Ports of Call (Ports of Call, #1)

by Jack Vance

Myron said that he knew nothing of ‘Hurlothrumbo’, or any other game. “I have noticed that when these games are played, money changes hands. If I played and won, it would give me no pleasure; but if I lost, I would be haunted by remorse. I would also feel foolish.” Schwatzendale showed his crooked grin. “You do not understand the joy of the hunt. To gamble is to play at prehistoric savagery.” “The metaphor is apt,” said Wingo. “The victor is a cannibal, feeding upon the substance of the victim.” “That is the thrust of our instincts!” Schwatzendale explained. “It is the contrast which generates so much triumph — or such tragic despair.” Wingo shook his head. “When Fay gambles, he often forgets what I shall call ‘amour propre’.” He addressed Myron. “I advise against gambling in general and with Fay in particular. He will deprive you of assets so neatly that you will never notice until you grope in your pocket and find not so much as a soiled handkerchief.” “Wingo is correct!” said Schwatzendale. “Given the chance, I will win the trousers from your arse, so that you have not even a pocket for the groping!” “Fay does not exaggerate,” said Wingo somberly. “Only Moncrief the Mouse-rider has beaten him, and Fay still smarts at the recollection.” Schwatzendale clutched his head. “Why must you utter that name? I shall never rest until —” “Until you have played him again, and lost more money, and known more shame?” “Never, never, never!” “Let us hope not,” said Wingo virtuously.

Passing time in deep space.