VIGORISH

 By WALTER BUPP

 Illustrated by Petrizzo

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Astounding ScienceFiction June 1960. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence thatthe U. S. Copyright on this publication was renewed. ]

 _If it "takes a thief to catch a thief" . .. What does it take to catch a psi-gifted thief?_

What do you hate and fear the most? I know a girl who gags and throws upat the mere sight of a bird. Poor kid, when she was a barefoot moppetshe stepped on a fledgling robin in the grass. She hasn't gotten overthe squish of it yet. 

Birds don't trouble me. I can look at them all day. It takes snakes togive me the green shudders. I hate them. 

She was getting better at them, I decided. This was the fourth one sincebreakfast and the roughest-looking of the lot. It was a diamondbackrattler, and lay coiled on the rug at my feet. I turned my swivel chairslowly back to my desk and riveted my eyes to the blotter. Snakes areghastly things. But there was no future in letting them shake me up. 

I bent over in my swivel chair and swung my left arm like a flail justbelow this rattler's raised head. He struck at me, but late, and missed. The swipe I took at him should have swept him over, but he got his coilsaround me. When I heaved back up straight before my desk, he was asneatly wrapped around my forearm as a Western Union splice. 

Enough of his tail was free to make that buzz that means "Look out!"About a foot of his business end stood up off my arm. His forked tongueflicked out over his horny lip, pink and dainty. 

"Now, vanish!" I said to the snake. It didn't. Instead the door to myoffice opened, letting in a little more of the unmistakable smell of thehospital, as well as old Maragon, Grand Master of the Lodge. He wascomplaining and shaking a finger at me as he came toward my desk. Hedidn't jump more than a foot when he got a look at my arm. His shaggygray eyebrows climbed way, way up his forehead in a mutely shoutedquestion. 

I wouldn't give the old goat the time of day. When I dead-panned him, he shrugged and lowered himself into the chair beside my desk. 

"Thought you hated snakes, Lefty, " he said. 

"A guy could get used to almost anything, Grand Master, " I said. "Ifound a cobra under my pillow when I rolled out of the sack thismorning. A coral snake fell out of the folds of my towel when I went totake a shower. Somebody stashed a bushmaster here in my locker to meetme when I dressed for surgery. I'm getting almost fond of snakes. "

Maragon semaphored doubt by squeezing his eyebrows down in a scowl. "Even _real_ snakes?" he protested. 

"It's the most artful hallucination I've ever experienced, " I granted. "This snake has weight, a cold feel and a scratchy scaliness. This newwitch of yours really knows her stuff. I just would have thought. .. " Idribbled off, raising my shoulders. 

"Thought what, Lefty?"

"Oh, " I said. "That it was somehow beneath the dignity of the GrandMaster to drag himself down here to the hospital just to add a littleconviction to the hallucination. I mean, working up a big entrance, andall this pretense of your seeing a snake. "

His smile was a little weary. "Try a lift, Lefty, " Maragon said. 

He had finally overplayed his hand. Hallucinations don't respond totelekinesis--there's nothing there to lift. I fixed on the rattler'scrouching head and lifted. The TK jerked the S-shaped curve out of hisneck. I could feel his coils fight my lift. At some moment there I musthave gotten the point that _this_ snake was real. 

I guess I was screaming and shaking it from me for five minutes afterMaragon had unwrapped the coils from my arm. 

"All right. All right. All right, " I said to him, shaking my head. "Soit had no fangs. You've still got me sold. I'll go to Nevada for you. "I'd have gone clear to Hell to get away from that hallucinating witch hehad working on me. I'd gotten used to hallucinations--but who can getused to the doubt that one of those dreadful visions is real? I'd had mylesson. 

 * * * * *

It served me right, of course. It had begun when Peno Rose had firstvisored me from Lake Tahoe. I had told him "No. " Too busy, _much_ toobusy, with TK surgery at Memorial Hospital. It didn't mean a thing to methat some cross-roader with plenty of TK was stealing the Sky Hi Club'scasino blind. But Peno had known me from my days on the Crap Patrol, andwasn't much impressed that I'd reached the thirty-third degree. He'dgotten the Senior United States senator from Nevada to put heat on theLodge. 

When Maragon first visored me on it, I simply refused to discuss it andswitched off. That was the big mistake. I had an obligation to the Lodgefor my TK training, and there was no honorable way I could turn my backon it. The Grand Master is a patient, if deadly, old goat, and he cameafter me in person. 

I'd just walked out of surgery, and was still in mask and gown. Thesurgeon who had done the cutting while I had put TK clamps on theinaccessible arteries was at my side, breathing a sigh of relief thatthe patient hadn't died on the table. He'd still die, I figured, but noton the table. I'd felt the fluttery rasp of his heart muscle as it hadstrained against my lift. He didn't have too long. 

"Thank God for a dry field, " the scalpel surgeon said, politely holdingout his left hand to me. I shook it with my left. That's why I hadn'tdone the cutting, too. There aren't any one-handed surgeons. My rightarm looks fine. It just hasn't any strength. Old Maragon had told meonce that my TK powers were a pure case of compensation for a uselessarm. The surgeon dropped my hand. "You're the best, Wally Bupp, " hesaid. He's too good a friend of mine to call me "Lefty" and remind methat I'm a cripple. 

It was Maragon who did that. I hadn't noticed him, but somebody gave methe grip, and I looked around. He was back against the wall, short, grayand square. I gave his ear lobe a TK tug in return, harder, perhaps, than was necessary, and nodded for him to follow both of us to myoffice. 

"We'll have to talk about it, Lefty, " he said, as he closed the dooragainst the smell of iodoform. 

"No, we don't, " I said. "I don't care who is losing how much money atPeno Rose's Sky Hi Club. Right here in this hospital people are dying. Ask old Thousand Cuts, " I went on, nodding to the scalpel surgeon. "Wejust pulled one out of the fire. When does this come in second best tosaving the skin of some tinhorn gambler?"

"Your Lodge obligations come first, " he said quietly. "We have areplacement for you here. Here's your ticket for Lake Tahoe, " he added, holding out an envelope from a travel agency. 

"I'm staying here, Maragon, " I said. "I'm a TK surgeon. I'm all throughtipping dice. "

"You may not find it practical, " he said, getting up to leave. 

Well, I hadn't. Three snakes inside my head had made me a sucker for thereal one on my arm. Maragon had made his point. I might have reached thethirty-third degree, but I wasn't quite as big a shot as I thought Iwas. I could feel that rattler on my arm all the way to Lake Tahoe. 

 * * * * *

Like any gambling house, the Sky Hi Club was a trap. Peno had tried tokid the public with a classy _decor_. It was a darned good copy of anineteenth century ranch house. At the gambling tables everything wasfree--the liquor, the _hors d'oeuvres_, the entertainment. Everything, that is, but the gambling and the women. The casino was taking its cut. And the women--or should I be so sure?

You paid for your drinks if you stood up to the long mahogany bar. Iturned my back to the rattle of cocktail shakers and chink of glasses, one heel hooked over the replica brass rail, and took a long carefullook at the crap tables. There was a job for me at one of them. I beganto shut out the distractions of sight and sound. I wanted nothing todull my PSI powers. 

