The Keith Laumer MEGAPACK®: 21 Classic Stories. Keith Laumer
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broken cable flopping into view. The tower fell over as the two on the other side scrambled aside.
“Hey!” Bullet-head yelled. “You wrecked my equipment!”
Retief got up and faced him.
“Does Zorn know you’ve got your tower rigged for suckers?”
“You tryin’ to call me a cheat or something?”
The crowd had fallen back, ringing the two men. Bullet-head glanced around. With a lightning motion, he plucked a knife from somewhere.
“That’ll be five hundred credits for the equipment,” he said. “Nobody calls Kippy a cheat.”
* * * *
Retief picked up the broken lever.
“Don’t make me hit you with this, you cheap chiseler.”
Kippy looked at the bar.
“Comin’ in here,” he said indignantly, looking to the crowd for support. “Bustin’ up my rig, callin’ names….”
“I want a hundred credits,” Retief said. “Now.”
“Highway robbery!” Kippy yelled.
“Better pay up,” somebody called.
“Hit him, mister,” someone else said.
A broad-shouldered man with graying hair pushed through the crowd and looked around. “You heard ’em, Kippy. Give,” he said.
The shill growled but tucked his knife away. Reluctantly he peeled a bill from a fat roll and handed it over.
The newcomer looked from Retief to Magnan.
“Pick another game, strangers,” he said. “Kippy made a little mistake.”
“This is small-time stuff,” Retief said. “I’m interested in something big.”
The broad-shouldered man lit a perfumed dope stick. “What would you call big?” he said softly.
“What’s the biggest you’ve got?”
The man narrowed his eyes, smiling. “Maybe you’d like to try Slam.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Over here.” The crowd opened up, made a path. Retief and Magnan followed across the room to a brightly-lit glass-walled box.
There was an arm-sized opening at waist height. Inside was a hand grip. A two-foot plastic globe a quarter full of chips hung in the center. Apparatus was mounted at the top of the box.
“Slam pays good odds,” the man said. “You can go as high as you like. Chips cost you a hundred credits. You start it up by dropping a chip in here.” He indicated a slot.
“You take the hand grip. When you squeeze, it unlocks. The globe starts to turn. You can see, it’s full of chips. There’s a hole at the top. As long as you hold the grip, the bowl turns. The harder you squeeze, the faster it turns. Eventually it’ll turn over to where the hole is down, and chips fall out.
“On the other hand, there’s contact plates spotted around the bowl. When one of ’em lines up with a live contact, you get quite a little jolt—guaranteed nonlethal. All you’ve got to do is hold on long enough, and you’ll get the payoff.”
“How often does this random pattern put the hole down?”
“Anywhere from three minutes to fifteen, with the average run of players. Oh, by the way, one more thing. That lead block up there—” The man motioned with his head toward a one-foot cube suspended by a thick cable. “It’s rigged to drop every now and again. Averages five minutes. A warning light flashes first. You can take a chance; sometimes the light’s a bluff. You can set the clock back on it by dropping another chip—or you can let go the grip.”
Retief looked at the massive block of metal.
“That would mess up a man’s dealing hand, wouldn’t it?”
“The last two jokers who were too cheap to feed the machine had to have ’em off. Their arms, I mean. That lead’s heavy stuff.”
“I don’t suppose your machine has a habit of getting stuck, like Kippy’s?”
The broad-shouldered man frowned.
“You’re a stranger,” he said, “You don’t know any better.”
“It’s a fair game, Mister,” someone called.
“Where do I buy the chips?”
The man smiled. “I’ll fix you up. How many?”
“One.”
“A big spender, eh?” The man snickered, but handed over a large plastic chip.
IV
Retief stepped to the machine, dropped the coin.
“If you want to change your mind,” the man said, “you can back out now. All it’ll cost you is the chip you dropped.”
Retief reached through the hole, took the grip. It was leather padded hand-filling. He squeezed it. There was a click and bright lights sprang up. The crowd ah!-ed. The globe began to twirl lazily. The four-inch hole at its top was plainly visible.
“If ever the hole gets in position it will empty very quickly,” Magnan said, hopefully.
Suddenly, a brilliant white light flooded the glass cage. A sound went up from the spectators.
“Quick, drop a chip,” someone called.
“You’ve only got ten seconds….”
“Let go!” Magnan yelped.
Retief sat silent, holding the grip, frowning up at the weight. The globe twirled faster now. Then the bright white light winked off.
“A bluff!” Magnan gasped.
“That’s risky, stranger,” the gray-templed man said.
The globe was turning rapidly now, oscillating from side to side. The hole seemed to travel in a wavering loop, dipping lower, swinging up high, then down again.
“It has to move to the bottom soon,” Magnan said. “Slow it down.”
“The slower it goes, the longer it takes to get to the bottom,” someone said.
There was a crackle and Retief stiffened. Magnan heard a sharp intake of breath. The globe slowed, and Retief shook his head, blinking.
The broad-shouldered man glanced at a meter.
“You took pretty near a full jolt, that time,” he said.
The hole in the globe was tracing an oblique course now, swinging to the center, then below.
“A little longer,” Magnan said.
“That’s the best speed I ever seen on the Slam ball,” someone said. “How much longer can he hold it?”
Magnan looked at Retief’s knuckles. They showed white against the grip. The globe tilted farther, swung around, then down; two chips fell out, clattered down a chute and into a box.
“We’re ahead,” Magnan said. “Let’s quit.”
Retief shook his head. The globe rotated, dipped again; three chips fell.
“She’s ready,” someone called.
“It’s bound to hit soon,” another voice added excitedly. “Come on, Mister!”
“Slow down,” Magnan said. “So it won’t move past too quickly.”
“Speed it up, before that lead block gets you,” someone called.
The hole swung high, over the top, then down the side. Chips rained out of the hole,