"Bet one thousand only," she said. She watched him sigh with relief. Funny, she thought. The guy had a conscience, and in a place like this. She watched him spin, watched the teleckto-spin whirr, slow, come to a clicking stop. "Ninety-nine thousand six hundred and four," he said. "To one." "Uh huh. And now what does the chart say?" The croupier checked. "One hundred and two thousand to one. It hasn't changed. Sorry, Miss." He raked in the teels. "That was fun," said the woman. "So much fun I'm getting bored stiff. Rake in the rest of these teels, too. Stick 'em in your pocket." "WHAT?" The croupier's eyebrows jumped. "Yeah." He blinked. Studied. Blinked again. His philosophic thoughts were going out the space lock fast. He was trying to revise, trying to bring himself up to date. He wasn't getting anywhere. That golden-modo-strap _was_ phony. A child could see it was. And yet.... "I'm not so good on my telepathy tonight," he said coldly. "Skip it. I'm like a guy named Slan you used to read about. Had shields up around my brain." That brought a cell of silence around the table. The croupier didn't speak, didn't blink, didn't breathe, didn't do anything. "Looking for a man," said the woman finally. "Space-happy guy named Artie Sterling. Know him?" The croupier caught a glint of something hard in the woman's eyes. He still didn't say anything. "Don't think you're selling a good joe down the canal," the woman went on. "If you thought that, drop it. There isn't a creeping, crawling, oozing thing on all Mars to compare with him. I know. Who would know better than me?" The croupier still didn't say anything. But his eyes said it for him; they were asking a question as big as space itself. "The guy's my husband," said the woman. She stopped. She studied the worry lines that responsibility had embedded in the croupier's forehead. She said: "You look like a nice hard-working man, to me. A good family man. You probably got a nice wife, couple of nice kiddies at home. You worry a little sometimes, though, because the money a croupier makes isn't a hell of a lot. And growing youngsters need this and that and the bills pile up and a man worries and the end isn't in sight because you're young yet and there's years and years of struggle still coming up." The croupier swallowed. He took a breath. He looked down at the thousands of teel credits on the table. He looked up again. "Look at me," said the woman. "Look at what the guy did to me. You can see it in my eyes." The croupier did look. Then he took another breath and then he looked down once more at the money on the table, and then he did something that would probably make him spit for the rest of his life every time he stared into a mirror. He whispered: "Yeah. I know Artie Sterling. He was in here this evening early." _Uh huh. And now the big one._ "Where'd he go?"