The croupier released his breath with a hiss. "Snake eyes!"
"Oh!" Gwen clenched her fists in exasperation. "I've lost!" She stooped to scoop her chips into her apron. "Well, I've wisdom enough to quit while I may."
"Naw, you can get it back. Come on, double or nothing," the croupier urged.
Gwen shook her head with decision. "I thank thee, but I've wanted to try my skill at that little hopping ball within the wheel."
The croupier relaxed, with only a slight smile. "Right, lady. Roulette. Yeah, go ahead." And he smiled, showing fangs.
Gwen hurried away with Rod. "Wherefore did that man not recognize me from this picture thou sayest all did see?"
"The house personnel were careful not to look. They figured it might be part of a swindle—somebody putting a fake squawk on the tank to distract them, while their partners cleaned up the tables." Rod saw Yorick heading away from the cage, sliding a billfold back inside his tunic. "Just hand your chips to the man inside the wire net, dear. He'll give you bills for them."
"But wherefore is he gaoled?"
"The wire's to keep us out, not to keep him in. When you have your money, go over by the doorway; I'll meet you there. Right now, I have to go pry Chornoi loose." He steered her toward the cage and left her there. Then Rod turned away toward the fourth member of his crew, but saw Yorick bending over, muttering into her ear. She sat very still, then deliberately set about finishing the hand. Rod approved; she wasn't going to look suspicious, no matter how much it hurt. He turned to find Whitey chatting with Mirane, who was growing paler by the syllable, and saw Dave saunter around the perimeter of the room, admiring the wallpaper—no doubt looking for the back door.
Then, across the big room, Brother Joey waved, catching Stroganoff's attention. The monk must have found an "Authorized Personnel Only" door. Rod turned toward Gwen just as she came up beside him, shaking her head as she held up a wad of bills. "I still cannot believe, my lord, that mere ink on paper can have such worth."
"Don't worry, we'll spend it before the rest of them catch on." Rod tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. "Let's meander on over toward Brother Joey, dear. He seems to have found a bolthole."
Gwen frowned. "Wherefore might we not go out as we came in?"
"What, broke? Oh, you mean the main entrance! No, there is a chance it might be guarded. Besides, you remember the doorman? You know, the one wearing the ghost makeup and the shroud, who looked so bored? Odds are he was watching the tank, even if nobody else was. No, I think we'd better settle for what our good Brother has found."
Ten feet from the door, someone behind them gasped and yelled, "That's them! The people who were on the tank! Stop them!"
"Somebody would have to be observant!" Rod groaned.
A dozen or so ersatz Rochesters and Janes looked up, staring at them, then nudged their neighbors, nodding toward Rod and Gwen (they were too polite to point). Their neighbors—several score languid Byrons and Wollstone-crofts—looked up and stared. Then they all started grins that turned into hungry leers, and voices began to call, "Who are they?"
"Convicts! We just saw their pictures on the tank!"
"On the tank?"
"Convicts?"
"Quick! Don't let them get away!"
"Catch them!"
"There they go!"
And in two seconds, the crowd of cultured, refined patrons had turned into a howling mob, boiling toward Rod and his companions.
"I might have known," Rod groaned. "Boredom—and we're something to do!"
Gwen hung back. "They could not stand against us, my lord! There cannot be but an hundred of them!"
"That's too many to be sure we won't kill somebody! And besides, while we're mowing them down, they could maul these people who've been trying to help us!"
He could see her hesitate. "I mislike to run from such as these, my lord."
"I know what you mean, but in this case, discretion is definitely the better part of valor. Fly, dear!"
Fortunately, Gwen didn't take him literally, but they were at the door almost as quickly as though she had. They jammed in between Chornoi and Mirane, just as Brother Joey slammed into the pressure-plate lettered, "Authorized Personnel Only."
"I never expected to be that right!" Rod waved Chornoi through first, then Mirane.
"But I'm not authorized," she protested.
"Yes, you are," said Whitey. "You're one of my personnel, and I'm an author. Git!"
Mirane stopped, gazing up at the dreamhouse facade with foreboding. "I don't like it, Whitey."
"I thought it was a little too rococo, myself." Whitey frowned up at the front of the building. "And all those chubby little angels are definitely declasse. But it's their services we're buying, not their decor."
"You're right; I don't care a fig how it looks. It's just the idea, Whitey. I can't stand the thought of being so helpless!"
"Yeah," the old man said grimly, "I know what you mean. But there isn't much choice."
"There isn't really any danger, either!" Chornoi glared daggers at Whitey. "The dreamhouse will guard you as though you were one of their own, Miz—which you will be, in a way."
"Why does that idea make me shudder?"
"Because you think of being absorbed." Stroganoff laid a hand on her shoulder. "It's a fear we all have, from time to time. But in this case, it's foolish. The laws that guard dreamhouse patients are very strict, Mirane, and they're very tightly enforced."
"I'm sorry you got caught up in this," Whitey said, his face hard. "But if PEST actually does try anything against us, they're likely to catch you in the overflow."
"You're worrying about nothing, really!" Chornoi smiled brightly. "And it'll be fun. If only half the things I've heard are true, it'll be more fun than you've ever had."
Mirane still looked doubtful, but she clutched her computer-pad tightly and followed them in.
The thinclad attendant just inside the front door smiled brightly, ran a practiced eye over them, added in the fact that they'd come in a batch, and asked, "Single dream, or group?"
Yorick frowned. "What's a group dream?"
"You'd all be tied into the same computer," the hostess explained, "and you'd share the same dream. Only two of you would be the protagonists, of course, but you'd all be characters in it."
Whitey gave his companions a jaundiced glance. "How does the computer decide who's going to be the hero, and who's going to be the heroine? Chance?"
"No, it matches character to personality type. And it's less expensive, on a per person basis."
"Less expensive?" Mirane pounced. "How does the billing work?"
"For individual dreams, you'd each be charged 937 kwahers," the hostess explained. She ignored Rod's gulp and went on, "that's about 7500 kwahers for all of you. But a group dream only costs 3000 for any number of persons up to thirteen."
"There're eight of us," Mirane muttered to Stroganoff. "The group dream might even leave our fugitives enough cash for passage to Terra."
"Don't worry about us," Rod hissed.
"Thank you, Don Quixote," Whitey snorted. "Don't forget, the faster you're off Otranto, the safer we are."
"Why do they say that, everywhere I go?" Rod sighed.
"Speculation later." Whitey nodded to the hostess. "We'll take the group dream, Miz."
She took their money, then took them to a wide, low-ceilinged room with ten couches upholstered in varying degrees of opulence, and invited them to lie down. They did, casting wary glances at the headboards full of electronic gear.
"Hold very still," the hostess cooed. "This won't hurt a bit."
They were each ramrod stiff as she fitted skull caps over their heads. "Nothing penetrates the skull," she assured them. "The electrodes just fit against your scalps and induce the dream through the bone."