A blond bombshell slithered down the bar and ground herself against myleg. "Wanna buy me a drink, honey?" she gasped. I smuggled a lift andslipped all four of her garters off the tops of her hose. A funny, stricken look replaced the erotic face she had made at me. She headedfor dry dock. 

B-girls usually work in pairs, so I looked down toward the other end ofthe polished mahogany. Sure enough, there was the brunette, frowning asshe tried to figure why the blond bomber had high-tailed it out ofthere. I shook my head at her and she let it lie. 

That should have cut out the last distraction. But no, I could see onemore bimbo working her way through the laughing, drink-flushed crowdtoward me. She had hair-colored hair, which was sort of out of characterfor a barroom hustler. I put plenty of TK on the heel of her rightslipper, and she stepped right out of it. It might as well have beennailed to the floor. Nothing was going to discourage this one, I saw. Ilet her pick it off the floor, squeeze it back on her skinny foot, andcome toward me. 

This new babe leaned over toward me and stuck her nose up against mine. It was long, thin, and not a little red. 

"Billy Joe!" she said, and sniffled loudly. "My darlin' Billy!"

How near-sighted can you get? I don't think there's such a thing as acase of mistaken identity around a guy like me. I didn't know herdarlin' Billy from Adam's ox. But I'd have bet a pretty we didn't lookalike. 

"You're wasting it, " I told her, looking out over the crap tables. "It'snew, and different. But I'm not _anybody's_ darling. " A jerk of my headtold her to move on. 

But she sniffled and stayed put. I gave up and started through the pressof gamblers toward the Cashier's cage. 

"Billy Joe!" this hustler moaned behind me, clawing at my jacket. "Iknew I'd find you here. And I came sich a fer piece, Billy Joe! Don'tmake me go off again, darlin' Billy!"

While I prefer to gamble for cash, I had reason while on a job forsticking to a known amount of chips. She stood there while I got athousand dollars worth of ten-buck markers, looking at me with some kindof plea in her eyes. This again was not in the pattern. Most hustlerscan't keep their eyes off your chips. 

She puppy-dogged behind me to the crap table I had decided needed myattention. It was crowded, but there's always room for one more sucker. And still one more, for the sniffly girl with the hair-colored hairpressed in against my useless right arm when I elbowed my way in betweenthe gamblers, directly across from the dealers. 

"Billy Joe!" she said, just loud enough to hear over the chanting of thedealers and the excited chatter of the dice players. Billy Joe! What acorn-ball routine!

 * * * * *

I took stock before beginning to lose my stack of chips. There were morethan twenty gamblers of both sexes pressed up against the green baize ofthe crap layout. Three stick-men in black aprons that marked them fordealers were working on the other side or the table. We had at least onedealer too many for the crowd. That screamed out loud the table washaving trouble. Big gambling layouts know within minutes if a table isnot making its vigorish. A Nevada crap layout, with moderately heavyplay, should make six per cent of the amount gambled on every roll. That's its vigorish--its percentage. If the take falls below that, thesuspicion is that the table is being taken to the cleaners by a crookedgambler, or "cross-roader. " The table I had picked was the only one inthe Sky Hi Club's casino with more than one stick-man working it. 

The girl sniffled, and her long skinny arm reached around behind me tosnag a couple sandwiches the size of postage stamps from a waiter'stray. She wolfed them down, wiping at the end of her long nose with awadded-up hunk of cambric. She'd done it before, and plenty, for hernose was red and sore. She made cow-eyes at me. 

"Don't say it, " I told her. "I'm not your darlin' Billy. "

The dice were to my right--I'd get them after a couple more losersrolled. My unwanted hustler stood on that side of me, too. They neverhave any money of their own. I wasn't about to give her any of mine. 

I wanted to lose some dough in a hurry. I started playing field numbers, and TK'd the dice away from the field every time a gambler came out. Ofcourse, I could have let the table's six per cent vigorish take it awayfrom me, but that would have taken longer. 

Even with losing on every roll, the dice got around to me before I hadlost the nine hundred I had set out to drop. I put four chips on the"Don't Pass" side of the line, shook left-handed because of my weakright arm, and got ready to come out. Sniffles seized me. "Don't BillyJoe!" she said suddenly. "You'll lose!" She pushed my chips across theline to the "Pass" side. That burned me up. 

"Get your hands off my chips, " I said, annoyed by bad gambling manners. Her face was all resignation and sadness. Well, not quite all. A lot ofit was thin, red nose and buck teeth. 

"You'll lose, darlin' Billy, " she said. 

"Pull those chips back!" I said. Her eyebrows shrugged, but she did as Itold her. I came out, and tipped the dice to eleven. I kept the dice, but lost my chips, which is what I wanted. Throwing six more down on the"Don't Pass" side, I rattled the ivories in my left hand. Tears began toroll down her unhealthy cheeks. 

"Lose!" she cried nasally, and sniffled. "Billy Joe! Listen to me, darlin' Billy! You'll lose!" Her eyes rolled up toward the top of herhead as I ignored her and came out. Sniffles gasped, "Hit's a seven!"

Well, that's the number I'd tipped them to, but she called it before thedice stopped rolling. That left me thirteen chips. Half absent-mindedly, I put three of them on the "Pass" side of the line and tipped the diceto twelve. Mostly I was looking at this scarecrow beside me. 

"Box cars!" one of the dealers called. "My future home. " But he wasn'tas quick as Sniffles. She had called the turn before the gallopingdominoes had bounced from the backrail. 

The box cars cost me the dice. The next gambler blew on them, cursed, and rolled. I didn't bet, and spent the next couple rolls looking ather. 

 * * * * *

The girl was a mess. Some women have no style because they don't evenknow what it means. Courturiers have taught them all to be lean andhungry-looking. This chicken was underfed in a way that wasn't stylish. They call it malnutrition. Her strapless gown didn't fit her, noranybody within twenty pounds of her weight. She was all shoulder bladesand collarbones. I suppose that a decent walk would have given her_some_ charm--most of these hustlers have a regular Swiss Movement. Butthis thing had a gait that tied in with the slack way her skirt hungacross her pelvic bones and hollered "White Trash!" at you. 

I wasn't much flattered that she had tried to pick me up. People have apretty accurate way of measuring their social station. And she thoughtshe was what I'd go for. Well, I guess I don't look like so much, either. I'd missed my share of meals when they might have put someheight on me. My long, freckled face ends in a chin as sharp and pointedas her nose. And there's always something about a cripple, even if mypowerless right arm doesn't exactly show. 

My days on the Crap Patrol came back to me. That's where the Lodge hadfound me, down on my knees in an alley, making the spots come up my waywithout even knowing I could do it. And when they'd convinced me I wasreally a TK, and started me on the training that finally led to theThirty-third degree, they'd put me right back in those alleys, and cheaphotel rooms, watching for some other unknowing TK tipping the dice hisway. 

Did Sniffles have it? She wasn't tipping dice, exactly, but she sure wascalling the turn. She was tall, as well as skinny, and our eyes weren'tfar apart. "Billy Joe, " she whispered above the racket of the gambler inthe casino, putting her mouth close to my ear. "I told you, sugar. Andnow you lost. You lost!" Her perfume was cheap, but generous, and prettywell covered up her need for a bath. 

