The Game-Players of Titan

  “Okay,” he said. There wasn’t much else he could say; he couldn’t force her to remain.

  “Do you want me to stay?” Carol asked, as he carried the two heavy suitcases downstairs to her car.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Why?”

  He didn’t know why. “Well—” he began.

  “Forget it,” Carol said, and got into her car. “You follow me in yours. I don’t feel like riding with you, Pete.”

  Presently he was in the air over San Rafael, riding on the beam created by her tail lights. He felt melancholy. Damn those cops, he thought. Anything to split the members of the group apart, so they can be picked off one at a time. But it wasn’t the two police that he blamed; it was himself. If she hadn’t found out this way she would have run onto it by another.

  I let my life become overly complex, he decided. Too much for me to keep straight and handle. Carol has certainly received a bad handful of cards since she came to Pretty Blue Fox. First Luckman arrives; then I bring Schilling in to take her place at the Game table; then Luckman’s body turns up in her car; now this. No wonder she wants to leave.

  Why should she stay? he asked himself. Give me one good reason.

  He couldn’t.

  They flew over the Bay and soon they were gliding down to land at the deserted parking lot of the drugstore. Carol, slightly ahead of him, stood waiting as he got out of his car and walked over to her.

  “It’s a nice night,” she said. “So you used to live here. What a shame you lost it. Just think, Pete; if you hadn’t lost it I’d never have met you.”

  “Yeah,” he said, as they ascended the ramp and entered the drugstore. That and so much else would never have come about.

  The Rushmore Effect of the drugstore greeted them; they were its only customers. “Good evening, sir and madame. How may I assist you, please?” The obedient mechanical voice issued from a hundred speakers hidden throughout the great lit-up place. The entire structure had focused its attention on the two of them.

  Carol said, “Do you know anything about a new instant rabbit-paper?”

  “Yes madame,” the drugstore answered eagerly. “A recent scientific breakthrough, from A.G. Chemie at Bonn. I’ll get it for you.” From an orifice at the end of the glass counter a package tumbled; it slithered to a halt directly before them and Pete picked it up. “The same price as the old.”

  He paid the drugstore and then he and Carol walked back out onto the dark, deserted parking lot.

  “All for us,” Carol said. “This enormous place with a thousand lights on and that Rushmore circuit clamoring away. It’s like a drugstore for the dead. A spectral drugstore.”

  “Hell,” Pete said, “it’s very much for the living. The only problem is, there just aren’t enough of the living.”

  “Maybe there’s one more than there was,” Carol said; she removed a strip of rabbit-paper from the pack, unwrapped it, placed it between her even, white teeth and bit. “What color does it turn?” she asked, as she examined it. “Same as the old?”

  “White for non,” Pete said, “green for positive.”

  In the dim light of the parking lot it was hard to tell.

  Carol opened her car door; the dome light switched on and she inspected the strip of rabbit-paper by it.

  The paper was green.

  Carol looked up at him and said, “I’m pregnant. We’ve had luck.” Her voice was bleak; her eyes filled with tears and she looked away. “I’ll be goddamned,” she said brokenly. “The first time I’ve ever been in all my whole life. And with a man who’s already—” She was silent, breathing with difficulty and staring fixedly past him into the night darkness.

  “This calls for a celebration!” he said.

  “It does?” She turned to face him.

  “We got to go on the radio and broadcast it to the whole world!”

  “Oh,” Carol said, nodding. “Yes, that’s right; that’s the custom. Won’t everyone be jealous of us? My!”

  Crawling into her car, Pete snapped on the transmitter of the radio to the emergency all-wave broadcast position. “Hey!” he exclaimed. “You know what? This is Pete Garden of Pretty Blue Fox at Carmel, California. Carol Holt Garden and I have only been married a day or so, and tonight we made use of the new type of West German rabbit-paper—”

  “I wish I were dead,” Carol said.

  “You what?” He stared at her in disbelief. “You’re nuts! This is the most important event of our lives! We’ve added to the population. This makes up for Luckman’s death, it balances it out. Right?” He caught hold of her hand and compressed it until she moaned. “Say something into the mike, Mrs. Garden.”

