"Say, this is a cut or two above ship chow," admitted Konnel when the food arrived. "What's that? Music too?"
"They have a trio that plays now and then," I told him. "Sometimes a singer too, when not much is going on in the back room."
"Back room?" Howlet caught up the words.
"Never mind. What would you do right now with a million? Assuming you could beat the wheel or the other games in the first place."
"Do they use ... er ... real money?" asked Meadows, cocking an eyebrow.
"Real as you like," I assured him. "It collects in these places. I guess lots of sandeaters think they might pick up a first-class fare back to Earth."
"Do they?" inquired Konnel, chewing on his steak.
The string trio, which had been tuning up, eased into a quiet song as he spoke. We listened as the question hung in the air, and I decided that the funny feeling under my belt was homesickness, all the stranger because I owned three homes not too far from the Martian equator.
"As far as I know," I answered, "the luck seems to run to those who can't go back anyway, for one reason or another. The ones just waiting for a lucky night to go home rich ... are still waiting."
The door to the back room opened, letting through a blend of talk and small mechanical noises. It also emitted a strikingly mismatched couple.