"There's some left, " I told her. "Show me how. " She hugged my arm to herskinniness. That's all any of the hustlers ever want--to get their handson your chips. They figure some of them will stick to their fingers. 

The gambler next to me had won a dollar bet without my help. He actedmighty glad for a win--maybe it was a while since he'd hit it. I decidedto give him a run of luck. 

Now in charge of my chips, Sniffles called the turn on every roll. Shewas hot. It wasn't just that she followed where the gambler next to meput his dough--she was ahead of him on pushing out the chips on half therolls. 

He quickly saw that my chips had stayed on the same side of the lineeach roll as his. He cursed me for a good luck mascot. "Stick with me, Lefty, " he said. "We'll break the table!" I rammed a hard lift under hisheart, and then, ashamed of myself, quit it. He turned pale before Itook it off him. 

"What's the matter?" I asked him, supporting his sagging elbow, stillmad at myself for acting so childish. 

"Nothing, nothing, " he gasped, starting to recover. He'd only beendying, that's all. But it came in second-best compared to holding thedice. 

No point calling too much attention to him. I decided four passes wereenough while he held the dice. What do you know, as he came out for thefifth time, Sniffles pulled my stack of chips to the "Don't Pass" sideof the line, while scraping at the chapped end of her skinny nose withthe back of her free hand. 

Like every compulsive gambler I've ever seen, the roller next to me wassure he was on a rampage. Four passes and he thought he had the dicelicked. "Ride with me!" he yelled at Sniffles, who plainly had themanagement of my chips. 

"No moah, " she said. "You'll lose. "

Of course he did. I TK'd the one-two up. "Little Joe from Kokomo, " oneof the stick-men called. They raked losing bets and paid winners withthe speed of prestidigitators. "Roller keeps the dice, " the stick-mantold my neighbor. 

The gambler cursed and threw the dice to the roller on his left. He spatblame at Sniffles for not riding with him. He was one big clot ofcrushed misery. After all, hadn't he _wanted_ to lose? They all do. Icouldn't get very upset over his curses. So far he had lost one buck, net. And he'd had some action. So much for gamblers. 

I kept control of the dice while each new gambler handled them. I washaving a good night. Of course, by that time I had handled the dice, which always improves my TK grip. Every point I had TK'd came up. Forall the perception I kept on the ivories, I could sense no other TKforce at work, which after all was the whole reason for my gambling. 

The interesting note was the way Sniffles handled my chips. Sometimesmore sure than others, she occasionally let a winning stack ride. Onother rolls, she keened and chanted oddly to herself, eyes closed, andpinched down most of the stock. But she was never on the wrong side ofthe "Pass" line. I kept track, not wanting my stack to build up past thethousand with which I had started. Most of all, I watched the skinny galdope the dice, sniffle and wipe the end of her nose. She was one homelysharecropper, that was a fact, but she had a nice feel for Lady Luck. Orfor what I planned next. 

 * * * * *

Wanting to come out with an even thousand, I adjusted the size of herlast bet. When I won it, I pulled my chips off the table, which Snifflesdidn't resist. She used the lull to grab a handful of sandwiches fromanother waiter's tray. A gambler at the far end of the table came out, calling loudly to the dice. The cubes made the length of the table, bounced off the rail and came to a stop dead center, between me and thethree stick-men in the black aprons. That's the instant when every eyeis on the dice, trying to read the spots. And that's when the dicejumped straight up off the baize, a good six-inch hop into the air, andcame down Snake Eyes, the old signal. Wow! I'd had it!

"TK!" somebody yelled. He might as well have screamed, "Fire!" the waythat mob of gamblers scuttled away from the table. 

"No dice, " one of the dealers said automatically. He raked the hoppingcubes sadly to him with his hoe-shaped dice-stick. 

I made a break for it with the rest of the crowd, trying to keep my eyeon Sniffles. But she had the sure-loser's touch of slipping away fromany authority. She vanished into the milling mob. My last glimpse hadbeen of a skinny arm reaching up to pluck some more free _horsd'oeuvres_ from a tray as she fled. 

I should have saved myself the trouble. They had a bouncer on each of myelbows before I had moved five feet. They carried more than dragged meinto a private dining room behind the bar. It went along with the ersatzrustic _decor_ of the rest of the Sky Hi Club. There was sawdust on thegenuine wood floor, big brass spittoons and a life-sized oil-color of areclining nude, done with meaty attention to detail, behind a smallmahogany topped bar. Stacks of clean glasses vied for space with labeledbottles on the back-bar. 

One of the stick-men followed us into the room, taking his apron off ashe closed the door behind him, shutting out the roaring clatter of thecasino. "Cross-roader!" he hissed at me. I should have known what wascoming, but I missed it. He slapped me hard across the face, saving hisknuckles, but not doing my jaw a whole lot of good. I would have fallenclean over, but the bouncers were still tight on my elbows. 

"Wait!" I tried to say, but he cuffed me with the other hand, harder, ifthat were possible. This is the moment when you have to stop and think. A Blackout is quite effective--it's hard to hit what you can't see. Andthere's something mighty unnerving about being stricken suddenly blind. 

Oh, face it, I suppose the real reason I felt for the arteries supplyingblood to his retinas was that so few TK's can do it. I clamped downtight, and his lights went out. He cried out in fright, and both handscame groping up in front of him, his fingers trembling. 

"I'm blind!" he said, not able to believe it. He began to lose hisbalance. 

I felt one of the bouncers go for his sap. "Try it, you gorilla, " I toldhim, wrenching around, now that I was free on his side. "Try it and I'llrip the retinas off your eyeballs the way you'd skin a peach!" Herecoiled as though I were a Puff Adder. The other bouncer let go of me, too. I skidded in the slippery sawdust, scared half to death, but got myback against a wall just as the stick-man who had slugged me lost hisorientation completely and fell to his knees in the sawdust. It would besome minutes before his vision started dribbling back. 

 * * * * *

The click of the door latch broke the silence. One of the otherstick-men eased himself in, holding the door only wide enough to squeezepast the jamb. Don't give the suckers a peek at the seamy side. Theymight just take their money to the next clip joint down the street. 

He didn't look like the others, somehow. He was older, for one thing. Perhaps it was his nearly bald scalp, perhaps the thick, bookish glassesin heavy brown frames. "What's that?" he asked mildly, poking a fingerat the dealer kneeling in the sawdust on the floor. My Blackout victimwas reaching out, trying to find something he could use to raise himselfto his feet. His face was frozen in a fierce, unseeing stare as hementally screamed at his eyes to see, see, see!

"Blackout!" one of the bouncers told the second stick-man in a muffledvoice. 

Sharp eyes fired a quick, surprised look at me. "Well, " said the balddealer. "Good evening, Brother. " I had a surge of relief. The strong-armstuff was over. This was the casino's TK. 

"What kept you, Brother?" I said, sounding a little sore. "Thesecharacters were going to kick my teeth out. "

His grin had a taste of viciousness. "I did give them a little time, " heagreed. "How was I to know?" He looked calmly at them over the tops ofhis glasses. "You can go now, " he said, like a schoolmarm dismissingclass. 

