that his companions had done the same thing, except for Gwen and Whitey, who were so wrapped up in their games that they didn't seem to have noticed.
"These criminals are convicts, who have escaped from the prison-planet Wolmar," the voice went on. "The High Vampire has just confirmed the report, and believes the criminals are at large on Otranto."
The screen dissolved to a picture of Rod. It was an atrocious likeness, really, obviously a candid, taken while Rod was running somewhere, and he'd never really looked best from his left profile—but he had to admit, with a sinking heart, that it was recognizable.
"This man is their ringleader," the unseen announcer went on, "currently traveling under the name of Gallowglass."
The picture dissolved to a shot of Gwen. Even in a mug shot, she was beautiful.
"These are his accomplices," the announcer went on, "a woman, posing as his wife…"
Rod sneaked a quick peek, and was relieved to see that the other patrons were all staring avidly at their games— well, almost all. And none of the croupiers were looking; his own dealer had a clamped and rigid jaw, but he was staring firmly at the cards. No doubt they'd been warned about such distractions, and about what unscrupulous but light-fingered customers do while a dealer's back was turned.
Chornoi's picture was on the screen. "… a young woman," the announcer went on, "no doubt unaware of the company into which she has strayed…"
"Twenty-one," the dealer admitted, as he laid a black jack onto the top of Rod's hand.
"Uh—thanks." Rod slid the chips into his purse and stood up. "Think I need a drink."
"… and a very burly man of particularly repellent aspect," the announcer finished, as a picture of Yorick appeared in the tank. "He even looks like a brute."
"He's talking about you, you know," Rod muttered into Yorick's ear.
"Not a word of truth in it," the caveman said automatically. He looked up. "I don't mean to gripe, Major, but I've got a hell of a hand going, here, and… HUH?"
"These convicts are presumed armed, and are highly dangerous." The announcer was back on the screen, gazing somberly out at the customers. "Please, if you are a right-minded citizen who values your personal safety, and the safety of your beloved Otranto—if you see any one or more of these criminals, notify a Public Safety official immediately."
He droned on, but Yorick said grimly, "I think I got the gist of it."
"So does he," Rod pointed out. "In fact, he's got the gist of both of us. Not to mention…"
"So don't." Yorick's glance flicked around the room. He sat up a little straighter, and the grim set of his mouth actually seemed to be curving in a slight smile.
"Damn it," Rod hissed, "you're enjoying this!"
"No, but I get a thrill out of it. If I didn't, I'd go into another line of work." Yorick looked up at Rod, his eyes narrowed. "Look, my face was on the screen; they might recognize me. Or you, for that matter—or Chornoi, or Lady Gallowglass. We'll have to depend on our local friends for a way out of this."
Rod looked furtively over his head at Whitey. "Think we can trust him?"
"You know his history as well as I do, Major. And, as they've pointed out, they're in kind of the same class of pickle jar as ourselves."
"So we can trust them—as much as we can trust anybody here." Rod slapped Yorick's shoulder. "You might think about cashing in your chips."
Yorick nodded. "At the end of the play. I don't want to look conspicuous."
This was analogous to a wolf claiming he didn't want to stand out in a flock of sheep, but Rod let it pass. He sauntered over to the whist table where Whitey was holding away, the gleam of battle in his eye. Rod leaned down and murmured, "The party's over."
"You're out of your mind," Whitey snorted. "I'm on a roll."
"The ones who're going to be rolling you, are the neighborhood police. Their local hallucination was just on the screen, identifying me and my three companions as dangerous criminals. He even showed the nice people our pictures."
"I fold." Whitey laid down his cards, raked in his chips, and stood up. The dealer looked up in surprise, but Whitey was already on his way over to the cashier's cage. "You'd better round up your crew. I'll get Dave and Mirane moving."
Rod nodded. "Meet you at the exit." He turned away toward the craps table and sidled up to a comely woman who was staring at the dice in fascination, lower lip caught between her teeth, a damp strand of hair straggling loose at the side of her forehead. "Sorry to interrupt, dear, but I think you'd better wrap it up."
"Tis what I'm attempting, yet they have so cursedly much money that I nearly despair of gaining it all."
"Spoken like a true housewife." Rod glanced at the mountain of chips in front of her, then stared in horror. "My lord! They'll never let us out of here with all that!"
"Assuredly thou canst make it to disappear, and appear again where we may find it." Gwen shook the dice in her hand.
"No!" Rod hissed. "Don't you remember what Whitey said? If we win too much, they'll steal it back!"
"Not whiles I've breath in my body!"
"They can fix that. Not that they'll have to; the whole casino just got the message that the four of us are on the lam. Showed everyone our pictures, too."
Gwen froze, paling. "Wherefore did I not hear this message?"
"You were a little preoccupied."
Gwen held still a moment longer, then nodded once. "True."
With her free hand, she shoved about half her pile of chips out. The croupier stared at the mound, astonished. Then Gwen's arm flashed down, and the dice sprang out, bounced up against the board, and fell back onto the baize, two gleaming ivories with single black dots in the center.