"No. This is all in the brain. No super-strength, no x-ray vision. The only way to do it would be to seize control of your hand-" Rob did so for a moment. "And lift it. Looks like it's heads again."

Edwin shook his right hand in the air. "Ack, that's creepy. Okay, now what if I flip the coin and then go down the hall and show the guys watching TV.

You could find out then."

"No problem-I fish the information out of their heads."

"Suppose then we change the game. Flipping coins is a matter of pure chance. What if we play blackjack, a game of both chance and skill?" He took two poker decks out of his parka pocket and laid them on the desk.

Rob shook his head. "I don't think I know how to play, but you don't want to play cards with me anyway, Ed."

"You would win-but how exactly would you be winning? The chance component you have no influence over, we've established that."

"Ed, I can look through your eyes and see your cards."

"Suppose you don't read my mind to see my cards. Would you still have an influence on my judgment and skill?"

"I think so. Wanting things, feeling strongly about something, I notice that a lot of the time that's what does it. The whole point of playing blackjack is to win. That alone would ensure that I couldn't help it."

"And if you made a concerted effort to play dead fair?"

"I guess I could try," Rob said. "But it'd be tough to find players. How would people know I was trying?"

Edwin's eyes gleamed as he leaned forward. "There is a way to know, Rob, At least, over time, and if you stick to one consistent system of play. The odds in blackjack have been analyzed to a fare-thee-well by statisticians.

I used to play around with the theory myself, in grad school. They've determined that when you play dealer's rules the house has an edge of about six percent. Suppose you don't deliberately pick up on anybody's cards.

Over a very large statistical sample it should be possible to calculate exactly how much your powers are inadvertently affecting the play."

"And where does that get me?"

"Rob, don't you understand? You could tell if your abilities were leaking.

Your entire problem with this weird thing is that right now you can't see it working. It's inside your head, out of view. If you could discern it somehow, you'd have a chance to control it. You know that you can teach people to produce alpha brain waves, by letting them watch their own EEGs?

Blackjack would give us a window to observe the workings of your ability.

Over time you could learn to contain your powers, and we could chart your progress by analyzing your blackjack wins. We'd have hard numbers, data we could crunch and lay out in graphs or pie charts. And we would know when your control was perfect-when your loss rate gets to six percent."

Rob stared across the desk at him. "Oh my god. I guess I better learn to play blackjack."

Edwin opened the decks and began to shuffle the cards together. "I'm sure you've learned this. It's a really easy game. Number cards count as their number, and picture cards are worth ten. Aces can be either one or eleven.

The idea is to add up to twenty-one, without going over."

They played a few hands. Rob won them all. "I'm not doing anything, either," he said gloomily.

"Three hands isn't enough data points. In theory any game that combines chance and skill would work-bridge, poker, gin. But blackjack is a particularly good choice."

"Yeah? Why?"

"Because first we have to accumulate statistics, get a base line. Then, perfecting your control might take months of practice. I can't play blackjack with you all that time. I have a research project, and a textbook deadline, all these things I have to do. Already there aren't enough hours in the day. But we could go to the casinos in Atlantic City and scoop a lot of data fast."

"That's a good idea," Rob had to admit.

"Have you ever been there? I haven't."

"Me neither."

Edwin dealt again, two cards apiece. "Maybe we should go. You free this weekend?"

"I'm nothing but free," Rob said with amusement. "Another card, how about."

Edwin dealt him another. "Good! Let's leave on Friday. I'll take off a couple hours early. I figure eight hundred hands will give us a nice base line. Take maybe twenty hours."

"Twenty hours-that's ten hours a day! Can anyone play that much blackjack?"

"Sure, lots of folks do. You'll see. Hmm, that's bust me. Lucky we're not actually betting. Remind me-while we drive there I'll coach you on how to bet. And the jargon. Unfortunately there's no way to play blackjack in casinos without betting. That's always the drawback to blackjack statistical research."

Rob glanced at him. "You're very knowledgeable, for a nice church-going fellow."

"I'm a Nevada boy-put myself through MIT working at Caesar's Palace. My father played clarinet in the band for the floor shows. Oh, and another thing, it would help if you- well, blended in. Has Mrs. Ruppert offered to revamp your wardrobe yet?"

"She made noises about it yesterday but I didn't pay attention. I guess I should, if I'm going to be a high roller."

"I'm hoping that won't be a problem. "We'll stick to the two-dollar tables.

We're after numbers, not money." He shot a merry glance at Rob. "This homeless thing is just a facade for you, Rob. A secret identity, if you like. Mrs. Ruppert is going to suit you up, reveal your true colors."

Rob laughed at this. "Next time you see that pastor, tell him I lured you into gambling."

CHAPTER 4.

It felt very strange to wear new clothes after all this time. Mrs. Ruppert, with job interviews in mind, took Rob to the Salvation Army store and bought him a blue jacket, a red tie, and a pair of khaki pants. He was surprised to find that his waist size had gone down more than two inches.

No wonder he had needed string to hold up his ragged old jeans. In the mirror he saw a figure that didn't look unduly odd at all- weathered, tall, blond, a little too thin. Meeting the gaze of his reflection gave him a peculiar feeling, however-as if there was someone else, a stranger, behind those ice-chip eyes.

"I don't know," Edwin said when he arrived on Friday and saw the result.

"Maybe it's because I've only known you in your old clothes."

"I kind of miss them," Rob admitted. He stared, awed, at the sleek vehicle at the curb. Edwin's car cast a startling new light on his character. It was a sexy red Mazda RX-7 with a spoiler, a moon roof, and leather upholstery-curvaceous as a centerfold model. Somehow Rob had imagined that as a nice nerdy type Edwin would drive a very different sort of car.

Rob wedged himself into the low-slung seat and shut the door. The car had such tight suspension, and was so close to the ground, it was like sitting in a roller skate. It made a powerful contrast to Rob's own minivan. From the state-of-the-art CD sound system came the supple voice of Barbra Streisand singing Broadway show tunes. Rob said, "And I thought of something else."

Edwin let in the clutch. "Oh? What?"

"I'm going to learn how not to win at blackjack, right?"

"Strange but true," Edwin said, nodding. "Ideally, months of training and careful coaching will finally enable you to lose your shirt."

"But until I do learn, I'm going to win. Won't this be cheating the casino, sort of?"

Edwin's grin lit up his face. "Funny you should mention that. I thought of it too." The light turned green and the car swung with smooth power out into Colesville Road. "During the first few sessions, I expect you'll take the poor fellows to the cleaners. That would be a severe blow to an honest business."

"It would be terrible. We can't do that!"

Edwin didn't slow down. "But suppose the casino was a dishonest one."