Streaking Read Online Free PDF

money.
    He did as he was told, and didn’t move.
    The intruder picked up the bag containing his winnings and weighed it carefully, but didn’t bother to open it. He—assuming that it was a he—put out his right hand to flip aside the breast of the jacket Canny had discarded, exposing the wallet in the inside pocket, but he couldn’t take it out without putting down either the gun or the bag containing the forty-even thousand Euros. After a moment’s hesitation, he left the wallet where it was and turned back to Canny.
    By that time, Canny had thought of several good reasons to justify his decision not to move. It simply wasn’t worth it; the money might be slightly more than a drop in the ocean, but it wasn’t anything he needed desperately—it certainly wasn’t a sum worth risking his life for the mere possibility of its salvation. Then again, the streak he’d invoked in order to win it might well have generated aftershocks in the fabric of reality, of which this might be one—and even if the people were wrong who believed that there was some kind of ultimate account-book to be balanced, he couldn’t take it for granted that the corollary disruptions of probability would all go his way. Nor could he be sure, now that his father was fading fast, whether the records were right to declare that his luck was heading towards its minimal level, or exactly when that minimal level would be reached. If he were now a mere victim of chance, just like anyone else, it certainly wouldn’t be a good time to play the hero or the fool.
    The reasonable thing to do—the only reasonable thing to do—was to let the thief take the money, slip through the curtains and vanish into the dark garden, saying “easy come, easy go” in the casually cavalier fashion that was, it seemed, the very essence of his public image.
    But at a deeper level, Canny understood that none of those reasons was the real reason why he was standing still. While all of that was going through his mind, he knew that he was letting events take their course because he was paralyzed by fear. In some respects, he was only human. He could be startled, shocked, frightened...even petrified. Gambling was as natural as breathing to him, but the manner in which he played with cards and chips was still an act, a role, a performance. When he was precipitated out of that public persona by an event as outrageous as this one, his habitual self-confidence sometimes deserted him, leaving him with only the same instincts and reflexes to guide him as anyone else.
    He didn’t move because he couldn’t. He was stuck.
    He didn’t even say anything. He waited in vain for chance to intervene in his favor regardless—for the thief to stumble and drop the gun, or for the police to burst in and spring a trap—but nothing happened. The flow of causality seemed inexorable, immune to the superimposition of a more generous alternative.
    After a slight hesitation, perhaps born of trepidation and anxiety rather than any uncertainty as to what he ought to do, the intruder grasped the black bag tightly, moved smoothly across the room, and exited via the balcony. The curtain prevented Canny from seeing him jump, and the monks’ garden absorbed the sound of his footfalls. It was as if he had vanished into the shadows like one more virtual serpent in a swarm.
    Canny’s thoughts immediately became unstuck. He snatched up the phone and pressed the button that would connect him to the front desk. The night-manager’s response was immediate.
    â€œYou have intruders in the grounds,” Canny said. “In the monks’ garden. One is dressed entirely in black, with a ski-mask and an automatic pistol. He’s carrying a rectangular leather bag about fifty centimeters by thirty-five.”
    â€œI have pressed the alarm, Monsieur,” the manager told him. “The police will be here within fifteen