The gorillas helped the blindly staring dealer to his feet, brushing atthe sawdust that clung to his clothing, and had him presentable by thetime they led him through the door. They seemed glad to get away. 

"The Blackout, " the TK said musingly to me. "You hear about it, and thePsiless cringe when they think it might happen to them. But you don'tsee it every day. You're in the Lodge, of course?" he added. 

"Of course, " I said coldly. 

"Please, " he said, waving a hand at me. "Don't take it so big. So am I. "From five feet apart we exchanged the grip, the tactile passwordimpossible for the Psiless to duplicate--just a light tug at eachother's ear lobes, but perfect identification as TK's. "I'm FowlerSmythe, " he said. "Twenty-fifth degree, " he added, flexing his TKmuscles. "What is it, buster? You on Crap Patrol?"

I paused before I answered. Twenty-fifth degree? Since when could agambling casino afford a full-time Twenty-fifth? TK's in the upperdegrees come high. I had already figured my fee at a hundred thousand aday, if I straightened out the casino's losses to the cross-roader. 

"Wally Bupp, " I said at last, deciding there was no point to trying somecover identity. My gimpy right wing was a dead giveaway. "Thirty-_third_degree, " I added. 

He had a crooked grin, out of place beneath his scholarly glasses. "I'veheard of Wally Bupp, " he admitted. Well, he should have. There aren't somany Thirty-thirds hanging around. "And you are young, smug and snottyenough to play the part, " he concluded without heat. "Still, that's allit might be, just play-acting, with Barney going through the motions ofbeing blind. You could be outside the Lodge, sonny. Any cross-roader whocan tip dice the way you were working them can twitch an ear. Let's seesome credentials. "

He scuffed through the sawdust to the bar and took a stack of silverdollars from his apron. He held them, dealerwise, in the palm of hishand, with his fingertips down, so that they were a column surrounded bya fence of fingers. 

"How many?" he asked. 

I shrugged. "The whole stack, Smythe, " I told him. His eyebrows wenthalfway up his tall, tall forehead. But he put them all down on the bartop, about twenty-five silver dollars. "Show me, " I said. 

He ran his fingertips down the side of the stack of silver. Anothertactile. Well, he certainly wasn't much of a perceptive, or he wouldhave been able to handle the Blackout himself. He closed his eyes forthe hard lift. Some do that. The coins came up off the mahogany an inchor so, and made a solid smack when the lift broke and he dropped themback. Not very impressive work for a Twenty-fifth degree. The coinsspilled over. 

 * * * * *

I used the excuse of straightening up the stack to get a touch, myself. I could have done it visually, of course, or I could have straightenedthem up with TK, but touch helps my grip. I took a good look at the doorto the main casino, a heavy job of varnished native cedar. Just to showhim, I turned my back on the bar, leaning against it with one foot onthe brass rail. The lift was as clean as I've ever managed. Anger, fear, any strong emotion, is a big help. They came up all together, staying ina stack, and I could perceive that they hung in the air behind me, agood foot clear of the bar, and about twenty feet from the door to thecasino. In a smug show of control, I dealt the cartwheels off the top ofthe stack, one at a time, and fired them hard. Each one snapped awayfrom the hovering stack, like a thrown discus. My perception was of thebest. Each coin knifed into the soft cedar of the door, burying itselfabout halfway. My best sustained lift, I suppose is about two hundredtimes the weight of a silver dollar. But with the lift split by the needto keep the stack together, about twenty gees was all the shove I gavethe cartwheels. Still, you might figure out how fast those cartwheelswere traveling after moving twenty feet across the bar at anacceleration of twenty gees. 

Smythe gasped. I doubted he had ever seen better, even in the controlledconditions of Lodge Meeting. "A little something to remember me by, " Isaid, as I opened the silver-studded door. "Now let's see the boss. "

"You're a TK bruiser, " he said, impressed. "If you hit Barney's eyeslike that, he's a Blind Tom for fair. "

"Hardly, " I sniffed. "You ought to know that no respectable TK would laya lift on a retina. I just squeezed off a couple of small arteries. He'sback in business already, I'd say. "

Had I mentioned the rustic _decor_ of the Sky Hi Club? When Las Vegashad deteriorated to the point where it would turn most stomachs, thebetter clubs migrated up among the tall pines, along the shores of LakeTahoe. And in place of the dated chromium glitter of Vegas, they hadreached way back to the "Good old days" for styling. The Sky Hi Club wastypical. The outside was all hand-hewn logs. The inside had a low, rough-beamed ceiling, and a sure-enough genuine wood floor. The plankswere random-width, tree nailed to the joists. Even the help was dressedup like a lot of cow-pokes, whatever cow-pokes were. 

This ersatz ranch-house was owned by two completely unlovelies. PenoRose, who had used his political leverage to get me on the job, I hadknown since he'd been a policy number runner on the lower East Side. Hispartner, Simonetti, was something else, but somehow I wasn't lookingforward to meeting him any more than I was to seeing Rose again. 

I guess it's the filth within these croupier types that makes themsurround themselves with the aseptic immaculacy of iridium and glass. Their office was in a penthouse perched on the slanting roof shakes ofthe casino. It was big as a squash court, and as high and as square. Every wall was glass. It couldn't have been in greater contrast to thecontrived hominess of the casino if they'd thought about it for a year. Then, for the last twist, the furnishings were straight out of the oldSouthwest--Navajo rugs, heavy, Spanish oak desks, and a pair of matchingcouches or divans of whole steer leather stretched over oak frames. 

 * * * * *

Peno Rose came quickly toward me the moment Fowler Smythe showed me intothe office, spurs jingling. "Hey! There he is! The boy they had to ruleoff the track! How's a boy, Lefty? Long time no see. " He had his handstuck way out ahead of him. His sharp, dried-out features repelled metwice as much as they had ten years before. That hatchet face of his wasgashed with what he thought was a smile. I've seen sharks with apleasanter gape. Naturally, I didn't take his hand. 

"Hi, Peno, " I said. He jerked his hand back and straightened up. Hesnapped the hole in his face shut. 

"My partner, " he said, waving his hand at the dark-skinned gent standingover against one of the fumed oak desks. "Sime, meet Lefty Bupp, thehottest TK artist with dice in the whole damned country!"

Simonetti leaned against the desk. He drew a zipper open in his fancyblouse, dragged out the Bull Durham and started to roll his own. Theywatch too much TV. It makes terrible hams of them all. He spat on thefloor. 

"A living doll, " I said. I took a better look at this honey. Face it, hewas an oily snake, cleaned up as much as possible, but not enough. Noamount of dude ranch duds, gold spurs or Indian jewelry could hide hisstiletto mentality. He was just a Tenderloin hoodlum with some of thescum scraped off. Well, I should know. So was I. 

Simonetti finished licking the seam of his roach. He came forward as helit it and blew too much smoke in my face. "What you doing here?" hesaid in a husky voice. "I told Rose no dice. We need another TK like weneed a hole in the head. "

"You think I _want_ to be in this trap?" I snapped at him. "Say theword, Tex, and I'm gone. "

"You're fired, " he said huskily. "Scram!"

