He went over to the roulette wheel and played straight red and black. He won there too. And after awhile he went back to the dice table. I cashed in. Two thousand was fair enough and there was no reason to make myself unpopular. But I couldn't help staying to watch the fun. I could feel it coming--a sense of something impending. Redman's face was flushed a dull vermilion, his eyes glittered with ruby glints, and his breath came faster. The dice had a grip on him just like cards do on me. He was a gambler all right--one of the fool kind that play it cozy until they're a little ahead and then plunge overboard and drown. "Place your bets, ladies and gentlemen," the diceman droned. "Eight is the point." His rake swept over the board collecting a few munit plaques on the wrong spots. Redman had the dice. He rolled. Eight--a five and a three. "Let it ride," he said,--and I jumped nervously. He should have said, "Leave it." But the diceman was no purist. Another roll--seven. The diceman looked inquiringly at Redman. The big man shook his head, and rolled again--four. Three rolls later he made his point. Then he rolled another seven, another seven, and an eleven. And the pile of munits in front of him had become a respectable heap. "One moment, sir," the diceman said as he raked in the dice. He rolled them in his hands, tossed them in the air, and handed them back. "That's enough," Redman said. "Cash me in." "But--" "I said I had enough." "Your privilege, sir." "One more then," Redman said, taking the dice and stuffing munits into his jacket. He left a hundred on the board, rolled, and came up with a three. He grinned. "Thought I'd pushed my luck as far as it would go," he said, as he stuffed large denomination bills into his pockets. * * * * * I sidled up to him. "Get out of here, buster," I said. "That diceman switched dice on you. You're marked now." "I saw him," Redman replied in a low voice, not looking at me. "He's not too clever, but I'll stick around, maybe try some more roulette." "It's your funeral," I whispered through motionless lips. He turned away and I left. There was no reason to stay, and our little talk just might have drawn attention. They could have a probe tuned on us now. I went down the strip to Otto's and waited. It couldn't have been more than a half hour later that Redman came by. He was looking over his shoulder and walking fast. His pockets, I noted, were bulging. So I went out the back door, cut down the serviceway to the next radius street, and flagged a cab. "Where to, mister?" the jockey said. "The strip--and hurry." The jockey fed propane to the turbine and we took off like a scorched zarth. "Left or right?" he asked as the strip leaped at us. I crossed my fingers, estimated the speed of Redman's walk, and said, "Right."