How, he wondered, does one enjoy one's spare time? He considered some interesting excursion but he was on the road every day from dawn to dusk. Then there was exercise, boating and hiking, which was not only good for you but also made you more virile: the thought of strenuous activity left him exhausted. Perhaps golf, with a fashionable companion -- but he'd lost his clubs, hadn't played in years. There was swimming over at the Riverside Hotel, but his skin was so white he looked like the bottom of a frog. Perhaps a packing trip into the Sierras, let his beard grow -- but that was too stark. I could, he thought, take a long walk -- but where? The telephone rang. "You missed it", Buzz's voice said, "You should have gone over to the Pagan Room with us. Wow. Strippers, but scrumptious, and Toodle Williams and her all-lesbian band". "Hi, Buzz", Owen said. "I went over to the Willows and dropped two notes". "Tough", Buzz said, "Listen, we're having a stag dinner over at the Pagan Room on Friday. Imagine a stag dinner with Toodle Williams". He laughed and laughed. Owen wanted to be pleasant because Buzz worked the territory next to his, but he hadn't come to Reno for stag dinners. "Thanks", Owen said, "but Friday is a long way off and anything can happen". Buzz was a tireless instigator who never let his victims rest. When Owen was finally rid of him, there was a timid rap at the door. "Yes", Owen called out. "Yes"? "I'm Mrs. Gertrude Parker", a soft voice explained, "And I'd like to talk to you for a few minutes, please". Ahah, he thought, a lush divorcee at last. Probably saw me in the lobby. He was disappointed to find a nervous, scrawny woman with a big hat standing at the door. She frowned at his green pajamas with the yellow moons. "How do you do"? She said, semi-professionally. "Our church is sponsoring a group of very courageous women up in Alaska. We call them lay-sisters and they go among the Eskimos making friends and bringing the light. They're up there in that freezing climate and all of us have to try and help them". "Oh"? "You see", she said, looking past him into the room, where the highball glasses sparkled dully in the bright light, "you and I can't understand the many hardships they have to undergo". "Why is that"? She apparently wasn't satisfied with his reaction. Smug, Owen thought, smug and sappy. There was a slight nervous twitch in the region of her left eye. It gave her a lewd, winking effect. "Have you ever tried to reason with an Eskimo"? She asked, winking wildly. "They are a very difficult group of people". "I don't know much about them", Owen admitted, "but I suppose they have their own religion and they probably resent outsiders coming in and telling them what to do and what not to do". She smiled in a sickly-tolerant fashion. "You know, that's very interesting. People don't know how much they give away about themselves by remarks like that. The more canvassing I do, the more I note how far most people are from their personal God". Forebearing, Owen kept his peace. What would happen next? That she was out for a touch was certain, but when did she get to the pitch? Several people passed in the hall and stared as he slowly retreated, trying to close the door a little, and she slowly leaned toward him and raised her voice. "How did you get by the desk"? He asked curiously. "I'm sure the hotel doesn't know you're wandering around the corridors, knocking on strangers' doors and talking down Eskimos". "Oh, I just come once a week. Every day I visit a different hotel. I feel it's my duty. I do this work all on my own, because I understand the difficulties and I want to help these lay-sisters. Do you know these women go all through Alaska, and they don't have the proper facilities? They travel in pairs as much as a hundred-and-fifty miles a day". "Do you have any idea how far I travel every day? I have the whole Pacific Northwest". Owen was aware he was getting overexcited but he couldn't help himself. Mrs. Gertrude Parker drew back. "That's hardly a Christian approach", she remonstrated. "You're in the secular world". "I didn't say it was Christian. I don't think you'll find many active Christian salesmen. Not that religion isn't big business; those bibles and prayer books make a lot of money for publishing houses, but they don't get top personnel. Our key salesmen are in appliances and cosmetics". "God, I take it, plays no part in this", she said waspishly. "God doesn't have any appliance or cosmetics", he said heatedly before he caught himself. It sounded silly; why go on? More people were passing; he had to find some way to close this impossible conversation. "And whiskey", she said, smiling and blinking at the highball glasses. "Don't forget whiskey; it's such a big seller". "You know", he said, getting a grip on himself, "I think you're going to have to excuse me. I have an appointment". "I can imagine", she said. "Probably down at the bar. But what do you want to do about the lay-sisters? They must be freezing up there now. Can't you help them"? "Leave a card or something. I'll think it over". "I have no card", she said bitterly. "You haven't been listening to what I've been telling you. I only hope my talking to you has helped you a little, anyway, because you need spiritual bucking-up". She looked crestfallen, as if he had somehow disappointed the whole human race. She stood indecisively for a moment, then walked down the hall; he heard her knocking on another door. It took him about fifteen minutes to calm himself; then he realized he was hungry. He showered, shaved, dressed and went down to the dining room for breakfast. On the way he stopped at the desk to receive his mail. There was a check from his company, and the usual enthusiastic bulletins on new lines