The Game-Players of Titan

  “They know,” Mutreaux said, still grinning lazily.

  “Oh.”

  “The rumor’s already going around—I heard it on that crooner’s TV show, that Nats Katz. It’s big news, Luckman, that you’ve managed to buy into the West Coast. Real big news. ‘Watch Lucky Luckman’s smoke,’ Nats said; I recall his words.”

  “Hmm,” Luckman said, disconcerted.

  “I’ll tell you something else,” the pre-cog said. He crossed his long legs, slouched down in the chair, his arms folded. “I can preview a spread of possible this-evenings, some of them with me out there in Carmel, California, sitting in at The Game with the Pretty Blue Fox folks, and some with you.” He chuckled. “And in a couple of the possible this-evenings, those folks are sending out for an EEG machine. Don’t ask me why. They don’t normally keep one handy, so it must be a hunch.”

  “Bad luck,” Luckman said, grumblingly.

  “If I go there and they give me an EEG,” Mutreaux said, “and find out I’m Psionic, you know what that means? I lose all the deeds I hold. See what I’m getting at, Luckman? Are you prepared to reimburse me, if that occurs?”

  “Sure,” Luckman said. But he was thinking of something else; if an EEG was run on Mutreaux, the Berkeley deed would be forfeited, and who would make that up? Maybe I better go myself and not use Mutreaux, he said to himself. But some primal instinct, some near-Psionic hunch inside his mind, told him not to go. Stay away from the West Coast, it said. Stay here!

  Why should he feel such a powerful, acute aversion to venturing forth from New York City? Was it merely the old superstition that a Bindman stayed in his own bind … or was it something more?

  “I’m going to send you anyhow, Dave,” Luckman said. “And risk the EEG.”

  Mutreaux drawled, “However, Mr. Luckman, I decline to go; I don’t care to take the risk myself.” Unwinding his limbs he rose awkwardly to his feet. “I guess you’ll just have to go yourself,” he said with a smile bordering on an outright smirk.

  Damn it, Luckman said to himself. These little two-bit Bindmen are haughty; you can’t get to them.

  “What have you got to lose by going?” Mutreaux asked. “As far as I can preview, Pretty Blue Fox plays with you, and it appears, from here, that your luck holds out; I see you winning a second California deed the first night you play.” He added, “This forecast I give you free. No obligation.” He touched his forehead in a mock salute.

  “Thanks,” Luckman snapped. Thanks for nothing, he thought. Because the biting, weak fright was still there in him, the pre-rational aversion to the trip. Gawd, he thought, I’m hooked; I paid plenty for Berkeley. I’ve got to go! Anyhow, it’s unreasonable, this fear.

  One of his cats, an orange tom, had ceased washing and was now staring at Luckman with its tongue absurdly protruding. I’ll take you, Luckman decided. You can provide me with your magic protection. You and your—what was the old belief?—your nine or ten lives.

  “Put your geschlumer tongue back in,” he ordered the cat peevishly. The cat irritated him; it was so ignorant of fate, of reality.

  Extending his hand, Dave Mutreaux said, “It’s good to see you again, fellow Bindman Luckman, and maybe I can be of use to you some other time. I’m heading back to Kansas now.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s getting late; almost time to begin this evening’s play.”

  Luckman said, as he shook hands with the pre-cog, “Should I start this soon with Pretty Blue Fox? Tonight?”

  “Why not?”

  “Seeing the future must give you a hell of a lot of confidence,” Luckman said, complainingly. “It is useful,” Mutreaux agreed.

  “I wish I had it on my trip,” Luckman said, and then he thought, I’m tired of catering to my superstitions. I don’t need any Psionic power to protect me; I’ve got a lot more than that.

  Sid Mosk, entering the office, glanced from Luckman to Mutreaux and then back at his employer again. “You’re going?” he said.

  “That’s right.” Luckman nodded. “Pack my things for me and load them into an auto-auto; I intend to set up a temporary residence in Berkeley before The Game begins this evening. So I’ll feel comfortable; you know, as if I belong.”

  “Will do,” Sid Mosk agreed, making a note of the request.

  Before I go to bed tonight, Luckman realized, I’ll have sat in with Pretty Blue Fox, will have begun almost a new life … I wonder what it’ll bring?

  Once more, fervently, he wished for Dave Mutreaux’ talent.

