The Quillian Sector

Dumarest glanced at it, then at his own hand. The three lords he held should win if his calculations had been correct. The single card the historian had drawn showed he held two pairs, or had tried to fill a flush or complete a straight. From his reaction he had done neither nor had he matched either of his pairs. The dancer had played true to form, taking a wild chance and hoping for impossible odds to favor her hand. She could have gained similar cards to his own, but they would be weaker. Bochner was the unknown factor.

Dumarest watched him while appearing to study his cards. A hunter, now heading to worlds outside the Quillian Sector-the information he'd gained about the man had been small. His appearance told more; tall, smooth, his face bland, only the eyes gave a hint as to his nature. Eyes which were too steady, which held too long, as if the man were afraid ever to lessen his attention, as if he had long since learned that nothing was quite what it seemed. The eyes of a man who emitted a perpetual challenge-the holding of a stare until the other dropped his eyes.

And then?

Dumarest had met others with such a trait; fighters risking their lives in the arena with ten-inch naked blades. Men who had developed tricks in order to survive, who would hold a stare and maintain it until their opponents looked away, darting in as they did so, taking advantage of the movement to strike, to kill, to win.

But the man was a hunter, a friend of the woman, Gale Andrei, her lover, perhaps. It was natural that a hunter should have such eyes. Natural that he had the ability to sit as if made of stone. Natural that he should have been waiting on Kumetat?

The mercenary had opened. Now he thrust money into the pot. "Ten."

The historian hesitated, then threw in his hand. The dancer raised, light flashing from her gemmed hands as she doubled the bet. Bochner glanced at Dumarest.

"No limit?"

"None."

"Then I'll call and raise one hundred."

"You bastard!" Furious, the dancer threw down her cards. She had quit out of turn but no one objected. "Players like you ruin the game!"

Bochner ignored her. Ignored, too, the mercenary who had dropped his cards to the baize and was obviously waiting to throw them in. "Well, Earl?"

On the face of it, a simple request as to whether Dumarest would call, raise or stack his hand, but meeting the cool appraisal of Bochner's eyes, he sensed it to be far more than that. Would he meet the challenge? Call the potential bluff? Face the enemy or run? Use his own skill and cunning to match that of his adversary? Was he willing to take a risk? Did he prefer always to be safe? Dared he admit the possibility of defeat?

Did he have courage? Did he have guts?

Dumarest checked the pot. Bochner's raise had almost doubled it which meant allowing for what he'd put in earlier, he would be getting back over fifty per cent return on his money. A good investment for a few minutes work, and one favored by gamblers who saw a chance to use the weight of their money to buy the pot.

Dumarest said, "I'll call and raise another hundred."

A chance, but a calculated one, and it was time to discover the man's method of play. His hand could be stronger, but he had drawn only one card and Bochner could think he held less than he did. A single pair, even-a bluff took many forms.

"A hundred?" Bochner pursed his lips, one hand falling to toy with the coins before him, his eyes never leaving Dumarest's face. An old trick, to clink metal or rustle paper or allow chips to make their small drummings while watch was kept for the small, telltale signs of betrayal. The tension of the lips, the movements of the eyes, the impatience, the sweat, the very odor of a man under tension, of a man thirsting for the kill. "A hundred," he said again, this time not making it a question. Coins rose in his hand, "I think, in that case, I'll-well, I'll just give it to you."

"You quit?" The dancer grabbed at his cards. "What did you have?"

A blur and Bochner's hand was on her own, the fingers hard against her flesh, twisting so as to turn the ringed fingers down against the table.

"No," he said. "You don't see my cards. No one sees them."

"My wrist! You're hurting me!"

She nibbed at the bruised flesh as Bochner released her hand then rose, fuming, to storm from the salon and into her cabin. Fele Roster rose and looked down at the others.

"I'd better follow her. There could be something I could do."

"Poison her," suggested the mercenary. "Some people live too long."

"She's no longer young, and worried, and not too well." The seller of nostrums backed from the table. "I've a compound which can bring her sleep and pleasant dreams. An illusion of youth which will not last, but will serve to ease her hurts. And you, sir," he glared at Bochner. "Perhaps you should remember that your mother was a woman and all women are worthy of a little consideration."