I started for the door, glad to be rid of the lot of them. Peno Rosebeat me to it. He showed me several rows of teeth, the way sharks will. "Half of this joint is mine, " he snarled, holding a hand lightly againstmy chest. He knew me better than to push. "_My_ half is hiring you. "

The whiff of garlic over my shoulder told me that Simonetti had followedme, too. He didn't have any reservations about grabbing me and twistingme around and giving me a real face-full. 

"If you know what's good for you, you'll get out of here. "

"Freak?" I said, laying it on his mitral valve. After his heart hadmissed about eight beats, he started to sink, and I quit the lift. "Bepolite, Simonetti, " I said to the panic in his yellowish face. "Nexttime I'll pinch down tight. The coroner will call it heart failure. Tough. "

He wanted his stiletto. He needed it. He was sorry he had ever quitcarrying it. A couple seconds of reflection told him I was too tough forhim. He went for his partner, his face darkening with rage now that hisheart could get some blood to it. He had his hands out, for Rose'sthroat, I guess. For my dough it took guts to put fingers that close toall those teeth. But he never got a chance to try it. An ashtray, one ofthose things with a shot-loaded cloth bag under it, flew off a desk, smacked him in the back of the head, and dropped to the floor with athump. 

It wasn't a hard blow, but an upsetting one. Fowler Smythe grinned athim from where he was sitting in one of the leather divans. "Sit downand shut up, Sime, " he suggested coolly. 

Simonetti sagged with defeat. "Look, Rose, " he gasped. "I want out. Badenough that our losses can't be stopped by this creep Smythe. Now youdrag in another TK. Buy me out!"

"What's a business worth that's losing its shirt?" Rose sneered. "Wewere in clover, you fool, till this cross-roader got to us. This is ouronly chance to get even. "

That finished Simonetti. He went back to his desk and slumped againstit, scowling at the points of his handtooled boots. 

 * * * * *

Rose looked over at me. "Let's make sense, " he said quietly. "We watchedyou on the TV monitor from the time you came in. "

"Sure, " I said. 

"What about it?" he demanded. 

I shrugged. "I had my way with the dice, Peno. I dropped nine yards asfast as I could, then won it back. The spots came up for me every singleroll but two, when I had my eye on something else. "

He snickered. "We saw her, " he said. 

"How about it, Fowler?" I asked my Lodge Brother. "Was a worker tippingthe dice tonight?"

"I never felt it, " he said. "But the table had dropped nearly fortygrand during the shift, which was about over when you started to play. He's too good for me, Wally. "

"But you felt _my_ lifts, " I protested. "You called 'TK' on the table. "

Smythe shrugged and took off his glasses. "I thought I felt you tippingwhen you first came to the layout, " he said, waving them around. Inodded confirmation. "But it was smooth work, and I could hardly besure. Most of these maverick TK's strong-arm the dice, and they skidacross the layout with their spots up. You're way ahead of that--youdon't touch them till the final few tumbles. And then, you were losing, and I couldn't see that the table was being hit. "

"I thought it was the smart move. " I explained. "I was stillcontrolling the dice, and if there'd been a cross-roader working, Ishould have felt him skidding them. "

Smythe nodded. "Of course, " he added. "I could feel you more clearlyafter you got the dice, and later, while that scarecrow with you washandling your chips. You were building a stack. So I fingered you. "

"Careful, " I said sourly. "You're talking about the woman I love. "

There was a strained moment of silence, and then they all laughed. She'dbeen a sight, all right. 

Simonetti came back alive with that one. His husky voice cut in on thelaughter. "Where does that bag fit?" he demanded. 

"No idea, " I said truthfully. "A random factor. I don't think she fits. "

"_Something_ has to fit!" he yelled in his oversized whisper. "How aboutthe way our losses follow Curley Smythe around from table to table?"

This was something. "The table you watch is the one that gets hit?" Iasked Smythe. 

He blushed, clear to the top of his bald head. "A subtle, nastyoperator, " he said gruffly. "And he's had the gall to stick it in mepretty badly, Wally. What Sime says is true. "

Well, this we wouldn't stand for. I didn't give a care if every gamblinghouse in Nevada went broke. But Smythe was in the Lodge. And it finallymade sense that the Lodge had sent me to bail him out. I gave oldMaragon my mental apology. The Grand Master wouldn't stand still for_anybody's_ making a fool out of the Lodge. Still: "Nobody that good isout of captivity, " I snapped. "I don't believe it. It's not TK that'srobbing you. "

"Oh, ridiculous, " Rose said, showing his teeth. "Gambling is ourbusiness, Lefty. Don't you think we could spot any of the ordinary kindsof cross-roading? This is TK, and it has real voltage. We can't spot it. We've got to have Psi power do it for us. "

"Maybe, " I agreed. "But no TK can do it if Smythe can't. Have you trieda PC?"

Simonetti grabbed a piece of the heavens in rage. "No!" he yelled in hisloud whisper. "None of your crystal-ball witches in here!"

I knew how he felt. PC's give me the colly-wobbles, too. 

"What's the matter with precognition?" I asked him. "If this crook hasgot you stuck, Rose is right. Only Psi force will get you out of thisjam. If you know in advance where this operator is going to hit you, youcan nail him. There's a dozen techniques. "

Peno Rose looked at me from under lowered brows. "Are _you_ a PC, Lefty?" he asked me. 

"No, " I said shortly. The Lodge had proved that several times, in spiteof my strong feelings that I had flashes of precognition. Why should Iresent not having PC? How many Psi personalities have more than onepower? Not many. And as for precognition, as Simonetti said, more thantheir fair share is possessed by wild-looking women. Like Sniffles, Ithought suddenly. 

"Well, " Rose said, turning back to his partner. "Let Sime and me talk itover. Maybe we should get a PC. "

"Nuts, " Simonetti told him. 

"I'll think it over, too, " I said. "See you tomorrow. " I turned to go. Simonetti and Smythe followed me out, each for his own reasons, I guess, leaving Rose behind in the cube of glass on the roof, looking like hewas going to turn belly-up and take a bite out of the PBX on his desk. 

 * * * * *

I wasn't exactly shadowed, but I knew somebody had his eye on me as Iwandered about the crowded casino, looking for Sniffles. As far as Icould make out, she had vamoosed without trying to hustle anothersucker. Her percentage of my winnings had certainly been adisappointment to her. 

At last I went down the ersatz wooden steps into the neon-gashed nightand started across the nearly deserted main drag toward the motel whereI had registered. A powerful turbine howled as a car pulled away fromthe curb, perhaps a hundred yards up the way. His lights came on andsnapped up to bright. I had a perfect flash of PC--I _do_ have momentsof it, no matter what the Lodge thinks. The car was going to take a diveinto the fountain pool in front of my motel. But it sure didn't act likeit. I froze in the middle of the road, hearing rubber scream as thedriver floored the throttle and hurled the automobile right at me. Hemight as well have been on tracks. There was no place to go--I was inthe middle of a six-lane boulevard, and could never make either curbbefore he ran me down. 

This is when it pays to be a perceptive. I've talked to many TK's abouthow they visualize their lifts. We all conceive of it differently. Withme a real strain is like shining a bright beam of light on the spotyou're lifting. 

Be glad, Wally Bupp, I had time to tell myself. Be glad for a mechanicalmind. Where do you lift four thousand pounds of car aimed right at you?Well, there is a small valve, can't weigh half an ounce, lightlyspring-loaded, that is in the power-steering mechanism. I seared a liftat it. You know what happened. 