  5

  In the condominium apartment in Carmel which the Bluff-playing group of Bindmen, Pretty Blue Fox, owned jointly, Mrs. Freya Gaines, making herself comfortable, not sitting too close to her husband Clem, watched the others arrive one by one.

  Bill Calumine, sauntering aggressively through the open door in his loud sports shirt and tie, nodded to her and Clem. “Greetings.” His wife and Bluff partner Arlene followed after him, a preoccupied frown of worry on her rather wrinkled face. Arlene had taken advantage of the Hynes operation somewhat later in life than had the others.

  “Hi ya,” Walt Remington said gloomily, glancing furtively around as he entered with his alert, bright-eyed wife Janice. “I understand we’ve got a new member,” he said in a self-conscious, uncomfortable voice; guilt was written all over him as he shakily removed his coat and laid it over a chair.

  “Yes,” Freya said to him. And you know why, she thought.

  Now the sandy-haired baby of the group, Stuart Marks, put in his appearance, and with him his tall, masculine, no-nonsense wife Yule, wearing a black suede leather jacket and jeans. “I was listening to Nats Katz,” Stuart said, “and he said—”

  “He was correct,” Clem Gaines answered. “Lucky Luckman is already on the West Coast, setting up residence in Berkeley.”

  Carrying a bottle of whiskey wrapped up in a paper bag, Silvanus Angst strolled in, smiling broadly at everyone, in a good mood as always. And immediately after him came swarthy Jack Blau, his dark eyes flickering as he looked at everyone in the room; he jerked his head in greeting but did not speak.

  Jean, his wife, greeted Freya. “You might be interested … we looked into the business of getting Pete a new wife; we were with Straw Man Special for two whole hours, today.”

  “Any luck?” Freya asked, trying to make her voice sound casual.

  “Yes,” Jean Blau said. “There’s a woman named Carol Holt coming over from Straw Man Special, this evening; she should be here any time.”

  “What’s she like?” Freya said, preparing herself.

  Jean said, “Intelligent.”

  “I mean,” Freya said, “what does she look like?”

  “Brown hair. Small. I really can’t describe her; why don’t you just wait?” Jean glanced toward the door, and there stood Pete Garden; he had come in and was standing listening.

  “Hi,” Freya said to him. “They found you a wife.” Pete said to Jean, “Thanks.” His voice was gruff. “Well, you must have a partner to play,” Jean pointed out.

  “I’m not sore,” Pete said. Like Silvanus Angst, he carried a bottle wrapped up in a paper bag; he now set it down on the sideboard next to Silvanus’ and took off his coat. “In fact I’m glad,” he said.

  Silvanus giggled and said, “What Pete’s worried about is the man who got hold of the Berkeley deed, isn’t it, Pete? Lucky Luckman, they say.” Short and plump, Silvanus waddled over to Freya and stroked her hair. “You worried, too?”

  Carefully disengaging Angst’s fingers from her hair, Freya said, “I certainly am. It’s a terrible thing.”

  “It is,” Jean Blau agreed. “We’d better discuss it before Luckman gets here; there must be something we can do.”

  “Refuse to seat him?” Angst said. “Refuse to play against him?”

  Freya said, “No vital deeds should be offered during the play. His getting a toe-hold here in California is bad enough; if he gains more—”

  “We mustn’t permit it,” Jack Blau agreed. He glared at Wal
t Remington. “How could you do it? We ought to expel you. And you’re such a jackass you probably haven’t got any idea what you’ve done.”

  “He understands,” Bill Calumine said. “He didn’t intend to; he sold to brokers and they right away—”

  “That’s no excuse,” Jack Blau said.

  Clem Gaines said, “One thing we can do, we can insist that he submit to an EEG. I took the liberty of bringing a machine along. That might bar him. We ought to be able to bar him somehow.”

  “Should we check with U.S. Cummings and see if it has any idea?” Jean Blau asked. “I know it’s contrary to their intentions to have one man dominate both coasts; they were upset when Luckman pushed Joe Schilling out of New York City, in fact—I remember that distinctly.”

  “I’d prefer not to turn to the vugs,” Bill Calumine said. He looked around at the group. “Anybody else have any ideas? Speak up.”

  There was an uneasy silence.

  “Aw come on,” Stuart Marks said. “Can’t we just—” He gestured. “You know. Scare him physically. There’re six men, here. Against one.”

  After a pause Bill Calumine said, “I’m for that. A little force. At least we can agree to combine against him during The Game itself. And if—”

  He broke off. Someone had come in.

