The game continued in relative silence for another round. Another bong was scored, this time by Roly, who needed it since in his lecture mode he'd undoubtedly missed a few opportunities. We shuffled the tiles again and began to set them up for another round.

"If it is all as you say," Thorley said, "and don't take my meaning wrong, then I must reassess my thinking on utopian systems."

"Well, I don't think anyone would consider Hildred's Planet a utopia," Jeremy said, taking up the lecture duties. "A pleasant place, yes. Comfortable, yes. Utopia, no. Though Furtzig, beneath his pragmatist shell, was in fact was something of a Utopian. The real beauty of his plan, as he saw it, was that by making work less of a do it or starve matter people would be freed to do things that had more meaning, spend time doing things that were not economically viable but that needed doing for ethical or aesthetic reasons, if only in the personal view of the doer. In that goal he was not entirely successful. People being people, they've managed to find ways to muck up the system.

"An example to illustrate my point. Furtzig came up with the idea for what eventually became our annual honors and commendations ceremony. It was an attempt to reorient people towards a less financially centered way of looking at rewards. In his perfect world, people would value public recognition for a job well done, a medallion to hang around the neck, or the right to tack an honors title behind the name, as highly as amassing a big bank balance. But it hasn't happened that way. Maybe a few more people here than on other planets will work simply for the honor of doing good, but for most nothing motivates like cash. In a twist that would send Furtzig spinning in his grave, there have been more than a few scandals involving the well-to-do using their wealth to acquire honors they aren't entitled to.

"And, while competition for jobs may not be as cutthroat here as on some other planets, it's not a gentleman's sport either. You have on the one hand people with highly specialized skills. They're always in demand. On the other hand you have people who make a job for themselves in an art or craft. In the middle, you have the bulk of the population who are neither suited to doing experimental physics, running a major corporation, nor making hand thrown clay pots. They're the ones who traditionally work for someone else, a person or commercial entity. And the jobs they seek are relatively scarce since so many of them are handled by automatons. So, when someone lands a good job he tends to hang onto it. Makes it quite difficult for each new generation to get a toe hold in the employment world, especially since a certain percentage of entry-level labor is reserved for the mandatory labor service program. Every citizen is assigned to work in various segments of the economy for a period near the end of their student days. It's a requirement for receiving your Birthright Account, though it's more symbolic than practical. A rite of passage, a symbolic way of earning your place in society.

"And the level playing field that Furtzig envisioned isn't as level as he would have liked. A flaw of the traditional system, as he saw it, was that some always had a better shot at education, careers, business opportunities, than others simply by accident of birth and financial status. He hoped his ideas would encourage meritocracy, since everyone would start out approximately equal. But it probably never can be, given that some will always have intangible advantages from birth, advice from parents, influential contacts through relatives and friends of relatives. That sort of thing. And even with inheritance greatly restricted, the clever still find ways to pass their wealth on. Many, perhaps most, of the population are in agreement with the concept that each generation should start off on the same footing, but you always have some who either love their offspring, or their accumulated wealth, enough to go to great lengths to find ways around the law. There's a constant struggle going on to keep the system intact.

"Another criticism that some have made, native and off-worlders alike, is that, in creating a society where everyone starts from more or less in the middle, we've also created a society that has a notable lack of compassion. Not in cases of, say, natural or human error disasters. We're as ready to help the victims of an earthquake or a shuttle crash as anyone. But traditional charities of the sort you find on most post-industrial planets just don't exist here. For one thing, there's not a lot for them to do. And the opposite side of that coin is that people here have very little sympathy for anyone who manages to fail. Most feel that if someone fails, that's too bad, they had their shot like everyone else. The Social Welfare Department will see that they get what they deserve."

"Well, after all this, I feel I deserve another beer. Mister Dunfey, if you'll show a little compassion to a passing stranger?"

Ultimately the time came to settle accounts and another of those strange events occurred which later you can only reconstruct with difficulty, probably due to an excess of alcoholic refreshment. Somewhere, well after midnight, Jeremy, as the host, announced that we'd play two more rounds and call it a night. We were playing for total points so no one really knew precisely where they stood financially. At least I didn't.

