e bank, first thing.
You've got all that money. It's thousand dollar bills! And you're
writing on them." She frowned at me, sniffling again. "Do I _really_ see
it?" she asked. "Is that right?"

"I'll make it right," I said. "Come on," I told her. "If we're going to
stay up all night, we need fuel. How long since you've tackled a
twenty-ounce sirloin?"

* * * * *

The Lodge has unmentioned influence. No, Psi powers aren't a secret
government. But what high official can afford to be at odds with us?
They know where the Lodge stands. A little while on the visor as the
east pinked up got me what I wanted. Because of the three-hour time
difference, the Washington brass got me _carte blanche_ before banking
hours at the Tahoe bank that supplied the Sky Hi Club with its cash.

Working with the cashier, who hadn't even taken time to shave after
getting his orders from the Federal Reserve Bank, I went over their
stock of thousand dollar bills, as Pheola had PC'd I would, and marked
down the edges of the stacks with grease pencil. Mostly I did it to make
my grip firmer. When the time came, I could make that money jump.

Pheola let me get her a cocktail dress in one of the women's shops. The
right dress helped, but more steaks would have helped even more. I'll
bet I put five pounds on her that day. She was one hungry 'cropper.
Hungry and sniffly.

We idled away the afternoon and waited until nearly midnight to go back
to the Sky Hi Club. Action is about at its peak then, and if the
cross-roader had been tipping dice again, as they suspected, they would
have had time to notice which table wasn't making its vigorish.

Plain enough where they were having trouble. Fowler Smythe was scowling
through his glasses behind a table with Barney, the dealer I'd hit with
the Blackout. Their faces were sweating in the dry desert air. The table
was being taken.

"Now watch it, Pheola," I said, as we squeezed into the crowd, opposite
the dealers. "Almost anything can happen. I want to know the instant you
get a feeling. You understand?" She nodded and wiped at her drippy nose
with a clean handkerchief. I'd gotten her a dozen.

There was the same old racket. The burnt out voice of a chanteuse,
coming over the PA system from the dining room, tried to remember the
sultry insouciance with which it had sung "Eadie was a Lady" in its
youth. Waiters in dude-ranch getups swivel-hipped from table to table
like wrai