But the wheels, of course, were rigged. Cloud was being informed, however, of every pertinent fact. He knew the exact point at which the ball crossed the green borderline. He knew its exact velocity. He knew precisely the strengths of the magnetic fields and the permeabilities, reluctances, and so on, of all the materials involved. He knew just about how much braking force could be applied without tipping off the players and transforming them instantly into a blood-thirsty mob. And finally, he was backed by Lensmen who could at need interfere with the physical processes of the croupiers without any knowledge on the part of the victims. Hence Cloud did well enough—and when a house is paying thirty-five to one on odds that have been cut down to eight or ten to one, it is very, _very_ bad for the house. Vesta started playing conservatively enough. She went from wheel to wheel, tail high in air and purring happily to herself, slapping down ten-credit notes until she won. “_This_ is the wheel I like!” she exclaimed, and went to twenties. Still unperturbed, still gay, she watched nine of them move away under the croupier’s rake. Then she won again. Then fifties. Then hundreds. She wasn’t gay now, nor purring. She wasn’t exactly tense, yet, but she was warming up. As the tenth C-note disappeared, a Chickladorian beside her said: “Why don’t you play the colors, miss? Or combinations? You don’t lose so much that way.” “No, and you don’t win so much, either. When I’m gambling I _gamble_, brother . . . and wait just a minute . . .” the croupier paid her three M’s and an L. . . . “See what I mean?” The crowd was going not-so-slowly mad. Assistant Manager Althagar did what he could. He ordered all rigging and gimmicks off, and the house still lost. On again, off again; and losses still skyrocketed. Then, hurrying over to the door of a private room, he knocked lightly, opened the door, and beckoned to Thlasoval. “All hell’s out for noon!” he whispered intensely as the manager reached the doorway. “The crowd’s winning like crazy—everybody’s winning! D’you s’pose it’s them damn Patrolmen there crossing us up—and how in _hell_ could it be?” “Have you tried cutting out the gimmicks?” “Yes. No difference.” “It can’t be them, then. It couldn’t be anyway, for two reasons. The kind of brains it takes to work that kind of problems in your head can’t happen once in a hundred million times, and you say everybody’s doing it. They _can’t_ be, dammit! Two, they’re Grand Masters playing chess. You play chess yourself.” “You know I do. I’m not a Master, but I’m pretty good.” “Good enough to tell by looking at ’em that they don’t give a damn about what’s going on out there. Come on in.” “We’ll disturb ’em and they’ll be sore as hell.” “You _couldn’t_ disturb these two, short of yelling in their ear or joggling the board.” The two walked toward the table. “See what I mean?”