The rounds were duly played. I did reasonably well, I think, though my memory of the preceding half dozen rounds were quite befuddled. By common consent we turned over the accounting tasks to Roly, who appeared to be the least incapacitated of us all, and sat back, finishing drinks and snacks. Jeremy went off into the next room and returned pushing a cart on which he'd mounted his aged, much used and much abused discom. Roly continued to scratch away, mumbling unintelligible phrases and curses. Several sheets of paper were crumpled and tossed away. Looking back, I consider that evidence that Roly was more incapacitated than we realized. Being the most computer adept of the lot of us, it would have made more sense for him to punch up the calculator function on the discom and gotten the numbers done up with much less effort. But finally he had then worked out to his satisfaction.

"I believe I have it all well and truly reckoned. Do you want it top down or bottom up."

"Either. Just do it."

"Well, the big winner is our guest from across the light years, Mr. Verrill."

That came as a bit of a surprise to me. I'd expected the team of Dunfey and Giffen to have had some sort of scam working, but apparently this was their night off, or more likely, just an off night.

"In descending sequence we have Dunfey, Malvern, Giffen and, I regret to say, Ayclif. I shall have to get busy tomorrow and scout out another bit of work to restore my finances."

"We have a custom here, Thorley," Jeremy said, "that I perhaps should have explained earlier. It's called a cascade pay-off."

This was news to me. It was a term I wasn't familiar with, drunk or sober. I glanced at Roly. He was playing along, but I could tell from the look in his eyes that he was hoping someone would explain it to him shortly.

"That is a term I am not familiar with."

"It's an old custom here. Part of the game. It's quite simple. Each player pays the next higher scoring player the difference between their scores. So Roly pays me. I pay Dunstan. Dunstan pays Morgan and Morgan pays you."

"How unusual. I have been in many institutions of gambling in my travels, but I have never heard of this method."

"It's a very old tradition here. Among friendly games of chance. The professional gambling houses of course conform to standard inter-world practices."

I seem to have been absent when this particular old tradition was born. I had certainly never heard of it and I suspect Roly hadn't either. However, he was quick on the up-link.

"So," he said, "I owe Dunstan furts twenty-seven. He in turn shall pay Jeremy fifteen and Jeremy will pass on the munificent sum of thirty-one to Morgan. Now here we have the shocker. Morgan shall pay to the bong-chong expert from Calthar eighty-three furts. You failed to warn us you had a professional in tow, Jeremy."

"Well, if it is the custom, I shall certainly follow it."

Not having a physical coinage has many advantages, but late night transactions such as paying gambling debts become a bit of a problem. One always needs a discom or other such communications device of some sort. We all now clustered around Jeremy's discom to effect the fund transfers. It was an ancient thing he had scrounged and managed to coax back into life, with much ingenious and possibly dangerous rejiggering and the addition of unrelated parts. Hence its residence on the cart, which served to keep various components in close proximity. Jeremy had never bothered to collect everything in a proper case. It paid to watch where one placed one's hands while standing around it.

A more lucid, less inebriated crowd would simply have pulled a percom out of a pocket and done the deed. But, this was Jeremy's house, so it seemed proper at the time to use his equipment.

The transfers for Roly, Jeremy and myself went easily enough. When Morgan took his place in front of the device, a problem arose.

"I wonder if I could ask a favor of you, Thorley?" he said after gazing at the screen for a few moments. "My ready account is more depleted than I thought. Even with Jeremy's generous contribution filling my debt to you would push it over the edge. I'd transfer funds in from an investment account, but this being the wee hours of the morning I'm afraid of encountering a bit of a timing problem. Transactions don't always clear in a timely manner, you know. I hate to incur the penalties for overdrawing my account."

"Yes, I see your problem."

"I have a small lot of stock I acquired recently. It doesn't really fit with my investment strategy. Name is Speculative Ventures. Up and coming little firm down on Soucon. I wonder if you'd accept it in payment?"

"Well," Thorley said, stretching the word out to gain time. "I'd really have no use for an investment on Hildred's. I have no other interests here, and I don't know when I'll return."

"You can always issue a sell order at the terminal or in flight," Jeremy offered. "Our trading network is, of course, affiliated with the major inter-world networks. Or keep it as a sort of souvenir of your visit."