The feedback of the power-steering wrenched the wheel from the driver'shand--it was ten times as strong as he was, dragging its power as it didfrom a four-hundred horsepower shaft turning 30, 000 rpm. The carcareened and skidded across the curb. It took out a small marble railaround the fountain pool and dived in, still screaming rubber. Thefountain went over with a crash and then the racket dwindled off in theshriek of twisted buckets. The turbine had gotten what for in thecollision. 

I didn't hang around to see what had happened to the driver. He was justsome heavy who had the job of rubbing me out. But I did seek anotherhaven. If they knew me that well, I'd never be safe where I had stashedmy suitcase. 

There was a 'copter squatting at the Sky Hi's ramp. I jumped for it andhad him drop me toward the outskirts of the town of Lake Tahoe, and thenwalked a few blocks, mostly in circles to see if I were being followed, before darting into a fairly seedy motel a couple blocks off the maindrag. 

My room was on the third floor of the flea-bag. Part of the place wasonly two stories high. The door at the end of my corridor opened outonto the roof. When I had calmed down, I stepped through the door intothe cool of the desert night. 

 * * * * *

The gravel on the built-up roof crunched in the darkness under my feetas I walked cautiously to the parapet and looked over its edge to thehunk of desert that stretched away toward Reno, out behind the motel. The third story, behind me, cut off the neon glare from the Strip andleft the place in inky darkness. There was silence and invisibility outbehind the motel. 

Feeling a little creaky about falling a couple stories to the ground, Ilay down on my back on the narrow parapet, with my hands behind my headto soften the concrete a little, and looked straight up into the nightsky. A dawdling August Perseid scratched a thin mark of light across theblackness. I heard a coyote howl. This was desert. This was peace. Thedice and chuck-a-luck seemed ten thousand miles away. 

I heard a sound. Gravel crunched dimly under another foot. Somebody hadstepped invisibly onto the roof. It scared the daylights out of me, moreso because I was flat on my back. Cautiously I turned my head toward thedoor I had come through. I could see the fuzzy redness of a cigarette inthe dark. It brightened as the smoker took a drag. Then I heard thesniffle, and knew who it was. 

She stood there, apparently leaning against the wall behind her, silently, invisible but for the glow of her cigarette, and not movingher feet. "Hello, " I said at last. 

"Wasn't sure you wanted to talk, " she said out of the dark. It shook meup. She certainly couldn't _see_ me. 

"How'd you know I was here?" I asked her. 

"I don't know how. But I knew you would be. " That wasn't what I hadasked, exactly. She sniffled, and I could almost see the back of herhand swipe at the bead of moisture that kept forming at the tip of herskinny nose. Made me think. Psi powers crop up more often than theyshould in folks who are marked with a debility. It's the oldcompensation story. Look at my weak right arm. What she had said about_expecting_ to find me on the roof sounded like precognition. And shesniffled and sniffled. Maybe it was one more of those tied-in hystericalPsi weaknesses. 

"What are you doing out here?" I asked her. 

"Resting, " she said wearily. "I just hit town today. "

"And tired already?"

"I was broke, " she said. "Worked in a hotel laundry till dinner time toget eatin' money. Hot work. But I swiped a nice dress to wear when Iwent looking for you, Billy Joe. "

"Yeah, " I said, hiding my snicker over the dress. "Say, I wanted tothank you for handling my chips. I'd have lost my shirt if I hadn't letyou show me how. I wanted to slip you a cut, but you bugged out ofthere. "

"I figured you should handle our money, Billy Joe, " she said. "Anyway, can't take money for my gift. "

She had me shaking with excitement. "You have a gift?" I said, trying tokeep my voice calm. 

"Just some nights. Since I broke my vow, I've lost most of my prophecy. My real gift is healing. Lost _all_ of that, " she concluded, notbitterly. "God is punishing me. "

Gravel crunched as she came slowly across the roof toward me. The fagend of her cigarette made a spinning arc in the night as she snapped itover the side of the roof. Now there was no way to see her at all. Perception is nice in the dark. I tracked her automatically. 

"What was the vow you broke?" I said. 

She sighed, near me. "I divorced my husband, my own darlin' Billy, " shesaid. "There's no divorce in Heaven. "

"Tough, " I said. I thought _I_ was her darlin' Billy. Talk aboutDouble-think! "Will you miss never having a man again? I mean, onceyou've been a wife--" I added, letting it drift off. 

"God has been good to me, " she said out of the dark. "He let me see myown future, that he would give me a husband again. "

That was a curve. "Isn't that an even worse breaking of vows?" I said. "I mean, if in God's sight you're still married to Billy Joe?"

"Would be, " she conceded from the black, now right next to me. "But Hetold me that the man I should seek _would be_ Billy Joe--hit's a miracleworked for me. " Her voice lowered. "A miracle that come to pass tonight, my darlin' Billy. " A shiver ran its fingers up my spine. She meant everyword of it. I _was_ her darlin' Billy. 

 * * * * *

I wasn't in any mood to get married, and least of all to a seeress. Precognition is the least understood of the Psi powers, and the mosterratic. But of all people, I could least afford to sneer at the powerof Psi. 

For the first time, I guess, I realized the awful helplessness thatcomes over the Psiless when a TK invokes his telekinetic power. I wantedno part of the future this corn-fed oracle had conjured up. But it mightbe the only future I'd ever have. 

I tried to recall her looks. Thinking about them, they really added upto no more than hysterical sniffles, not enough to eat, and the patheticevidence that there hadn't been any money for orthodonture. Fatten herup, straighten her teeth and--Talk about _religious_ rationalization!

I snapped out of it. Maybe she could call the turn of dice. But I'd bedamned if she could call the turn of people. Let her try _me_. 

I sat up on the parapet, swinging to put my feet on the gravel of theroot. "So tonight you found the husband God's been going to give you?" Iasked. 

"Yes, " she said softly. 

"And I'm the one?"

"Yes!"

"Not that again!" I growled, grabbing her thin shoulders and shakingher. Her glasses bobbled on her nose. "I'm _not_ your darlin' Billy, andyou well know it. Admit it!"

She closed her lips over her buck teeth and sniffled. "I reckon not, "she said, raising her head and looking at me without flinching. "I liedto you. "

"Why?"

"Kind of made me feel more decent about bein' divorced. "

I gave her a last shake for the lie. "Let's have it, " I went after her. "How much of what you've been feeding me is just window dressing?"

She shrugged, but stayed silent. 

"_Have_ you been married?" I insisted. 

"Yes, Billy Joe. "

"_And_ divorced?"

"Oh, darlin' Billy, " she sighed. "I jest shouldn't never a _done_ that. But I did, " she added. 

"Talk English, " I snapped. "This chitterlin's and corn pone are justmore window dressing, right?"

Her face was solemn behind the glasses. "When you are a smart girl, andyou know the future, too, they hate you and try to hurt you, " she said. "They don't seem to mind it so much if it comes from a piece of whitetrash that never could be 'no account. ' By the time I was twelve or so Ihad learned to act just a little stupid and corn-fed. "

 * * * * *

This, her longest speech, she delivered in quiet, Neutral American, thespeech that covers the great prairie states and is as near accentlessand pure as American English ever is. It branded her Ozark twang as alie, and a great many other things about her. But it added somethingvery solid to her claims of prophecy. 

