'So who draws with his left?'
'I believe Sam Coulter would,' said the Mexican, squeezing Quantrill's left bicep gently.
Quantrill allowed the liberty, putting aside a vague momentary feeling that his new friend had a look of fondness that verged on the feminine. Matthias, he decided, was sharp as hell to spot a left-hander so quickly. He put up both hands in surrender. 'Not me. Games like that give me a pounder of a headache. You go ahead; I'll cheer.'
Sorel elected to wait until the two Anglos had taken their turns, watching the action closely. Quantrill noted that two of the androids seemed always to be among the six bad dudes, and that their movements seemed choreographed to the millisecond. By waiting and watching for hours, a player might greatly improve his chances. His friend Matthias, he decided, was probably making the same calculation.
After the two Anglos had their turns, the Mexican took his time checking the freedom of his Colt in its holster before walking into the game of Solo. He seemed to have planned his moves well, drawing carefully at a moderately slow gunsel at the bar. The tall Anglo had won three of his encounters, the chunky one only two. 'One down,' they called. It was impossible to tell whether the Mexican heard them, for he wasted none of his concentration on a reply.
Number two flashed its eyes from the poker table, and Sorel fired from a prone position. He almost missed number three, a lounger at the top of the stairwell, but turned sideways as he drew and got the shot off quickly. The android fell backward in satisfyingly realistic fashion, and Quantrill realized that the Mexican was cleverly twisting so that, while the vest told the machines where to aim, those vest sensors made almost no target at the instant of truth.
Number four was the bartender, which had been 'watching' the gunplay at the stair and hauled out a shotgun to drill the player with an awesome report. Sorel shook his head in a flash of irritation, reseated his Colt, then quickly moved up with his back to the bartender android.
Number five was a special problem, an android that flashed its crimson blink and then stepped behind three others for cover before firing. The player that shot a noncombatant lost the rest of his turn. The Mexican turned sideways again, took a one-handed stance, and moved his body abruptly from side to side. The android missed by a hairsbrcadth and then, in accord with some programmer's fancy, put its hands up. Sorel shot it squarely in the chest, chuckling as he fired.
But while taking deliberate aim at his fifth opponent, Sorel had turned his torso to face the buxom machine at the piano. Though he did not see the crimson flash from its eyes, Quantrill did. Caught up in the game, Quantrill shouted, 'To your left!' and actually felt his own left hand twitch in the direction of his right armpit. That would have been lovely, explaining a few explosive rounds from a Chiller through a one-way mirror.
No one noticed, for the chanteuse had drawn a derringer from its plastic cleavage and fired as the Mexican was whirling. The men outside whooped their enthusiasm, and the victim walked out muttering to himself, plainly disgusted with his performance.
Now the barrel-chested 'Johnny' showed his first signs of beginning to enjoy himself. 'Like my daddy said, you got to look out for them painted hussies,' he rumbled. His tall companion only clucked his tongue in false sympathy.
'To be taken by a woman,' the victim said, shaking his head a minute later as he handed over his gear to an attendant.
'Depends how she does it,' Quantrill said slyly. 'Anyhow, that was a damn fast machine made up like a woman.' He was on the point of adding, like a bloody fool, that he might have done no better under the circumstances. Instead, he suggested they continue their tour.
They studied the game of Dee & Dee, reading its displays and looking over the pointedly skimpy holo maps, for the better part of half an hour before deciding against it. No doubt the maze would be tremendous fun for someone who knew all the nuances of dragons, dungeons, wizards, and trolls, but the welter of rules soon had the men laughing at the sheer complication of it all.
'Anyway, it takes a half hour, and it's as expensive as the Thrillkiller,' Quantrill said.
'But it don't take the
'Very well,' said the Mexican. 'We will follow you.' His smile was innocent as a babe's.
'Collier' and 'Cherry' made quite a show of unconcern as they strolled to the Thrillkiller. There was no long line of riders waiting, but the men needed a few minutes to study the paper they signed. Quantrill learned something new: it was possible to brake the capsule for an emergency stop. But if you did, you forfeited an additional fifty-dollar deposit because all capsules under way would also stop, then proceed slowly to the finish line. In case of a real malf, a huge device called a 'cherry picker' slid along the maglev track to the site of the problem. Apparently, WCS and their LockLever designers had thought of everything — including the disclaimer for cardiac arrest while in a capsule.
First to climb into a capsule for his solitary ride was the heavyset Anglo, who was still smiling now, but not very convincingly. The lone attendant helped him snug into his restraint harness, including the 'submarine' strap that passed between the legs and locked at the single-point disconnect low on the rider's belly. The canopy hinged at the side and snapped down with heavy thunks of probe locks. A moment later, the attendant checked a computer display and then punched a command. Inside the capsule a hidden loudspeaker began its special effects, sounding for all the world like a turbo boost. The linear electric drive, which did the real work, gradually accelerated the capsule away to the first bend. And kept accelerating through it.
The tall graying Anglo shook his head a little and sighed as his capsule trundled up to the start line. He turned to the Mexican: 'Beats the shit outa me why I'm doin' this.'
'You are at liberty to let the opportunity pass.'
'No I ain't, and you know it.' There was a hint of dark humor in the reply; Texans, even when otherwise mature, were often notorious suckers for a dare. He stepped over the high sill into his capsule and began to arrange his harness with the resignation of the damned.
'If it's any consolation,' Quantrill said, 'I feel the same way.' This was only a slight exaggeration. Having flown government sprint choppers, he knew what to expect. But in a sprint chopper, you could plan every twist and lurch.
By unspoken agreement, Quantrill was next. By the time he waved to the Mexican, he could see a capsule far ahead, going through the second of its free-fall arcs. It dropped to the lower 'submach' track, and Quantrill decided to follow suit. No point in deliberately antagonizing the others. He had little doubt that 'Matthias' would take the high road.
Quantrill soon felt glad of his decision. The damned capsule whipped him from side to side, hurled itself into a tunnel, and seemed likely to screw itself down to India before straightening, accelerating up, and giving him a brief taste of zero gee before meeting the rails again. The console display gave him his choice, and he ignored it, looking ahead. That free-fall choice up ahead interested him as a problem in vertical mass switching, neatly solved. For the submach track, you scarcely left the rails at all.
The high-speed straight on the return leg was fun because it was near enough to the valley floor to give the illusion of great speed. Quantrill found himself enjoying it, reminding himself to return one day and try the hypersonic option, and the last deceleration bends came too soon. Ahead, he could see his companions, tiny stick figures outside the capsules, leaning on balustrade rails.
He got out carefully, noting the other men who were shading their eyes, watching the near distance. Sure enough, a bright dart was hurtling down the hypersonic high road, across kilometers of track at a speed that was simply appalling so near to the ground. The boulder rocked into place across the rails, on cue, and opened on cue. Less than a minute later, their fourth member was climbing from his capsule, elated. Quantrill greeted him with what he wanted to hear: 'I took the easy way. Gotta hand it to you, Matthias; you have more big brass balls than all the pawnshops in SanTone.'
The Mexican placed his hand on Quantrill's shoulder and looked back at the rails stretching away behind them. Slowly, reflecting as he spoke, he said, 'I think — it is a matter of faith.'
'You mean like God won't let you down?'
'Oh, no. I merely remind myself that others have done this. And what anyone else can do…' He let his hand
