An agent taps their card, the balls release, and the game is billed to them. By closing time the ledger already balances — no notebook, no arguing about who played what.
Nobody counts this up. Every line arrived on its own, one tap at a time, while the hall was busy being a hall.
Change the price and every open balance re-values with it. Take a payment and the figure moves while you are looking at it.
Rwandan francs, whole. Never a rounding error in a hall's takings.
An agent holds their card against the reader. The table knows who is authorised on it — several agents can share one table, and one agent can work several — and decides in the time it takes to lift your hand away.
Not by the dashboard. By the board bolted under the rail.
Games left, and the rack releases. None left, and nothing happens — but the dashboard says why, so nobody is left rattling the mechanism wondering whether the thing is broken.
A refusal is a fact, not a silence.
Exactly one game, to whoever tapped, at this hall's price, on the dashboard within a second. If the table has to send it twice — a bad line, a retry — it is still billed once.
Billed per card, never per table.
So the tables do not depend on it. Each carries its own board, its own reader and its own memory, and keeps billing whether or not anything is listening.
Hire managers and agents and revoke them the same day. Decide who may move money and who may only look. Read a night, a week or a month across every hall at once.
Float, cards, payments, the tables themselves — for the hall they were given, and no other.
What is left on their card, how many games that buys, and what they owe. Nothing else, and nobody else's.
What a manager sees, live, while the hall is open:
Tell us how many tables you run. We will show you what a Friday looks like with the books already balanced.