see." He paused before saying, "You know, of course, that I play for very high stakes." 
"I heard." "If you wish to withdraw now, before we go any further, I would perfectly 
understand." The little speech was made without a trace of irony.
    "Don't you want me to play?" Mamoulian pressed his thin, dry lips together and 
frowned. "On the contrary," he said, "I very much want you to play." There was a 
flicker-was there not?-of pathos there. The thief wasn't sure if it was a slip of the 
tongue, or the subtlest of theatrics. "But I am not sympathetic . . ." he went on, "to 
those who do not pay their debts." "You mean the lieutenant," the thief chanced.
    Mamoulian stared at him. "I know no lieutenant," he said flatly. "I know only 
gamblers, like myself. A few are good, most are not. They all come here to test their 
mettle, as you have." He had picked up the pack again, and it was moving in his hands as 
if the cards were alive. Fifty-two moths fluttering in the queasy light, each one marked 
a little differently from the last. They were almost indecently beautiful; their glossy 
faces the most unflawed thing the thief had set eyes on in months.
    "I want to play," he said, defying the hypnotic passage of cards.
    "Then sit down, Pilgrim," Mamoulian said, as though the question had never been at 
issue.
    Almost soundlessly the woman had set a chair behind him. As he sat down, the thief 
met Mamoulian's gaze. Was there anything in those joyless eyes that intended him harm? 
No, nothing. There was nothing there to fear.
    Murmuring his thanks for the invitation, he unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt and 
folded the sleeves back in preparation for play.
    After a time, the game began.
    
    
    Part Two ASYLUM
    
    The Devil is by no means the worst that there is; I would rather have dealings with 
him than with many a human being. He honours his agreements much more promptly than many 
a swindler on Earth. To be true, when payment is due he comes on the dot; just as twelve 
strikes, fetches his soul and goes off home to Hell like a good Devil. He's just a 
businessman as is right and proper.
    J.N. NESTROY, Hollenangst
    
    I Providence
    
    5
    After serving six years of his sentence at Wandsworth, Marty Strauss was used to 
waiting. He waited to wash and shave himself every morning; he waited to eat, he waited 
to defecate; he waited for freedom. So much waiting. It was all part of the punishment, 
of course; as was the interview he'd been summoned to this dreary afternoon. But while 
the waiting had come to seem easy, the interviews never had. He loathed the bureaucratic 
spotlight: the Parole File bulging with the Discipline Reports, the Home Circumstance 
Reports, the Psychiatric Evaluations; the way every few months you stood stripped in 
front of some uncivil servant while he told you what a foul thing you were. It hurt him 
so much he knew he'd never be healed of it; never forget the hot rooms filled with 
insinuation and dashed hopes. He'd dream them forever.
    "Come in, Strauss." The room hadn't changed since he'd last been here; only become 
staler. The man on the opposite side of the table hadn't changed either. His name was 
Somervale, and there were any number of prisoners in Wandsworth who nightly said prayers 
for his pulverization. Today he was not alone behind the plastic-topped table.
    "Sit down, Strauss." Marty glanced across at Somervale's associate. He was no prison 
officer. His suit was too tasteful, his fingernails too well-manicured. He looked to be 
in late middle-age, solidly built, and his nose was slightly crooked, as if it had once 
been broken and then imperfectly reset. Somervale offered the introduction: "Strauss. 
This is Mr. Toy . . ." "Hello," Marty said.
    The tanned face returned his gaze; it was a look of frank appraisal.
    "I'm pleased to meet you," Toy said.
    His scrutiny was more than casual curiosity, though what-thought Marty-was there to 
see? A man with time on his hands, and on his face; a body grown sluggish with too much 
bad food and too little exercise; an ineptly trimmed mustache; a pair of eyes glazed with 
boredom. Marty knew every dull detail of his own appearance. He wasn't worth a second 
glance any longer. And yet the bright blue eyes stared on, apparently fascinated.
    "I think we should get down to business," Toy said to Somervale. He put his hands 
palm down on the tabletop. "How much have you told Mr. Strauss?" Mr. Strauss. The prefix 
was an almost forgotten courtesy.
    "I've told him nothing," Somervale replied.
    "Then we should begin at the beginning," Toy said. He leaned back in his chair, hands 
still on the table.
    "As you like," said Somervale, clearly gearing himself up for a substantial speech. 
"Mr. Toy-" he began.
    But he got no further before his guest broke in.
    "If I may?" said Toy, "perhaps I can best summarize the situation." "Whatever suits," 
said Somervale. He fumbled in his jacket pocket for a cigarette, barely masking his 
chagrin. Toy ignored him. The off-center face continued to look across at Marty.
    "My employer-" Toy began "-is a man by the name of Joseph Whitehead. I don't know if 
that means anything to you?" He didn't wait for a reply, but went on. "If you haven't 
heard of him, you're doubtless familiar with the Whitehead Corporation, which he founded. 
It's one of the largest pharmaceutical empires in Europe-" The name rang a faint bell in 
Marty's head, and it had some scandalous association. But it was tantalizingly vague, and 
he had no time to puzzle it through, because Toy was in full flight.
    "-Although Mr. Whitehead is now in his late sixties, he still keeps control of the 
corporation. He's a self-made man, you understand, and he's dedicated his life to its 
creation. He chooses, however, not to be as visible as he once was-" A front-page 
photograph suddenly developed in Strauss" head. A man with his hand up against the glare 
of a flashbulb; a private moment snatched by some lurking paparazzo for public 
consumption.
    "-He shuns publicity almost completely, and since his wife's death he has little 
taste for the social arena-" Sharing the unwelcome attention Strauss remembered a woman 
whose beauty astonished, even by the unflattering light. The wife of whom Toy spoke, 
perhaps.
    "-Instead he chooses to mastermind his corporation out of the spotlight, concerning 
himself in his leisure hours with social issues. Among them, overcrowding in prisons, and 
the deterioration of the prison service generally." The last remark was undoubtedly 
barbed, and found Somervale with deadly accuracy. He ground out his half-smoked cigarette 
in the tinfoil ashtray, throwing the other man a sour glance.
    "When the time came to engage a new personal bodyguard-" Toy continued, "-it was Mr. 
Whitehead's decision to seek a suitable candidate amongst men coming up for parole rather 
than going through the usual agencies. " He can't mean me, Strauss thought. The idea was 
too fine to tease himself with, and too ludicrous. And yet if that wasn't it, why was Toy