"Well..."

"Trading equity instruments is a very common way of doing business here, you know," Jeremy continued. "With electronic funds transactions, the line between currency and other economic instruments has become quite blurred. We've become used to dealing with the value rather than the instrument. Much more efficient. Saves converting back and forth all the time."

And that was another development that had somehow come about without my knowledge. Nor Roly's, I could tell.

"Well, if it is the custom of the country I shall certainly go along."

It seemed to be a good night for interesting old customs. Morgan executed the preliminary strokes and with a few rapid motions of the fingers Thorley Verrill verified and completed the transaction

"There," he said, straightening up. "I suspect that I have just become the only Caltharian investor to hold a small position in a small firm on Soucon, on Hildred's Planet."

To celebrate, Jeremy went into his pantry and returned with a bottle of sparkling wine, which he claimed to have discovered lost among the dry goods. The cork was duly popped and glasses passed around. The bottle was emptied quickly and with it,presumably, any second thoughts.

"And now, gentlemen," Thorley announced, "perhaps you would care to engage in an old Caltharian custom."

"Lead on, honored guest," Jeremy said. I thought I detected a slight lack of enthusiasm as he said it.

"On Calthar, when we engage in evenings of friendly wagering such as this, as the final round it is the custom to stake one's winnings of the evening on a final throw of the dice or cut of the cards or, as in this game, a random drawing of the tiles."

He waited expectantly for a response. None came.

"Come, come, my friends. On Calthar it is considered the act of a true sporting gentlemen. One shows one's lack of concern for material things by risking all on a simple act. It is a way of showing defiance to fate, by tweaking the nose of lady chance."

Roly, I could tell, was calculating the odds. Morgan and Jeremy were distinctly disinterested. Thorley seemed rather nonplused at the lack of enthusiasm.

"I'll cut with you," I said. It seemed only sporting.

"Good, good!" Thorley said. "So there are true sporting gentlemen on Hildred's, after all. Come, Jeremy. Prepare the tiles."

Jeremy went to the table. First turning al the tiles face downward, he swept them around the table with wide, erratic motions of the arms. Then he began stacking them in a long row, two high. When he was done, Roly selected half a dozen stacks from the middle and moved them to either end.

"Ready, gentlemen," Jeremy said in an officious voice. "Who draws first?"

"The player with the lower amount of winnings. So he has the pick of all the cards. Or, in this case, the tiles. Mister Dunstan, if you'll draw, please."

I reached out and picked up the top tile from the end of the stack. My spirits soared when I saw it. The black dragon. Only two tiles could beat it. I laid it face up on the table.

"Excellent, Mister Dunstan. I shall have a true test of luck to beat it."

Thorley reached out and picked the next tile. He glanced at it and a smile came over his face.

"A very good tile," he said. "But a nine of flowers is regrettably not good enough. I congratulate you on becoming an investor in, what was the name of this company, Mr. Morgan?"

"Ah, Speculative Ventures," Morgan said.

We returned to the discom. Thorley made the required entries. Then I made mine. As I finished, I noticed the screen start to waver.

"Jeremy, I think there's smoke coming from your discom," Roly said in a matter of fact tone of voice.

"That's just dust," Jeremy replied. "Sometimes it warms up a bit and the dust goes poof."

"No, I believe this is actually smoke being emitted by a component."

The screen was starting to act very strange about now. Focus had become a problem. Squiggly lines appeared erratically, sometimes running vertically and sometimes horizontally. Sometimes they seemed to be doing both at once, with the odd diagonal thrown in for good measure.

"You know, Jeremy, I believe Roly's right," Morgan said. "It does appear to be smoke."

The device gave a very audible pop and the screen image evaporated completely. Thorley had the presence of mind to pull the plug. We all stood around the discom, wrinkling our noses at the acrid smell of overheated electrical components.

"Well, that's never happened before," Jeremy said. "Not with this one, at least."

"Well, thank you for an entertaining evening, Jeremy," Roly said. "I think that was my cue to go home and go to bed."

I heartily agreed with his observation, said my good nights and a goodbye to Thorley Verrill and followed Roly out the door.

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