  Carol said, “I wish all of you the same luck I’ve had tonight.”

  “You’re goddam right!” Pete shouted into the microphone. “Every single one of you listening to me!”

  “So now we stay together,” Carol said softly.

  “Yes,” Pete agreed. “That’s right; that’s what we decided.”

  “And what about Patricia McClain?”

  “The hell with everybody else in the world except you,” Pete said. “Except you and me and the baby.”

  Carol smiled a little. “Okay. Let’s drive back.”

  “Do you think you’re able to drive? We’ll leave your car here and both go back in mine and I’ll drive.” Quickly, he carried her suitcases to his own car, then took her by the arm and led her. “Just sit down and take it easy,” he said, seating her in his car and fastening the safety belt in place.

  “Pete,” she said, “do you realize what this means in terms of The Game?” She had turned pale. “Every deed in the pot belongs to us, automatically. But—there is no Game right now! There aren’t any deeds in the pot, because of the police ban. But we must get something. We’ll have to look it up in the manual.”

  “Okay,” he said, only half-listening to her; he was busy carefully guiding his car up into the sky.

  “Pete,” she said, “maybe you win back Berkeley.”

  “Not a chance. There was at least one Game subsequent to that, the one we played last night.”

  “True.” She nodded. “We’ll have to apply to the Rules Committee in the Jay Satellite for an interpretation, I guess.”

  He frankly did not care about The Game at this moment. The idea of a child, a son or daughter … it obliterated everything else in his mind, all that had happened of late, everything connected with Luckman’s arrival and death and the banning of the group.

  Luck, he thought, this late in my life. One hundred and fifty years. After so many tries; after the failure of so many, many combinations.

  With Carol beside him he drove his car back across the dark Bay to San Rafael and their apartment.

  When they got there, and had gone upstairs, Pete headed at once for the medicine cabinet in the bathroom.

  “What are you doing?” Carol asked, following after him.

  Pete said, “I’m going out on a whing-ding; I’m going to get drunker than I’ve ever before been in my life.” From the medicine cabinet he got down five Snoozex tablets and, after hesitating, a handful of methamphetamine tablets. “These will help,” he explained to Carol. “Goodbye.” He swallowed the pills, gulping them down all together, and then headed for the hall door. “It’s a custom.” He paused briefly at the door. “When you learn you’re going to have a child. I’ve read about it.” He saluted her gravely and then shut the door after him.

  A moment later he was downstairs, back in his car, starting out alone in the dark night, searching for the nearest bar.

  As the car shot upward into the sky, Pete thought, God knows where I’m going or when I’ll get back. I certainly don’t know—and don’t care.

  “Wheeoo!” he shouted exultantly, as the car climbed.

  The sound of his voice echoed back to him and he shouted again.

  10

  Roused from her sleep, Freya Gaines groped for the switch of the vidphone; groggily she found it and
snapped it on.

  “Lo,” she mumbled, wondering what time it was. She made out the luminous dial of the clock beside the bed. Three A.M. Good grief.

  Carol Holt Garden’s features formed on the vidscreen. “Freya, have you seen Pete?” Carol’s voice was jerky, anxiety-stricken. “He went out and he still hasn’t come back; I can’t go to sleep.”

  “No,” Freya said. “Of course I don’t know where he is. Did the police let him go?”

  “He’s out on bail,” Carol said. “Do—you have any idea what places he might stop at? The bars are all closed, now; I was waiting for two o’clock thinking he’d show up no later than two-thirty. But—”

  “Try the Blind Lemon in Berkeley,” Freya said, and started to cut the connection. Maybe he’s dead, she thought. Threw himself off one of the bridges or crashed his car—finally.

  Carol said, “He’s celebrating.”

  “Good god why?” Freya said.

  “I’m pregnant.”

  Fully awake, Freya said, “I see. Astonishing. Right away. You must be using that new rabbit-paper they’re selling.”

  “Yes,” Carol said. “I bit a piece tonight and it turned green; that’s why Pete’s out. I wish he’d come back. He’s so emotional, first he’s depressed and suicidal and then—”

  “You worry about your problems. I’ll worry about mine,” Freya cut in. “Congratulations, Carol. I hope it’s a baby.” And then she did break the connection; the image faded into darkness.