  Rising to her feet, Jean Blau said, “Folks, this is the new player who’s come to us from Straw Man Special, Carol Holt.” Jean advanced to take the girl by the arm and lead her into the room. “Carol, this is Freya and Clem Gaines, Jean and Jack Blau, Silvanus Angst, Walter and Janice Remington, Stuart Marks, Yule Marks, and over here is your Bluff partner, Pete Garden. Pete, this is Carol Holt; we spent two hours picking her out for you.”

  “And I’m Mrs. Angst,” Mrs. Angst said, entering the room after Carol. “My, but this is an exciting night. Two new people, I understand.”

  Freya studied Carol Holt and wondered what Pete’s reaction was; he showed nothing on the surface, only polite formality as he greeted the girl. He seemed abstracted tonight. Perhaps he hadn’t entirely recovered from the shock of the night before. She herself had not, certainly.

  The girl from Straw Man Special, Freya decided, was not too terribly bright-looking. And yet she appeared to have personality; her hair was nicely bound up in the currently-modish ratnest knot and her eye make-up was well-applied. Carol wore low-heeled slippers, no stockings, and a madras wrap-around skirt which made her seem, Freya thought, a trifle hefty at the midsection. But she had nice fair skin, and her voice, when she spoke, was pleasant enough.

  Even so, Freya concluded, Pete won’t go for her; she’s just not his kind. And what is Pete’s kind? she asked herself. Me? No, not herself either. Their marriage had been one-sided; she had felt all the deep emotions and Pete had simply been gloomy, anticipating in some vague way the calamity which would end their relationship: the loss of Berkeley.

  “Pete,” Freya reminded him, “you still have to roll a three.”

  Turning to Bill Calumine, their spinner, Pete said, “Give me the device and “I’ll begin now. How many turns am I allowed?” A complex rule governed the situation, and Jack Blau went off to get the rules book to look it up.

  Together, Bill Calumine and Jack Blau decided that tonight Pete was entitled to six throws.

  Carol said, “I didn’t realize he hadn’t rolled his three, yet. I hope I haven’t made a trip all the way here for nothing.” She seated herself on the arm of a couch, smoothed her skirt over her knees—fair, smooth knees, Freya noted—and lit a cigarette, looking bored.

  Seated with the spinning device, Pete rolled. His first roll was a nine. To Carol he said, “I’m doing the best I can.” In his voice there was an overtone of resentment. His new relationship, Freya saw, was getting into motion in the customary way. She smiled to herself. It was impossible not to take a measure of enjoyment in the situation.

  Scowling, Pete rolled again. This time it was ten.

  “We can’t start playing anyhow,” Janice Remington said brightly. “We have to wait for Mr. Luckman to get here.”

  Carol Holt snorted smoke from her nostrils and said, “Good god, is Lucky Luckman a part of Pretty Blue Fox? Nobody told me that!” She shot a brief, tense glare in Jean Blau’s direction.

  Seated with the spinner, Pete said, “I got it.” He rose stiffly to his feet.

  Bending, Bill Calumine said, “He sure did. A real, authentic three.” He picked up the spinner; it was over. “Now the ceremony and except for waiting on Mr. Luckman we can go ahead.”

  Patience Angst said, “I’m vows-giver this week, Bill. I’ll administer the ceremony.” She brought out the group ring which she passed to Pete Garden; Pete stood beside Carol Holt, who had not yet recovered from the news about Lucky Luckman. “Carol and Peter, we are gathered here to witness your entering into holy matrimony. Terran and Titanian law cojoin to empower me to ask you if you voluntarily acquiesce in this sacred and legal binding. Do you, Peter, take Carol to be your lawful wedded wife?”

  “Yes,” Pete said, glumly. Or so it seemed to Freya.

  “Do you, Carol—” Patience Angst paused, because a new figure had appeared in the doorway of the condominium apartment. It stood silently watching.

  Lucky Luckman, the big winner from New York, the greatest Bindman in the Western world, had arrived. Everyone in the room turned at once to look.

  “Don’t let me interrupt,” Luckman said, and did not budge.

  Patience, then, murmuringly continued the ceremony to its conclusion.

