MacPherson sighed and went back to the table. "Well, we'll have to get along with just the four of us."
"There's always the unseen guest," said Rothman, "but you won't need to deal him a hand. He already holds all the cards."
Neill looked up. "Stop hamming and sit down. Quit making like a maniac. It's not even a good act."
"Okay." Rothman drew up a chair. "Now what was said about limiting the bets?"
"Why bother setting a limit?" said Neill. "We're not likely to mistake each other for millionaires and we all got exactly the same pay when we were on the Project. Unless your sick pay has had two or three zeros tacked onto it, you're not going to be making any wild bets, and as for the rest of us—"
"University professors are still being paid less than nightclub dancers," said Avery. "You're lucky to be out of the rat race, Rothman. While we worry about how to pay the grocery bill, you can relax, eating and sleeping at government expense. You never had it so good."
"Maybe you'd like to get yourselves committed and keep me company?"
MacPherson rapped the deck on the table. "Stop that kind of talk. We came here to play poker."
"Did you?" asked Rothman, grinning. "Then why don't you deal?"
"Cut, Neill?" said MacPherson. As he shot the slippery cards over the table top, each flick of his thumb watched by Rothman's intent eyes, he regretted this impulsive visit; it now seemed a gesture without meaning. He wondered whether the others were as nervous as he was.