"Scotch," said Dorlup with a smile. "Might as well be your treat, eh?"
"Two scotches, then," said the man. "You're in serious trouble, Dorlup."
"Is that so?"
"Quite. For a long time the Century Agents have played down stories about a time-tinkerer who had broken more rules than all the tinkerers before him. He was called the monopolist of despotism, although frankly the Agents neither invented nor particularly cared for the term. We played down the stories but we hardly doubted them. As I said, you are in trouble, Dorlup. You are under arrest."
"This is fantastic. What's the charge?"
"Time tinkering, of course. You are the monopolist, Dorlup."
"What? WHAT?"
"You are the monopolist."
Beti played with Dorlup's chips until not one remained in front of her. The croupier was his old self again, calm, detached, indifferent. She looked all around the club for Dorlup but couldn't find him.
No doubt the stranger had been an Agent. Beti hardly understood all that had happened in the last few months. First they told her to spy on Dorlup and she had—gladly, since she had done other small jobs for them in the past and the pay was good. I'm not as dumb as he thinks, she thought with a smile. And then, then they had told her to lie in her reports. She had lied cheerfully, at their direction. But why did they need to spy if she spied and found nothing, then reported all sorts of things? She shrugged her shapely shoulders. They had their reasons.