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That certain quality of unreality pervading the Sahara Hotel ca-
sino seduced Jonathan Alan Roberts the moment he entered.
Like all the other gambling casinos in Las Vegas， this one was a
world to itself， and like them a combination of French baroque
and Miami Beach， with a hint of Hollywood and the Wild West.
It was furnished with thick carpets and walnut tables and ornate
chandeliers which broke the light into innumerable sparkles and
prisms.
Bar girls came through swinging doors with free drinks for the
men and women at the green felt gaming tables. There were no
windows or clocks to break the spell. Everything had been done，
at a cost of millions， to produce the illusion of opulence that
would give the gamblers a false sense of their own invincibility.
And the psychology was sound. The casino owners had discov-
ered long ago that the guests must be fed on fantasy if they
were to bet against the house advantage day and night until the
last dollar they could lose was gone.
So the operators in Las Vegas provided for their customers the
most surreal ambiance they could conceive. Jonathan Alan Rob-
erts， a scarred veteran of twenty-five years battling the casino
odds， still experienced a surge of excitement when he walked
into one of these rooms. Suddenly he was absorbed in a special，
eerie microcosm that instantly severed him from the actualities
of life. All things became possible. He felt charged， authentic， at
the center of the universe.
Jon Roberts wanted desperately to separate himself from
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