quotation I have."

The woman nodded. "That gives me plenty of room for my elbows. Spin the wheel and see how I'm doing."

The croupier hesitated. "Those credits," he said warningly. "You mean to bet them all?" He made a rapid calculation out of the corner of his eye. "You must have five or six hundred thousand...."

That made the woman grin. "Shucks," she said. "What do you take me for?"

The croupier blinked again. He was quite sure he didn't know.

"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, 

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