Scame gave him a hard look. “I have what you gave him,” he said quietly.
It took a moment for Haskand to absorb that. Then he nodded thoughtfully. “It’s bis field, in a sense … let’s see what happens.”
Scame drew Shane close to him. “I want you to help me,” he said softly. “Tell me when it feels right … you know what I mean.”
“No I don’t. Why are you so vague? You have to use hard data.”
Scame ignored the Legitimacy jargon. As the generator began to hum he held his intended image clearly in mind and manipulated the controls at random:
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power-level, waveform … a web of energy flowed into the alien machine.
Shane neither moaned, screamed or doubled up, as was his wont during these experiments. “That feels different from before,” he informed wonderingly. “Sort of … smooth. It’s flowing.”
“Flowing where, Shane?”
“Flowing out-out there.” Shane waved his hands over his head, unsure of what he meant.
Scarne sent his fingers over the switches again. Shane frowned, then gave a grimace of pain. “No, that’s all wrong, that won’t work,” he complained.
“Well, let’s see-” Scarne once more amended the controls, with a glimmering of an idea what to aim for this time.
And then it struck home to him, too. He knew he had hit it, and Lady was hovering over him, smiling down on him, her hand on his shoulder.
He closed his eyes. “Thank you, Lady,” he whispered.
“It’s there,” Shane murmured. His eyes were withdrawn, concentrating on the feeling inside him. “That’s it. It’s beautiful. It works.”
“It works?” Wishom queried in a cracked voice, rushing up to them. “What works? What’s happening?”
“You’ll find out in a few hours,” Scame said. He saw no point in explaining it; it sounded too fantastic.
Even he would eagerly await the reports, to make sure he hadn’t simply imagined the picture that had blazed in his mind when the machine hit its resonant level. Suns exploding, thousands of suns.
Every single sun at the far end of the Cave had gone nova. With luck, a good part of the assembled Hadranic forces would be caught in the holocaust. At any rate, the Hadranics would now regard the Cave as too dangerous to operate in, and therefore it was effectively impassable.
Eventually they would overcome their caution, or else find another attack route, but the Legitimacy now had a valuable breathing space. Later, perhaps he
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would explode more suns, perhaps all the suns in the Cave.
If, that was, he had not already used up all his luck in such a titanic act. He exulted. It was like being a god oneself! Then he checked himself, remembering the hubris that had brought about the downfall of Marguerite Dom, Chairman of the Grand Wheel which was now under new management.
Lady had dealt mankind a new hand, he reflected. He wondered what difference it was going to make to civilization now that the Galactic Wheel held all its gambling concessions.
And it came into his mind that the people who really knew about the luck deity did not see it as a smiling woman, but as a male figure, stem and retributive. That could make a difference, too.
He turned to Hakandra. “There’s another kind of machine in one of the Wheel tents,” he said. “I don’t suppose you’ll take any notice, but if I were you I’d have it destroyed.”
“Oh? Why is that?”
Scame smiled. “There’s too much luck attached to it.”
Chapter Seventeen
Marguerite Dom’s sojourn in the gulf of randomness was not an eternity of chaos, as it turned out.
Like everything else, he kept bubbling to the surface of it, reforming, melting and dissolving again;
finding himself in little regions of stability, finding himself to be a wandering ghost in the fog-like limbo, a mote in the foaming sea of nullity, or something incomprehensible in some other of its aspects.
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He never felt as if he had been there long, not even when someone plucked at his sleeve and he turned to come face to face with an old colleague.
“We’re not really here, you know,” Pawarce told him, looking round himself shiftily. “Nobody exists here-except ghosts, like us.”
“How long have you been here?” Dom asked.
“There isn’t any time here. A million years, maybe.” His face was ugly as he looked at Dom. “I’m glad you ended up here too. It serves you damned well right.”
Dom moved away but Pawarce followed him, hanging onto his arm and leaning close. He pointed. “See that. Marguerite? Over there?”
Dom followed his finger. In the mist, so faint he wasn’t sure if he saw it or not, was an arch, like a faded rainbow.
“What is it?”
“Up there, where real things exist, people play games. Well, not people, exactly. Beings, cleverer than us. Sometimes when they play, new worlds and universes are formed. Sometimes you can walk into them. I’ve been waiting a long time to see if that one would form. Now it’s ready. But we have to go now or it will separate. Do you see it. Marguerite? A new world, a chance to start over somewhere else! To exist again!”
Dom hung back. “What will it be like?”
Pawarce pulled a face. “Who knows, till we get there?”
“That’s right, who knows?”
Together they walked towards the dimly shining arch.
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Chapter Eighteen
It was only a small mugger in a cheap bar. Cheyne Scarne was thumbing in coins and winning, winning, winning.
His luck was draining away by weeks, days, hours, but still it was fun. He smiled wryly as the sparks came up and the tokens came tinkling out of the pay slot.
A small, dapper man came up to him. “Say, how do you do that?” “Luck.”
He turned away from the machine, unwilling to get into conversation, and sat down at a table near the bar. Curiously, he never won jackpots. Jackpots weren’t really good luck; they changed the recipient’s life, not always for the better.
It amused him, too, to think that his winnings were paid out by the Galactic Wheel now; were the subject, probably, of accounts at the center of the galaxy. So far, though, there had been no outward sign of the galactics’ takeover. And he had been unable to prise anything out of the Wheel men he knew.
What would happen, he asked himself, if the Hadranics should break through the Legitimacy’s newly constituted defence line? Would the Galactic Wheel move to prevent the invasion so as to protect its pitch? He suspected not. They were more subtle, more practical. They would simply make sure that their property remained profitable in the new set-up. They might even encourage an invasion, if it meant more business. Contemplating the possibility brought Scarne a sense of unreality. Sometimes he had the feeling that the 175
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whole sequence of events he had suffered, beginning with his first being picked up by the SIS, was the result of a game being played elsewhere in the universe. It was better not to think about it.
Every so often Scarne glanced at the door, in expectation of yet one more piece of luck.
Why not? It should happen, he told himself. At first he had been expecting, and now he was only hoping, that his luck would rub off enough so that Cadence Mellors would somehow find her way out of that work camp and back to him. According to his luck, he should see her walking through a door somewhere, someday. That was why he spent so much of his time in bars.
He took a swallow of his drink, and then looked up again. A girl had just entered the bar, and for a moment he thought it was Cadence. At a glance the resemblance was remarkable, and it was not just a matter of physiognomy. Like Cadence, she was no longer very young; a little faded, more than a little jaded by life. But it was not Cadence.
He continued staring at her, feeling familiar pangs.
She smiled. He smiled.
His luck was running out. But it was still working for him. Within limits.
She was not Cadence.
But she would do.