"All this, " I said. "Because you see the future?"

"Yes, Billy Joe. "

"And this talk about losing your prophecy because of divorce was justthat, talk?" I insisted. 

Her mouth worked silently. "I talk like trash, and sometimes I start tothink like it, " she confessed. "I even act like it. I've tried not tosee things acomin'. But, " she added, drifting back into her Ozark lingo. "Always I knowed I was to find you. I knowed I was to go and search inspots of sin, for there you would be. And it kept getting stronger on mewhere to seek. This night I knew it was the time. I never got a dressand all before. "

The chilly fingers touched me again. Still, what she was saying madesome weird kind of sense. "What about the healing?" I tried, feeling atrap slowly descending over me. 

She smiled at that. "I guess I put that punishment on myself for what Idone, " she said. 

"Then you can still heal the sick?" I asked. She shrugged. "I want youto try, " I added. 

"Not till I get a sign, " she said, moving uneasily. "I'm to get a sign. "

I waved my hands in disgust and turned away from her. "There had to besome fakery in it somewhere, " I said. "You couldn't heal a hang-nail!"

"Not a fake!" she said hotly. "I _have_ healed the sick!"

"Don't get uppity, " I said. "So have I. You see, " I told her. "I'm adoctor. Not much of a one, " I admitted, pointing to my weak right arm. "I can't heal myself. "

"Oh, yore pore arm, " she said. 

"Show me, " I said, turning on her. "Heal me!"

"I'm to have a sign!" she wailed. 

Well, she got one. I took her to my room, pointed at the dresser. One ofthe glasses on the tray beside a pitcher rose, floated into the bathand, after we had both heard the water run, came back through the airand tilted to trickle a few drops of water onto her head. 

Her words gave her away--she was no mystic. She swung her eyes back tome: "TK!" she gasped. She recoiled from me. She'd had a viper to herbosom. 

"Heal me!" I snapped at her. "You've had your sign, and I'm your darlin'Billy. "

"I got to find it, " she said desperately. "The weak place. "

I flopped on the bed, stretched my arm out against the counterpane. Sheran her fingers over it--the old "laying on of hands. " If she were thereal thing, I knew what it was--perception at a level a TK can't match. The real healers feel the nerves themselves. I'd been worked on before. The more hysterical healers, some really creepy witches, had given mesome signs of relief, but none could ever find the real "weak place, " asshe called it. 

She was mumbling to herself. I guess you could call it an incantation. Igot a picture of a nubile waif, too freakish to fit where she'd beenraised. What had her Hegira been like? In what frightful places had shefound herself welcome? From her talk, it could have been an Ozarkbackwater. I didn't want to know what backwoods crone had taught hersome mnemonic rendition of the Devil's Litany. 

Her hands passed up beyond my shoulder, to my neck. "It's in yore haid, "she said. "In yore darlin' haid!" Fingers worked over my scalp. "Oh, there!" she gasped. "Hit's ahurtin' me! Hurtin', hurtin', and I'm adraggin' it off'n yuh!" Her backwoods twang sharpened as she aped somecontemporary witch. 

Hurt? She didn't know what it meant. She fired a charge of thermite inmy head, and it seared its way down my arm to my fingers. My right armcame off the bed and thrashed like a wounded snake. She wrestled it, climbed onto the bed, and held it down with her boney knees. Her fingerskneaded it, working some imaginary devil out through the fingertips, till the hurt was gone. 

 * * * * *

We sat close together on the edge of the bed at last, as I worked andmoved my arm, one of us more in awe of what had happened than the other. It was weak--with those flabby, unused muscles, it had to be. But Icould move it, to any normal position. 

"I never done like that before, " she breathed. "Jest small ailin'. "

"You're a healer, all right, " I said. "And a prophetess, too, from whatI saw at the dice table. You know what a Psi personality is?" I askedher. "Say, what is your name, anyway?"

"Pheola, " she said. "Yes, I've heard of them, " she said. 

"You're one, " I told her. "You can heal many people. "

She shook her head. "Only could do it because I love you, Billy Joe, "she said. 

"We'll teach you, " I promised her. "Would you like to learn? You'veheard of the Lodge, haven't you?"

"Lordy!" she gasped. 

"You're as good as in it, " I told her. "Now tell me, what am I going todo tomorrow morning?"

She got up and started to pace the room, sniffling. "Why would you dothat?" she said at length. "You are going to the bank, first thing. You've got all that money. It's thousand dollar bills! And you'rewriting on them. " She frowned at me, sniffling again. "Do I _really_ seeit?" she asked. "Is that right?"

"I'll make it right, " I said. "Come on, " I told her. "If we're going tostay up all night, we need fuel. How long since you've tackled atwenty-ounce sirloin?"

 * * * * *

The Lodge has unmentioned influence. No, Psi powers aren't a secretgovernment. But what high official can afford to be at odds with us?They know where the Lodge stands. A little while on the visor as theeast pinked up got me what I wanted. Because of the three-hour timedifference, the Washington brass got me _carte blanche_ before bankinghours at the Tahoe bank that supplied the Sky Hi Club with its cash. 

Working with the cashier, who hadn't even taken time to shave aftergetting his orders from the Federal Reserve Bank, I went over theirstock of thousand dollar bills, as Pheola had PC'd I would, and markeddown the edges of the stacks with grease pencil. Mostly I did it to makemy grip firmer. When the time came, I could make that money jump. 

Pheola let me get her a cocktail dress in one of the women's shops. Theright dress helped, but more steaks would have helped even more. I'llbet I put five pounds on her that day. She was one hungry 'cropper. Hungry and sniffly. 

We idled away the afternoon and waited until nearly midnight to go backto the Sky Hi Club. Action is about at its peak then, and if thecross-roader had been tipping dice again, as they suspected, they wouldhave had time to notice which table wasn't making its vigorish. 

Plain enough where they were having trouble. Fowler Smythe was scowlingthrough his glasses behind a table with Barney, the dealer I'd hit withthe Blackout. Their faces were sweating in the dry desert air. The tablewas being taken. 

"Now watch it, Pheola, " I said, as we squeezed into the crowd, oppositethe dealers. "Almost anything can happen. I want to know the instant youget a feeling. You understand?" She nodded and wiped at her drippy nosewith a clean handkerchief. I'd gotten her a dozen. 

There was the same old racket. The burnt out voice of a chanteuse, coming over the PA system from the dining room, tried to remember thesultry insouciance with which it had sung "Eadie was a Lady" in itsyouth. Waiters in dude-ranch getups swivel-hipped from table to tablelike wraithes through the mob of gamblers, trays of free drinks in theirhands. This time Pheola didn't have the same greedy grab for the _horsd'oeuvres_. She'd wrapped herself around a couple pounds ofhigh-quality protein before we had come to the casino. 

