a hundred credits each on the seventh and
eighth rounds, then lost three in a row, then plunged for a heavy stake
in his ninth round and came out ahead by five hundred credits.

So Hawkes had won four times in nine rounds, Alan thought. And there
were at least a hundred people in the hall. Even assuming the gambler
did not always have the sort of luck he was having now, that meant most
people did not win very often, and some did not win at all.

As the evening went along, Hawkes made it look simple. At one point he
won four rounds in a row; then he dropped off for a while, but came back
for another big pot half an hour later. Alan estimated Hawkes' night's
work had been worth more than a thousand credits so far.

The gambler pushed his winnings to fourteen hundred credits, while Alan
watched; the fine points of the game became more comprehensible to him
with each passing moment, and he longed to sit down at the table
himself. That was impossible, he knew; this was a Class A parlor, and a
rank beginner such as himself could not play.

But then Hawkes began to lose. Three, four, five rounds in a row slipped
by without a win. At one point Hawkes committed an elementary mistake in
arithmetic that made Alan cry out; Hawkes turned and silenced him with a
fierce bleak scowl, and Alan went red.

Six rounds. Seven. Eight. Hawkes had lost nearly a hundred of his
fourteen hundred credits. Luck and skill seemed to have deserted him
simultaneously. After the eleventh consecutive losing round, Hawkes rose
from the table, shaking his head bitterly.

"I've had enough. Let's get out of here."

He pocketed his winnings--still a healthy twelve hundred credits,
despite his late-evening slump--and Alan followed him out of the parlor
into the night. It was late now, past midnight. The streets, fresh and
clean, were damp. It had rained while they were in the parlor, and Alan
realized wryly he had been so absorbed by the game that he had not even
noticed.

Crowds of home-going Yorkers moved rapidly through the streets. As they
made their way to the nearest Undertube terminal, Alan broke the
silence. "You did all right tonight, didn't you?"

"Can't complain."

"It's too bad you had that slump right at the end. If you'd quit half an
hour earlier you'd be two hundred credits richer."

Hawkes smiled. "If you'd been born a couple of hundred years later,
you'd be a lot smarter."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Alan felt annoyed by Ha