  The bastard, Freya said to herself with fury and bitterness. She lay back, supine, staring up at the ceiling, clenching her fists and fighting back the tears. I could kill him, she said to herself. I hope he’s dead; I hope he never comes back to her.

  Would he come here? She sat up, stricken. What if he does? she asked herself. Beside her, in the bed, Clem Gaines snored on. If he shows up here I won’t let him in, she decided; I don’t want to see him.

  But, for some reason, she knew Pete would not come here anyhow. He’s not looking for me, she realized. I’m the last person he’s looking for.

  She lit a cigarette and sat in bed, smoking and staring straight ahead of her, silently.

  The vug said, “Mr. Garden, when did you first begin to notice these disembodied feelings, as if the world about you is not quite real?”

  “As long ago as I can remember,” Pete said.

  “And your reaction?”

  “Depression. I’ve taken thousands of amitriptyline tablets and they only have a temporary effect.”

  “Do you know who I am?” the vug asked.

  “Let’s see,” Pete said, cogitating. The name Doctor Phelps floated through his mind. “Doctor Eugen Phelps,” he said hopefully.

  “Almost right, Mr. Garden. It’s Doctor E.R. Philipson. And how did you happen to look me up? Do you perhaps recall that?”

  Pete said, “How could I help looking you up?” The answer was obvious. “Because you’re there. Or rather, here.”

  “Stick out your tongue.”

  “Why?”

  “As a mark of disrespect.”

  Pete stuck out his tongue. “Ahhh,” he said.

  “Additional comment is unnecessary; the point’s made. How many times have you attempted suicide?”

  “Four,” Pete said. “The first when I was twenty. The second when I was forty. The third—”

  “No need to go on. How close did you come to success?”

  “Very close. Yes sir. Especially the last time.”

  “What stopped you?”

  “A force greater than myself,” Pete said.

  “How droll.” The vug chuckled.

  “I mean my wife. Betty, that was her name. Betty Jo. She and I met at Joe Schilling’s rare record shop. Betty Jo had breasts as firm and ripe as melons. Or was her name Mary Anne?”

  “Her name was not Mary Anne,” Doctor E.R. Philipson said, “because now you’re speaking of the eighteen-year-old daughter of Pat and Allen McClain and she has never been your wife. I am not qualified to describe her breasts. Or her mother’s. In any case you scarcely know her; all you know about her in fact is that she devoutly listens to Nats Katz whom you can’t stand. You and she have nothing in common.”

  “You lying son of a bitch,” Pete said.

  “Oh no. I’m not lying. I’m facing reality and that’s exactly what you’ve failed to do; that’s why you’re here. You’re involved in an intricate, sustained illusion-system of massive proportion. You and half of your Game-playing friends. Do you want to escape from it?”

  “No,” Pete said. “I mean yes. Yes or no; what does it matter?” He felt sick at his stomach. “Can I leave now?” he said. “I think I’ve spent all my money.”

  The vug Doctor E.R. Philipson said, “You have twenty-five dollars in time left.”

  “Well, I’d rather have the twenty-five dollars.”

  “That raises a nice point of professional ethics in that you have already paid me.”

  “Then pay me back,” Pete said.

  The vug sighed. “This is a stalemate. I think I will make the decision for both of us. Do I have twenty-five dollars’ worth of help left that I can give you? It depends on what you want. You are in a situation of insidiously-growing difficulty. It will probably kill you shortly, just as it killed Mr. Luckman. Be especially careful for your pregnant wife; she is excruciatingly fragile at this point.”

  “I will. I will.”

  Doctor E.R. Philipson said, “Your best bet, Garden, is to bend with the forces of the times. There’s little hope that you can achieve much, really; you’re one person and you do, in some respects, properly see the situation. But physically you’re powerless. Who can you go to? E.B. Black? Mr. Hawthorne? You could try. They might help you; they might not. Now, as to the time-segment missing from your memory.”

  “Yes,” Pete said. “The time-segment missing from my memory. How about that?”

