“Lensmen? Rocket-juice! There aren’t any—we spy-ray everybody that comes in.”
“Outside, maybe, peeking in. Or some other snoopers, maybe, somewhere?”
“I can’t see it. We’ve had Lensmen in here dozens of times, for one reason or another, business and social both, and they’ve always shot straight pool. Besides, all they’re getting is money, and what in all eleven hells of Telemanchia would the Patrol want of our money? If they wanted us for anything they’d come and get us, but they wouldn’t give a cockeyed tinker’s damn for our money. They’ve already got all the money there is!”
“That’s so, too. Money . . . hm, money in gobs and slathers. . . . Oh, you think . . . the Mob? D’ya s’pose it’s got so big for its britches it thinks it can take us on?”
“I wouldn’t think they could be that silly. It’s a lot more reasonable, though, than that the Patrol would be horsing around this way.”
“But how? Great Kalastho, how?”
“How do I know? Snoopers, as you said—or perceivers, or any other ringers they could ring in on us.”
“Nuts!” the assistant retorted. “Just who do you figure as ringers? The Vegian isn’t a snooper, she’s just a gambling fool. No Chickladorian was ever a snooper, or a perceiver either, and these people are just about all regular customers. And everybody’s winning. So just where does that put you?”
“Up the creek—I know. But dammit, there’s got to be snoopery or some other funny stuff somewhere in this!”
“Uh-uh. Did you ever hear of a perceiver who could read a deck or spot a gimmick from half a block away?”