Why didn’t he have a method to force the players to lose? Was he trying to tell them that they were free to leave now without consequence? Balot didn’t know—and she could sense Oeufcoque wanting to ask the same questions. If Ashley wasn’t setting some trap, then wasn’t he just trying not to do anything? Sure, he was like an iron wall, but he’d be nothing more.
But Balot couldn’t quit now. Just because she’d obtained one of the four chips, she couldn’t have said,
The Doctor had said that memories were many-body information. They grew along with the passage of time, but at the same time, memories of one time were connected with memories of another. If Shell’s memories were divided between four chips, those memories couldn’t be reproduced without all four time lines. And if the memories couldn’t be reproduced, all they’d have is an album showing the growth process of neurons.
Their goal wasn’t that kind of analytical research—it was the details of Shell’s deeds, and without those, their entire battle—and Balot’s game—would be without meaning.
The Doctor sighed. “We may have to change our tactics.” For the first time since starting the game, he took his chips off the table. He placed half of them back down.
The cards came. Ashley’s upcard, a queen.
The Doctor had a 5 and a 7; twelve. Balot had a king and a 4; fourteen.
The Doctor hit and received an 8. His total, twenty.
“Hit.” His tone was defiant, like an underling in a gangster movie facing down the barrel of a gun, crying out, “Go ahead, shoot me!”
Ashley looked at the 8 and edged up his chin as if to say, “That’s the card you got.”
“I said hit.”
The Doctor hit his finger against the table, insisting on the card.
In the face of such reckless self-destruction, Ashley swiftly turned over the next card.
A 6.
“That’s a bust,” stated the dealer.
The Doctor shrugged. The situation was obvious. Anyone could see it. Even Ashley.
The problem was that the Doctor had exposed himself. He had called out the perfect deck. But how would their opponent move next? Everything depended on that.
Balot hit. Her card, a 6. Her total, twenty.
Ashley revealed his hole card: 4. With the queen, that made fourteen.
He drew another card: 2. He drew again: 4. Twenty.
“We have a push.”
This time, he spoke directly to Balot. He swept away the cards.
Calmly, the Doctor whispered, “I guess one card isn’t enough.”
It was as if hitting or staying made no difference. It was as if the order of the cards itself was undaunted.
The Doctor placed his chips, half again the amount of the previous hand.
Balot kept with her same bet. As Bell Wing quietly watched for any changes on the table, Ashley brought his hand to the card shoe and swiftly dealt the cards.
His upcard was 7. The Doctor had an 8-5, making thirteen. Balot had K-3, for thirteen.
The Doctor hit. He got a 4.
He hit again: 2. His total, nineteen.
As if it were the natural choice, he hit again. Ace. Total, twenty.
And again he hit. For a moment, Balot thought Ashley might get angry, but he didn’t. As he coolly drew the next card, he said, “Congratulations.”
It was an ace; 8-5-4-2-A-A: twenty-one.
The Doctor immediately looked over at Balot, asking without speaking,
She answered with a slight shake of the head. Ashley hadn’t made the slightest indication of trickery.
“So you’ll be staying, then.”
You couldn’t draw from twenty-one. The Doctor nodded curtly.
Balot received an 8. Total, twenty-one.
The Doctor groaned. With his eyes, he asked Balot again,
“Now what?” asked Ashley. For the first time, he focused his dark brown eyes right at her. As he smiled, his eyes seemed to dissect her alive.
“That’s some technique.”
Bell Wing, who had been quietly watching the game, had spoken. “I don’t think there’s anyone who could imitate you.”
“It’s all practice.”
He turned over his hole card. A 9. Along with his 7, that made sixteen. He drew another card and slapped down the 5.
“We have a push.”
Balot felt dizzy.
Then Bell said, “This has turned into a dull forced match.”
Balot looked at the old woman, who was staring right at her.
“Rune-Balot. Are you the kind of kid who lives by listening to others?”
At first, Balot didn’t understand what the woman was talking about.
“Chips don’t mean anything to you, right? I don’t know why you’re holding back. You shot down every single last ball I threw, and now you’re subjecting me to this nonsense.”
As Bell’s words drew the girl in, Oeufcoque’s rebuttal came bubbling to the lining of her gloves.
