Keith Laumer - Of Death What Dreams

“They’ve done it for pure spite,” he choked. “He was my guest, mine! They had no right—” He switched his look to Dovo. “You, Dovo, it’s your doing!” he called. “Give him back at once! He came for me, not—” the rest of the intruder’s cry was muffled by a cloud of pink gas which puffed suddenly in his face. As the agitated nobleman tottered, the stewards closed about him, helped him away.

“Your friend Lord Encino seems somewhat agitated, Sir Jannock,” Tace broke the silence. “His jealousy of your company suggests we are doubly fortunate to have you with us.”

Bailey smiled coolly as Dovo and Plandot began babbling at once, the tension relieved. Lord Tace rose stiffly, using a cane. “So you’re curious as to whether the old man is as thorny an antagonist as reputed, eh?” He showed a stiff smile, “Very well, sir—I accept your wager. But traditionally the challenged party has the choice of weapons, eh?”

Dovo’s face fell. “Why, as to that—”

“To perdition with your childish game of Reprise,” the old man snarled; through the mask of cosmeticized age, Bailey caught a glimpse of a savage competitiveness. “Instead, we’ll try our wits at a sport that’s a favorite among the rats that swarm our cellars, eh? A true gamble, on life and death and the rise and fall of fortunes!”

“Just—just what is it you’re proposing, m’lord?” Dovo blurted.

“Have you ever heard of an illegal lottery called Booking the Vistat Run?” Lord Tace stared from one of his listeners to the other, ended fixing his eyes challengingly on Bailey.

“I’ve heard of it,” Bailey said neutrally.

“Ha! Then you’re sharper than these noddies!” Tace jerked his leonine head at Dovo and Plandot. “Doubtless they scorn to interest themselves in such low matters. But at my age I seek sensation wherever it’s to be found! And I’ve found it in the pulse of the census!” He stared at Dovo. “Well, how say you? Will you back your man in a gutter game of raw nerve and naked chance? Eh?”

“Now, really, m’lord—” Dovo began.

“We’ll be happy to try our hand,” Bailey said carelessly. He glanced at the ornate clock occupying the center of a complex relief filling the end wall of the gloomy chamber. “We’d best declare our lines at once if we’re to book the twenty hour stat run.”

The private game room to which Lord Tace conducted Bailey and the Apollo members contrasted sharply with the blighted cold-water flat from which Gus Aroon had rolled his book three months before; but the mathematics of the game were unchanged. Bailey glanced over the record charts, began setting up his lines. After the dazzling action of the Reprise cage, the programming seemed a dry and academic affair; but the expressions of the aristocrats clustered about the stat screen showed that their view of the matter was far different.

“Well, sirs,” Tace rumbled, watching them as the first figures began to flicker across the read-out panels, “the gamble stirs your blood, eh? The statistical fluctuations of the society that seethes like poisoned yeast below us provide a hardier sport than glowing baubles!”

“Those numbers,” Dovo said. “Difficult to realize that each one represents the birth and death of a man—”

“Or of his fortunes,” Tace barked. “Production and consumption, taxes and theft, executions, suicides, the rise and fall of human destinies. One thousand billion people, each the center of his Universe. And we sit here, like gods squatting on Olympus, and tally the score.”

Half an hour later, Tace’s exuberance declined as he assessed the initial hour’s results. After the twenty-two run, he lapsed into a rumbling silence. An hour later, he snarled openly as another five hundred M changed hands, to the profit of the Apollo book. Bailey played steadily, silently, taking no unnecessary risks, outpointing the old man on run after run. At 0200, with Tace’s original capitalization reduced to a few score M, Bailey suggested closing the book. Tace raged. An hour later he had lost another hundred and fifty M.

“I really cannot continue,” Bailey said, leaning back in his chair before the programmer console. “I’m quite exhausted.”

“But such a sportsman as Lord Tace would hardly agree to stop now,” Dovo said eagerly, naked greed shining on his normally bland face. He looked with sly insolence at the embattled oldster. “M’lord deserves his chance to recoup…”

“I am not so young as I once was,” Tace began in a voice which had acquired a distinct whining note. He broke off at a sharp buzz from the communicator plate, snarled, slapped a hand over the sensitive grid.

“I said no interruptions,” he grated, then paused to listen. His expression changed, became one of thoughtful concern. With a show of reluctance, he blanked the grid.

“It seems we must continue another time, sirs,” he said in a tone unctuous with regret. “The Sub-Commandant of Peace is waiting in the foyer. It appears that a criminal enemy of the Order is suspected of having somehow penetrated the Fornax.”

“So? How does that affect us?” Dovo demanded.

“The Commandant wishes to make a physical inspection of all portions of the premises,” Tace went on. “Including the private gaming areas.”

“Unreasonable,” Dovo snapped.

“Still, one must cooperate,” Tace said, throwing the switch which unlocked the doors. “Shall we go along and observe the Bugs at work?” He smiled at his daring use of the vernacular.

“Best we close the bank first,” Dovo murmured.

“Of course!” Tace poked angrily at the keys on the gaming board; a cascade of platinum-edged ten M cred-cards showered from the dispenser. Plandot counted them out, handed fifty to Dovo, the rest of the stack to Bailey/Jannock, who accepted them absently, turned to Sir Swithin. “Would you oblige me, sir? I feel the need of a moment to refresh myself.” He dumped the double-handful of cash into the startled man’s hands and turned toward the discretely marked door. A burst of chatter rose behind him, but no one raised objection.

Inside the chrome and black toilet, Bailey walked quickly past the attendant to the rear of the room, tried the narrow service door in the corner. Locked. He whirled on the soft-footed attendant who had followed him.

“Get this open!” he snapped.

“Sir?” the man prepared to lapse into dumb insolence. Bailey caught him by the tunic front, shook him once, threw him against the wall.

“Do as you’re told!” he snarled. “Haven’t you heard there’s an enemy of the Order at large in the club?”

“S-s-sir,” the man mumbled, pressing an electrokey against the slot. The door slid back. Bailey stepped through and was in a dark passage. Dim lights went up at his first step. He tried doors; the third opened on a white-walled room where half a dozen stewards lounged around a long table.

“As you were,” Bailey barked as the startled servants scrambled to their feet. “Remain in this room until told to leave. You—” He stabbed with his finger at a thick-shouldered, frowning fellow with red pips on his collar who appeared to be about to speak. “Lead the way to the prefect’s office!”

“Me?” the man gaped, taken aback.

“You!” Bailey strode across to the door, flicked it open. The big man lumbered past him. Bailey stepped out behind him, looked both ways; the corridor was empty. He struck once with the edge of his hand, caught the man as he collapsed. Swiftly, he checked the man’s pockets, turned up a flat card to which half a dozen keys were attached. He covered the distance to the next intersection at a run, slowed to a walk rounding the corner. Two men came toward him, one an indignant-looking chap with the waxed-and-polished look Bailey had come to expect of Crusters past their first youth. The other was a small, quick-eyed man, in plain dark clothes, as out of place here in Blue Level territory as a cockroach on a silver tray. As he started past, the latter turned and put out a restraining hand. Bailey spoke first: