her existence.

"Six hundred twelve sigma five."

Again Alan recompensated. His nerves tingled; he felt he must be close
to victory. All thought of what he had come here for slipped away; Steve
was forgotten. Only the flashing board counted, only the game.

Five more numbers went by. Suddenly the gong rang, indicating that
someone had achieved a winning pattern, and it was like the fall of a
headsman's axe to Alan. He had lost. That was all he could think of. He
had lost.

The winner was the dreamy-eyed youth at Table 166, who accepted his
winnings without a word and took his seat. As Alan drew out another
five-credit piece for the next round, he realized what he was doing.

He was being caught up in the nerve-stretching excitement of the game.
He was forgetting Steve, forgetting the waiting Hawkes outside.

He stretched back in his seat and peered as far down the row as he could
see. No sign of Steve there; he had to be on the other side of the
croupier. Alan decided to do his best to win; that way he could advance
to the rostrum and scan the other half of the hall.

But the game fled by too quickly; he made a false computation on the
eleventh number and watched in dismay as his pattern drew further and
further away from the numbers being called off. He drove himself
furiously, trying to make amends, but it was impossible. The winner was
the man at Table 217, on the other side. He was a lantern-jawed giant
with the powerful frame of a longshoreman, and he laughed in pleasure as
he collected his money.

Three more rounds went by; Alan picked up increasing skill at the game,
but failed to win. He saw his shortcoming, but could not do anything to
help it: he was unable to extrapolate ahead. Hawkes was gifted with the
knack of being able to extend probable patterns two or three moves into
the future; Alan could only work with the given, and so he never made
the swift series of guesses which led to victory. He had spent nearly an
hour in the parlor now, fruitlessly.

The next round came and went. "Table 111 takes us for a hundred fifty
credits," came the croupier's cry. Alan relaxed, waiting for the lucky
winner to collect and for the next round to begin.

The winner reached the centrally located rostrum. Alan looked at him. He
was tall, fairly young--in his thirties, perhaps--with stooped shoulders
and a dull glazedness about his eyes. He looked familiar.

Steve.

Feeling no excitement now that the quest had