The gamblers were urging the dice with the same old calls, and thestick-men were chanting: "Coming out!" "Five's the point!" "And _seven_!The dice pass!" and all the rest. The ivories had a way to go beforethey reached us. I gave Pheola a stack of ten-buck chips and let herbet, without making any effort to tip the dice. She still had it. Shemoved the chips back and forth from "Pass" to "Don't Pass" and won atevery roll. I could see Fowler Smythe begin to scowl as she let herwinnings ride, building up a real stack. 

 * * * * *

Without warning she dragged down her winnings and leaned close to me, sniffling. "You'll get all wet!"

I looked around, seeing a waiter near me. He had just served drinks tothe rear, half of the table, to the gamblers nearest the dealers. Histray was still half-full. This was the moment. It was a generalized sortof lift, the kind of thing that qualifies a TK for the Thirty-thirddegree. I heaved at the thousand-dollar bills I had had marked in themorning, without the faintest idea of where they were. The tray lurchedin the waiter's hand, throwing glasses to the floor. Most of themshattered when they struck the real wood planks, splashing whisky andmix on our legs. 

I looked across the table and grinned at Fowler Smythe. His scowl had anawful lot of forehead to work on. "What the devil!" I could read hislips say over the racket. But Barney, the stick-man who'd felt myBlackout, caught on a lot quicker. 

I was about to freeze him with a clamp on his thyroid. It's just aseffective as wrapping your fingers around the throat. But Pheola upsetthe apple cart. 

She grabbed my right arm, so newly powerful. "No, Billy Joe!" she cried. "I _don't_ want to die!"

"Who's dying?" I snapped. 

"He's shooting me!" she gasped. 

Shoot? With what? I had one terrified moment--what to lift? What wasaimed at her? At the last possible moment I saw it. His crap-stick was ahollow tube, and he was raising it toward _me_, not toward Pheola. I'dheard of things like that--a gas-powered dart gun. Silent, and shootinga tiny needle with a nerve poison in grooves cut in its tip. 

I lifted, but half in panic. Fowler Smythe squeezed his trigger and thetiny dart leaped unseen across the crap layout. My lift had been wayoff--it should have thrown the stick toward the ceiling, where no onewould have been hurt. Instead it merely twitched the crap-stick, and thedart struck Pheola in the left hand. She screeched a little and grabbedat the needle-prick with her fingernails. 

You never know how much power there is in Psi until you use it withoutrestraint. I threw the crowd back away from us with a lift that nearlyblacked me out, and had Pheola on the wet boards of the floor beforeshe could blink. She had only seconds to live unless I blocked allcirculation to and from her arm. I found the spots in her armpit andlifted the veins and arteries into a complete block. 

A whiff of garlic told me that Simonetti had reached the table. He'dbeen watching on the TV monitor, of course. He knelt down beside us. 

"A doctor, quick, " I said. "She's been pinked with nerve poison. "

"She's gone, then, " he said huskily. "Who done it?"

"Fowler Smythe, " I said bitterly. "A snake within the Lodge. You mighttry to stop him. But your partner, Rose, is the real crook. Get the doc, then tie up Rose. "

"She's gone, " he insisted. "Nerve poison kills right now. "

"He's right, Billy Joe, " Pheola said softly. "I'm going numb all over. "

"What did I tell you?" Simonetti husked at me. I had enough left to hithim sharply over the temples with a lift. "A doctor. With antidote, " Isnapped. He trotted away. 

"Darlin' Billy!" she said, and her heart stopped. She was dead. I pickedher up in my arms and carried her to the same sawdust-strewn privatedining room where I'd given Barney the Blackout. 

I had to split the lift. The tourniquet was an absolute necessity, ormore of the nerve poison would enter her system. But her heart_couldn't_ stop. The brain can only stand a few seconds of that. Ihadn't let it miss three beats. Even as I carried her from the casino, Ilifted the main coronary muscle and started a ragged pumping, maybeforty beats a minute. Once in the smaller room I began artificialrespiration with my mouth. 

The sawbones was there in three minutes. I guided the tip of hishypodermic into a vein in her right arm, the one that still had bloodcoursing through it. He depressed the piston, pumping the antidote intoher bloodstream. Little by little I let up on the clamp on her woundedleft arm, dribbling the poisoned blood into her system, so that theantidote could react with it gradually. She stayed unconscious. 

Then I felt it. Her heart muscle tugged back at my lift. It wasstruggling to beat on its own. I matched my lifts to its raggedimpulses, feeling it steady to a normal seventy-two as the antidote tookeffect. 

Her eyes opened at last, and we stopped respiration. "Billy Joe!" shesmiled. She was back from the dead. 

 * * * * *

In an hour we had returned to the motel. She was as good as new, butbadly shaken. 

"I still don't know what happened, " she said. 

I shrugged. "Smoke screen, Pheola. Every time there's a run of luck on acrap table, somebody yells 'TK!' And I suppose there's a number of TK'swho aren't in the Lodge, and who figure to make a killing here and akilling there by tipping the dice. But any decent TK, even a FowlerSmythe, can spot them. 

"There was TK in this, but not tipping dice. Smythe is a skunk. He's noTwenty-fifth, or he wouldn't have any need to go crooked. He saw achance to make a killing. He suggested it to Rose, who fell for it andwent along. Rose decided to steal Simonetti's half of the business fromhis partner with Smythe's help. It was no more complicated thansmuggling thousand dollar bills off the table in false bottoms of traysthat drinks were being served on. Smythe was using TK to lift the billsinto those false bottoms, well screened by the trays from the TVmonitors. Barney was in on it, of course. And after the joint had lostenough dough that way, Rose and Simonetti would have had to sell out. Only the buyer would have been a dummy for Rose and Smythe, using moneySmythe had lifted off the tables. 

"The whole TK business was just a smoke screen to keep mattersconfused, " I concluded. 

"How come they dared send for a TK like you? Why weren't they scaredyou'd catch them, just like you did?"

"It took a little more than TK, " I reminded her. "TK is just a power, one more ability in life. It doesn't make you God. Once in a while itgives you a little more vigorish than the other guy has, that's all. Andsometimes it's not enough. "

"But you had enough vigorish to catch them, " she pointed out. 

"In a way, " I said. "I told them TK wasn't enough--that it would takeprecognition. And I don't have PC. I had to bring a PC with me. You, Pheola. That's why I'm alive. Smythe would have killed me with that dartgun of his. _You_ were my vigorish!"

We rode the 'copter together to the airport. Old Grand Master Maragonwould sneer out of the other side of his face when I brought Pheola tohim. He couldn't keep _her_ from PC training. She _had_ it. 

"Tell me, " I asked her. "Can you always tell what I'm going to do next?"

"I reckon, " she said. "If I think hard about it. "

"But you can't _control_ what I'm going to do next, can you?" I grinned. 

"I wonder, " she said. "Never tried, yet. "

"Oh, no!" I groaned. 

She showed me her buck teeth in a smile. "I figger first you'll havethem straighten my teeth, " she said. "You'd like a pretty wife. "

"If it's got to be, " I said weakly. "That would help. I just wish therewas some way to handle that hysterical sniffle of yours, that's all. ButI guess that's the price you have to pay for that awful load of Psipower you have. "

"Oh, that, " she said. "I ought to be over that by tomorrow. I hardlyever get a cold, darlin' Billy, and when I do, I throw it off in a fewdays. "

Well, I guess it's a cinch I'm no PC. 

THE END