  So this is what the one and only Lucky Luckman looks like, Freya said to herself. A brawny man, stockily-built, with a round, apple-shaped face, all his coloration pale and straw-like, a peculiar vegetable quality as if Luckman had been nourished indoors. His hair had a soft, thin texture and did not hide the pinkish scalp. At least Luckman had a clean, well-washed look, Freya observed. His clothes, neutral in cut and quality, showed taste. But his hands … she found herself staring at his hands. Luckman’s wrists were thick and furred with the same pale whisker-like hair; the hands themselves were small, the fingers short, and the skin near his knuckles was spotted with what appeared perhaps to be freckles. His voice was oddly high-pitched, mild. She did not like him. There was something wrong with him; he had a capon-like quality, like a defrocked, barred priest. He looked soft where he should be hard.

  And we really have worked out no strategy against him, Freya said to herself. We don’t know how to work together and now it’s too late.

  I wonder how many of us in this room will be playing a week from now, she thought.

  We must find a way to stop this man, she said to herself.

  “And this is my wife Dotty,” Jerome Luckman was saying, introducing to the group an ample, crow-haired, Italian-looking woman who smiled nicely around at them all. Pete Garden scarcely paid any attention. Let’s get the EEG machine in here, he thought. He went over to Bill Calumine and squatted down beside him.

  “It’s EEG time,” he said softly to Calumine. “As a starter.”

  “Yes.” Calumine nodded, rose and disappeared into the other room, along with Clem Gaines. Presently he returned, the Crofts-Harrison machine tagging along behind him, a wheeled egg with coiled receptors, rows of meters sparkling. It had not been used for a long time; the group was quite stable. Until now.

  But now, Pete thought, it’s all changed; we have two new members, one of whom is unknown, the other a patent enemy who must be fought with all we’ve got. And he felt the struggle personally because the deed had been his. Luckman, entrenched at the Claremont Hotel in Berkeley, now dwelt in Pete’s own bind. What could constitute a more intimate invasion than that? He stared at Luckman and now the short, light-haired big Bindman from the East stared back. Neither man said anything; there was nothing to say.

  “An EEG,” Luckman said, as he made out the Crofts-Harrison machine. An unusual, twisting grimace touched his features. “Why not?” He glanced at his wife. “We don’t mind, do we?” He held
out his arm, and Calumine strapped the anode belt tightly in place. “You won’t find any Psi-power in me,” Luckman said as the cathode terminal was fixed to his temple. He continued to smile.

  Presently the Crofts-Harrison machine excreted its short spool of printed tape. Bill Calumine, as official group spinner, examined it, then passed it to Pete. Together, they read the tape, silently conferring.

  No Psionic cephalic activity, Pete decided, at least not at the moment. It might come and go; that’s common, certainly. So anyhow, dammit, we can’t legitimately bar Luckman on this count. Too bad, he thought, and returned the tape to Calumine, who then passed it to Stu Marks and Silvanus Angst.

  “Am I clean?” Luckman asked, genially. He seemed utterly confident, and why not? It was they who should worry, not he. Obviously, Luckman knew it.

  Walt Remington said hoarsely, “Mr. Luckman, I’m personally responsible for your having this opportunity to invade Pretty Blue Fox.”

  “Oh, Remington,” Luckman said. He extended his hand, but Walt ignored it. “Say, don’t blame yourself; I would have gotten in eventually anyhow.”

  Dotty Luckman spoke up. “That’s so, Mr. Remington. Don’t feel bad; my husband can get into any group he likes.” Her eyes shone proudly.

  “What am I,” Luckman growled, “some sort of monster? I play fair; nobody ever accused me of cheating. I play the same as you do, to win.” He looked from one of them to the next, waiting for an answer. He did not seem much perturbed, however; it was evidently a merely formal question. Luckman did not expect to change their feelings, and perhaps he did not even want to.

  Pete said, “We feel, Mr. Luckman, that you already have more than your share. The Game wasn’t contrived as an excuse to achieve economic monopoly and you know it.” He was silent, then, because that fairly well expressed it. The others in the group were nodding in agreement.

  “I tell you what,” Luckman said. “I like to see everyone happy about things; I don’t see any reason for this suspicion and gloom. Maybe you’re not very confident in your own abilities; maybe that’s it. Anyhow, how about this? For every California title deed I win—” He paused, enjoying their tension. “I’ll contribute to the group a title deed for a town in some other state. So no matter what happens, you’ll all still wind up Bindmen … maybe not here on the Coast, but somewhere.” He grinned, showing teeth so regular that—to Pete Garden, anyhow—they seemed palpably false.