Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from Analog, January 1961.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
The Psi Lodge had their ways and means of applyingpressure, when pressure was needed. But the peculiar talentthis fellow showed was one that even they'd never heard of...! CARD ... TRICKByWALTER |  |
he game was stud. There were seven at the table, which makes forgood poker. Outside of Nick, who banked the game, nobody lookedfamiliar. They all had the beat look of compulsive gamblers,fogged over by their individual attempts at a poker face. Theywere a cagey-looking lot. Only one of them was within ten yearsof my age.
"Just in case, gamblers," the young one said. I looked up fromstacking the chips I had just bought from Nick. The speaker was askinny little guy with a sharp chin and more freckles than I'dlike to have.
"If any one of you guys has any psi powers," the sharp-chinnedgambler said sourly, "you better beat it. All gamblers here willrecoup double their losses from any snake we catch using psipowers to beat the odds."
He shot a hard eyed look around a room not yet dimmed by cigarsmoke. I got the most baleful glare, I thought. He didn't need toworry. I'd been certified Normal by an expert that very evening.
The expert was Dr. Shari King, whom I had taken to dinner beforejoining the game at Nick's. It had gotten to be a sort of weeklydate—although this night had given signs of being the last one.For a while that spring, desoxyribonucleic acid had begun to takesecond place in my heart. This is a pitiful admission for abiochemist to make—DNA should be the cornerstone of his life.But Shari was something rare—a gorgeous woman, if somewhatdistant, who was thoroughly intelligent. She had already earnedher doctorate, while I was still struggling with the tag ends ofmy thesis.
"Poker, Tex?" Shari had asked, when the waitress was bringingdessert. "Is this becoming a problem? You've played every nightthis week."
"No problem, Shari," I said. "I'm winning, and I see no point innot pocketing all that found money."
"Compulsive gambling is a sickness," she said, looking at methoughtfully. She was wearing a shirtwaist and skirt that had thebright colors and fullness you associate with peasant dress.
"The only sick thing about me is my bank account," I grinned,relishing her dark, romantic quality. "I need the dough, Shari.I've got a thesis to finish if I ever want to get a jobteaching."
Her thick eyebrows fluttered upward, a danger signal I hadlearned to look for. "That's a childish rationalization, Tex,"she said with a lot more sharpness than I had expected. "Thereare certainly other ways to get money!"
"So I'm not as smart as you," I told her.
"Smart?" She didn't think I was tracking.
"I wasn't as shrewd as you were in picking my parents," I said."Mine never had much, and left me less than that when they died."
She threw her spoon to the table. "I'll remind you of how sillythese remarks sound, after you've hit a losing streak," she toldme.
I laughed at that one. "I don't lose, Shari," I said. "And Idon't intend to."
Her lashes veiled her violet eyes as she smiled and said morequietly, "Then you are in even wor