they always issued. His lawyer had sent him a statement on his overdue alimony, and there was a letter from the Collector of Internal Revenue asking him to stop in his office and explain last year's exemptions. He ate breakfast in a sullen mood, but afterwards, when he walked out onto Virginia Street, he felt braced. He looked off to the crest of the Sierras, still white-topped; the glisten of the Truckee River made a wide spangle. He felt suddenly elated, adventurous. With any luck at all he could easily find a flowerpot. Although it was only three o'clock, he stopped in at the Golden Calf. The tables were all spinning, the dice rattling, the bar crowded. Just to test himself, he played roulette for quarters on his old combination, five and seventeen, and within an hour, he had won, surprisingly, twenty dollars. The way was opening up; when the management brought around champagne, the breakfast settled its whirling around in his stomach. The Golden Calf was dimly lit with shaded neon. There were more women than men in the place, but he couldn't find a flowerpot. They all had the hard look of gamblers who had stopped dreaming, who automatically turned the cards, hardly caring what showed up. The mural around the wall depicted early settlers in covered wagons, who appeared much more animated than the gamblers. The women had a bright shining expectancy as they leaned out from the wall and gazed splendidly into the distance, while the men were stern but hopeful. All, of course, except the Donner party who were bent on starving to death. "I wonder if they did eat each other at the end", Owen mused. He sat down next to a heavily-upholstered blonde, but she was cleaned out in twenty minutes. She sighed a dirty word and left. Owen was surprised to see Mrs. Gertrude Parker playing the one-arm bandits that were cunningly arranged by the entrance. She sat down and played two slots at once, looking grim, as if bested by mechanical devices, and Owen felt sorry for the lay-sisters depending on her support. A dried-up cowboy sat down next to him in the blonde's place. He was a little more authentic than usual because he smelled slightly of the stables. "What you need is a steady martingale", the cowboy announced after watching Owen play. "You can't build on your hit-and-miss five-seventeen". "What are you playing"? Owen asked. "I'm just logging", the cowboy explained. "I keep all these plays in this little black book, and I watch over a twelve-hour period to find out what numbers are repeating. But roulette's not my game. I'm always trying to find a breaking table in blackjack. Incidentally, I'm pretty famous in these parts: I'm called The Wrangler". "Nice to know you. Don't you have to spend any time on your ranch"? "Well, of course I do. I'm with the Bar-H, pushing a horse called Sparky. He's my own horse, and what I collect from him I use on blackjack. This Sparky can rack and single-foot and he's the fastest thing in Washoe County. I figure if I can get any kind of publicity campaign going, I'll land him on TV -- you know, one of those favorite horses for some Western hero. I once trained a horse for Hoot Gibson, but nothing like Sparky. He's a pinto and he photographs wonderfully". Five came up while Owen was listening to The Wrangler and he neglected to play, a loss of ten dollars. This proved conclusively that The Wrangler was a jinx, so he walked on down to Hurrays, an even more glorified gambling den than the Golden Calf. When he looked in the back, Mrs. Gertrude Parker was marking keno cards. His adventurous spirit had waned; he studied the pistol exhibition that Hurrays featured as an added attraction. He ogled a long redhead with green eyes, but she was a shill with her money in front of her. He had no great prejudice against shills; it just seemed such a dry run. There was no cash around; everyone was flipping silver dollars. The management discreetly withdrew the green stuff into the office and gave the customers chips or checks or premium points. He read a special announcement whereby Hurrays would feature a special floorshow at three A.M. starring Adele (The Body) Brenner and fourteen glamorous schoolgirls. He wondered if he might bag a tourist, but they looked frightened of him. He passed two brides, both wearing orchids, and they made him feel a little sad. Owen found Buzz watching chuck-a-luck. Buzz had on a Hawaiian shirt and was carrying some sun-tan oil and dark glasses. He was shorter and fatter than Owen, who felt good standing next to him. "We're all going over to Lake Tahoe and try our luck at Cal-Neva", Buzz explained, still instigating. "We ran into a guy at the Pagan Room who guarantees we can beat the wheel. He started out as a stickman, then became a pit boss until the Club found him crossroading. He was knocking down checks at faro". "I'm allergic to Tahoe", Owen explained. "Something about the pollen". "Well, okay", Buzz said. "We'll see you around later". Owen went over to the crap table and the dice were hot, but he couldn't pyramid with any consecutive success. "How's your luck, honey"? A short platinum blonde in a bursting sun-suit addressed him. She looked well-fed and prosperous, but he didn't get the impression he was being propositioned the way he'd been hoping. "I haven't had any luck since I was a baby". "Stake me", she said, "and let me at those dice. I'll make them dance the tango. We'll get it in a hurry and get it out". "Let's have a drink and discuss a merger". "If you go broke", she said, smiling up at him, "I'll leave you". "Sounds like real love", Owen said. "It sort of brings a lump to my throat". "My name's Gisele", the blonde said after she ordered a Scotch. "Named after the ballet. My mother wanted to call me Sylphide, but it sounded too affected".