The dealer adjusted his coat. "I have a nervous disability," he declared thickly. "If you'll pardon me for a few minutes while I take a treatment--" "Probably going to consult with the manager," observed Cassal. "He is the manager. He's talking with the owner." "Keep track of him." * * * * * A blonde, pretty, perhaps even Earth-type human, smiled and wriggled closer to Cassal. He smiled back. "Don't fall for it," warned Dimanche. "She's an undercover agent for the house." Cassal looked her over carefully. "Not much under cover." "But if she should discover--" "Don't be stupid. She'll never guess you exist. There's a small lump behind my ear and a small round tube cleverly concealed elsewhere." "All right," sighed Dimanche resignedly. "I suppose people will always be a mystery to me." The dealer reappeared, followed by an unobtrusive man who carried a new stool. The dealer looked subtly different, though he was the same person. It took a close inspection to determine what the difference was. His clothing was new, unrumpled, unmarked by perspiration. During his brief absence, he had been furnished with new visual projector equipment, and it had been thoroughly checked out. The house intended to locate the source of the disturbance. Mentally, Cassal counted his assets. He was solvent again, but in other ways his position was not so good. "Maybe," he suggested, "we should leave. With no further interference from us, they might believe defective equipment is the cause of their losses." "Maybe," replied Dimanche, "you think the crowd around us is composed solely of patrons?" "I see," said Cassal soberly. He stretched his legs. The crowd pressed closer, uncommonly aggressive and ill-tempered for mere spectators. He decided against leaving. "Let's resume play." The dealer-manager smiled blandly at each player. He didn't suspect any one person--yet. "He might be using an honest deck," said Cassal hopefully. "They don't have that kind," answered Dimanche. He added absently: "During his conference with the owner, he was given authority to handle the situation in any way he sees fit." Bad, but not too bad. At least Cassal was opposing someone who had authority to let him keep his winnings, _if he could be convinced_. The dealer deliberately sat down on the stool. Testing. He could endure the charge that trickled through him. The bland smile spread into a triumphant one. "While he was gone, he took a sedative," analyzed Dimanche. "He also had the strength of the broadcasting circuit reduced. He thinks that will do it." "Sedatives wear off," said Cassal. "By the time he knows it's me, see that it has worn off. Mess him up." * * * * * The game went on. The situation was too much for the others. They played poorly and bet atrociously, on purpose. One by one they lost and dropped out. They wanted badly to win, but they wanted to live even more.