“Out-of-towners, hey?” The bullet-headed man shifted his dope-stick to the other corner of his mouth. “Zoop is a great little game. Two teams of players buy into the pot; each player takes a lever; the object is to make the ball drop from the top of the tower into your net. Okay?”
“What’s the ante?”
“I got a hundred-credit pot workin’ now, gents.”
Retief nodded. “We’ll try it.”
The shill led the way to an eight-foot tower mounted on gimbals. Two perspiring men in trade-class pullovers gripped two of the levers that controlled the tilt of the tower. A white ball lay in a hollow in the thick glass platform at the top. From the center an intricate pattern of grooves led out to the edge of the glass. Retief and Magnan took chairs before the two free levers.
“When the light goes on, gents, work the lever to jack the tower. You got three gears; takes a good arm to work top gear. That’s this button here. The little knob controls what way you’re goin’. May the best team win. I’ll take the hundred credits now.”
Retief handed over the money. A red light flashed on, and Retief tried the lever. It moved easily, with a ratcheting sound. The tower trembled, slowly tilted toward the two perspiring workmen pumping frantically at their levers. Magnan started slowly, accelerating as he saw the direction the tower was taking.
“Faster, Retief,” he said. “They’re winning.”
“This is against the clock, gents,” the bullet-headed man said. “If nobody wins when the light goes off, the house takes all.”
“Crank it over to the left,” Retief said.
“I’m getting tired.”
“Shift to a lower gear.”
The tower leaned. The ball stirred and rolled into a concentric channel. Retief shifted to middle gear and worked the lever. The tower, creaking to a stop, started back upright.
“There isn’t any lower gear,” Magnan gasped. One of the two on the other side of the tower shifted to middle gear; the other followed suit. They worked harder now, heaving against the stiff levers. The tower quivered, then moved slowly toward their side.
“I’m exhausted,” Magnan gasped. Dropping the lever, he lolled back in the chair, gulping air. Retief, shifting position, took Magnan’s lever with his left hand.
“Shift it to middle gear,” he said. Magnan gulped, punched the button and slumped back, panting.
“My arm,” he said. “I’ve injured myself.”
The two men in pullovers conferred hurriedly as they cranked their levers; then one punched a button, and the other reached across, using his left arm to help.
“They’ve shifted to high,” Magnan said. “Give up, it’s hopeless.”
“Shift me to high. Both buttons.”
Magnan complied. Retief’s shoulders bulged. He brought one lever down, then the other, alternately, slowly at first, then faster. The tower jerked, tilted toward him, farther . . . The ball rolled in the channel, found an outlet—
Abruptly, both Retief’s levers froze. The tower trembled, wavered, and moved back. Retief heaved. One lever folded at the base, bent down, and snapped off short. Retief braced his feet, gripped the other lever with both hands and pulled. There was a squeal of metal, a loud twang. The lever came free, a length of broken cable flopping into view. The tower fell over as the two on the other side scrambled aside.
“Hey!” the croupier yelled, appearing from the crowd. “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?”
The crowd had fallen back, ringing the two men. The croupier glanced around. With a lightning motion he pulled out a knife.
“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, Kippy.”
Kippy looked at the bar.
“Comin’ in here,” he said indignantly, looking to the crowd for support, “bustin’ up my rig, threatenin’ me . . .”
“I want a hundred credits,” Retief said. “Now.”
“Highway robbery!” Kippy yelled.
“Better pay up,” somebody said.
“Hit him, mister,” another in the crowd yelled.
A broad-shouldered man with greying hair pushed through the crowd and looked around. “You heard him, Kippy. Give.”
The shill growled, tucked his knife away, reluctantly 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, then sniffed at it.
“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 and 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, and inside was a hand grip. A four-foot clear 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 and starts to turn. Takes a pretty good grip to start the globe turning. 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. If you let up and the bowl stops, you’re all through.
“Just to make it interesting, there’s contact plates spotted around the bowl; when one of ’em lines up with a live contact, you get a little jolt—guaranteed non-lethal. But if you let go, you lose. All you’ve got to do is hold on long enough, and you’ll get the pay-off.”
“How often does this random pattern put the hole down?”
“Anywhere from three minutes to fifteen, with the average grip. Oh, by the way, one more thing. The 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 then: averages five minutes. A warning light flashes first. You can set the clock back on it by dropping another chip—or you can let go the grip. Or you can take a chance; sometimes the light’s a bluff.”
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 arm, 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 and handed over a large plastic chip.
Retief stepped to the machine and 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, reaching 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 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.
Suddenly, a brilliant white light flooded the glass cage. A sound went up from the spectators.
“Quick, drop a chip,” someone yelled.
“You’ve only got ten seconds . . .”
“Let go!” Magnan pleaded.
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 grey-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, so it doesn’t shoot past.”
“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.