The Golden Eagle was fitted with the finest electricity-generating system, based on both the wood boiler and the use of the stern-wheel itself as a power source. And for decorative and aesthetic purposes, there were hundreds of polished oil lamps in the main corridors and public areas, casting a more gentle, golden glow over the hectic proceedings.
The machines were electric powered.
Some of them were of a model that Jak had occasionally seen before, back in his childhood among the dirt-poor settlements of the bayous. They had a metal head of a Native American on the front, polished by constant contact of tens of thousands of eager gamblers, who would hold it or rub at it while pulling the chrome handle with the black plastic knob at its end, setting the tumblers turning and the display of fruits changing in the three rectangular glass windows.
Jak wandered slowly along, gazing at them, deciding that the odds weren’t worth the playing. And they looked so boring, with no excitement to them.
Occasionally there would be the tinkling of a bell and the whispering cascade of metal counters spilling out as someone had a modest win. The teenager noticed that it was mainly women playing the slots. Mainly older women.
Some looked as if that was all they did, ignoring their beautiful surroundings, never glancing sideways to admire the scenic view out the floor-to-ceiling windows. Each wore a glove on her right, pulling hand, to protect it from blisters, slipping in the jack, tugging, barely waiting for the result before setting the operation spinning again.
“Seems like Hell,” Jak muttered to himself.
The frail little lady, in a respectable dress of dark green wool, at the nearest machine had to have had sharp hearing, as she caught his murmured words above the endless chattering of the slots.
“Hell, young man?” she asked quietly. “This is not Hell. Hell is a closed room. Hell is other people. Hell is to play and not to win. Hell is not to play at all. Hell is stinking mutie bastards with freak snow hair trying to distract decent folks from their funning.”
The last sentence was spit out at him with ferocious venom, a thread of spittle striking him full in the face. Jak had a razor-edge temper, and he actually had his fingers on the hilt of one of his knives before sense broke through. He wiped off her saliva and managed a smile.
“Lotsa slotsa luck, lady,” he said, eyes glittering like a poised cobra’s.
He walked away, ignoring the curious looks that his appearance brought from some of the promenaders and gamblers.
In the next room, which was busy with six tables crowded with men and a few women attempting to beat the house odds at blackjack, Jak found some slightly more modern machines, mostly looking as if they dated from only just before skydark.
These were like something from Mission Control, Houston, with dazzling lights and colors and a constantly changing, comp-activated display screen. There were switches and buttons that allegedly controlled the destiny of the winning combinations, though Jak privately doubted if they had the least effect on the ultimate results.
He looked around the room, taking in the mirrors that were scattered all across the domed ceiling, which was covered in a cunningly painted classical-style mural, showing an array of overweight and under-dressed gods and goddesses, carousing and making merry. And making explicit love. The interior of the Golden Eagle was like a luxurious maze, and it was all too easy to lose track of exactly where on the vessel you were. Jak’s guess put him on the same deck as their cabin, or a half deck below it, directly beneath the most expensive and exclusive staterooms.
He decided to play for a while, using the jingling pocketful of loose jack that Ryan had given him.
The albino teenager won a little, then lost some and won a little more and then lost the rest.
It was all gone in less than a quarter of an hour.
He walked out toward the deck, whistling to himself, amused at what a waste of time the gaming had been and how devoid of pleasure.
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