The four strolled in friendly fashion to the suggested private room. As soon as they were settled:
“You said the top card would be either a five or a trey,” the manager said. “Shall we look?”
It was the trey of spades. “Congratulations, Joanie, a mighty swell job. You really clobbered me on that one.” He shook her hand vigorously, then handed the bill to the manager. “Here’s your M-note, sir.”
“I couldn’t think of it, sir. No tipping, you know. . . .”
“I know. Not a tip, but your winnings. I called the play, remember. Hence, I insist.”
“Very well, if you insist. But don’t you want to look at the next one?”
“No. It’s the ace of hearts—can’t be anything else.”
“To satisfy my own curiosity, then.” The manager flipped the top card delicately. It was the ace of hearts. “No compulsion, of course, but would you mind telling me how you can possibly do what you have just done?”
“I’ll be glad to,” and this was the simple truth. Cloud had to explain, before the zwilniks began to suspect that they were being taken by an organized force of Lensmen and snoopers. “We aren’t even semi-habitual gamblers. The lieutenant-commander is Doctor Joan Janowick, the Patrol’s ace designer of big, high-speed electronic computers, and I am Neal Cloud, a mathematical analyst.”
“You are ‘Storm’ Cloud, the Vortex Blaster,” the manager corrected him. “A super-computer yourself. I begin to see, I think . . . but go ahead, please.”