Once in Maculay's suite, Ava opened her handbag and rolled a horde of chips on the table.
Maculay roared with laughter. "Souvenirs," he chortled.
"Can't you cash 'em?"
"M'lady, you are an angel. You turned up just in time to create a diversion. I got out with a whole skin, anyway."
Maculay looked at her curiously. Her eyes were glowing with excitement; her face was flushed, and she bore that slight dishevelment that brings a beautiful woman down from the pedestal of showcase perfection and makes a warm human of her.
She smiled cheerfully. "What do you mean?"
Cliff stepped to the small bar at the end of the room and mixed two very Herculean drinks before answering. Then he said—after Ava had tasted and approved: "They thought I had the cards marked. I didn't; I was playing a formula."
"But aren't formula players usually losers?"
Maculay laughed. "Baby doll," he laughed, "when you've been trained by the best mathematician in the solar system, you remember the sequence of the cards, evolve a formula of probabilities regarding the shuffling, and then play them according to absolute mathematics. In Red Dog, if there's a Heart Six to beat, each and every card played changes the formula as it lands; if you know your mathematics, you can compute your chances about as well as the Interplanetary Life Insurance Company can compute your expectancy."