  “You have fairly well reconstructed it by means of the Rushmore Effect mechanisms. So don’t fret unduly.”

  “But did I kill Luckman?”

  “Ha, ha,” the vug said. “Do you think I’m going to tell you? Are you out of your mind?”

  “Maybe so,” Pete said. “Maybe I’m being naive.” He felt even sicker, now, too sick to go on any further. “Where’s the men’s room?” he asked the vug. “Or shall I say the humans’ room?” He looked around, squinting to see. The colors were all wrong and when he tried to walk he felt weightless or at least much lighter. Too light. He was not on Earth. This was not one-G pulling at him; it was only a fraction.

  He thought, I’m on Titan.

  “Second door to the left,” the vug Doctor E.R. Philipson said.

  “Thank you,” Pete said, walking with care so that he would not float up and rebound from one of the white-painted walls. “Listen,” he said, pausing. “What about Carol? I’m giving up Patricia; nothing means anything to me except the mother of my child.”

  “Nothing means anything, you mean,” Doctor E.R. Philipson said. “A joke, and a poor one. I’m merely commenting on your state of mind. Things are seldom what they seem; Skim-milk masquerades as cream.’ A wonderful statement by the Terran humorist, W.S. Gilbert. I wish you luck and I suggest you consult E.B. Black; he’s reliable. You can trust him. I’m not so sure about Hawthorne.” The vug called loudly after Pete, “And close the bathroom door after you so I won’t have to listen. It’s disgusting when a Terran is sick.”

  Pete shut the door. How do I get out of here? he asked himself. I’ve got to escape. How’d I get here to Titan in the first place?

  How much time has passed? Days—weeks, perhaps. I have to get home to Carol. God, he thought. They may have killed her by now, the way they killed Luckman. They? Who?

  He did not know. It had been explained to him … or had it? Had he really gotten one hundred and fifty dollars’ worth? Perhaps. It was his responsibility, not theirs, to retain the knowledge.

  A window, high up in the bathroom. He moved the grea
t metal paper towel drum over, stood on it and managed to reach the window. Stuck shut, painted shut. He smashed upward against its wooden frame with the heels of his hands.

  Creaking, the window rose.

  Room enough. He hoisted himself up, squeezed through. Darkness, the Titanian night … he dropped, fell, listening to himself whistle down and down like a feather, or rather like a bug with large surface-area in proportion to mass. Whooee, he shouted, but he heard no sound except the whistle of his falling.

  He struck, pitched forward, lay suffering the pain in his feet and legs. I broke my goddam ankle, he said to himself. He hobbled up to his feet. An alley, trashcans and cobble-stones; he hobbled toward a street light. To his right, a red neon sign. Dave’s Place. A bar. He had come out the back, out of the men’s washroom, minus his coat. He leaned against the wall of a building, waiting for the numbing pain in his ankles to subside.

  A Rushmore circuit cruising past, automatic policeman. “Are you all right, sir?”

  “Yes,” Pete said. “Thank you. Just stopped to—you know what. Nature called.” He laughed. “Thanks.” The Rushmore cop wheeled on.

  What city am I in? he asked himself. The air, damp, smelled of ashes. Chicago? St. Louis? Warm, foul air, not the clean air of San Francisco. He walked unsteadily down the street, away from Dave’s Place. The vug inside, cadging drinks, clipping Terran customers, rolling them in an educated way. He felt for his wallet in his pants’ pocket. Gone. Jesus Christ! He felt at his coat; there it was. He sighed in relief.

  Those pills I took, he thought, didn’t mix with the drinks, or rather did mix; that’s the problem. But I’m okay, not hurt, just a little shaken up and scared. And I’m lost. I’ve lost myself and my car. And separately.

  “Car,” he called, trying to summon its auto-auto mech system. Its Rushmore Effect. Sometimes it responded; sometimes not. Chance factor.

  Lights, twin beams. His car rolled along the curb, bumped to a halt by him. “Mr. Garden. Here I am.”

  “Listen,” Pete said, fumbling, finding the door handle. “Where are we, for chrissakes?”

  “Pocatello, Idaho.”