Screaming Science Fiction (19 page)

Fat Bill nodded. “That might be OK—except I like the kids to play
my
machines, you know? It’s my living.”

“That’s good,” Pavanaz agreed, forking out three credits. “No one plays this one but me. I’ve got the key.” He checked there was no one within earshot. “Listen, this could be good for both of us.”

Fat Bill stepped closer. “Keep talking,” he said.

Pavanaz took out a square of soft cloth with a trace of machine oil, commenced wiping down the ’Vader, removing every last trace of moisture. “See,” he said, “nobody—but
nobody
—plays these things like I do. So…I wager my game against your top scorers. I bet my money against theirs. And I give ’em good odds. When they lose, we split sixty-forty on each days’ take.”

“You’re short on shekel, right?”

“I need a stake to get to Earth, that’s all.”

“And you’re better than the kids who come in here?”

“Better believe it.”

“Look—Pasternak?—maybe you haven’t noticed, but Shankov’s World is wet. No outdoor sports here, ’cept fishing. The kids round here; they’re
experts
. You never seen such players!”

“Except on the Games Shows,” said Pavanaz.

“Ah!” The other’s piggy eyes opened wide. “So that’s it!” He laughed out loud, finished up coughing. Bill’s condition and Shankov’s climate didn’t work. “Don’t kill me,” he said. “Every kid who ever thought he could play is putting his mother on the streets to buy a ticket to Earth. What makes you so special?”

Pavanaz scowled. “OK, I’ll show you. Do you have anyone in here right now who can actually play these things?”

Fat Bill looked at him sideways. “In the back,” he finally said. “The ’Vaders are in the back. On Shankov’s we keep as far out of the rain as possible. Centricred machines out front, big stuff in the back. You want players? I’ll show you players.”

Pavanaz followed him into the arcade, through opaque glass humidity doors. And Fat Bill showed him the players.

Pav watched awhile. A couple of the kids were OK, that’s all. Gizzich had guys who could eat the best of these, and Pavanaz had eaten
all
of them! He told Fat Bill: “Bear with me,” and yelled, “Five gets you fifteen I’m the best there is!”

A crewcut runt who looked much like Pavanaz (except his expression was mainly innocent), turned from the game he was watching and glanced at Pav. The player, the runt, and a crowd of local kids that had been watching cursed loud and vicious as he was blown to bits by the Khuum. He leapt out of the bucket and tore through the spectators, intent on Pavanaz’s throat.

“Was that you yelling?” he snarled, his face purple. “You put me off, ruined my game, you sonofa—”

“Hold it, Kem,” said the one with the crewcut, getting between them. He was fast and moved like silk, and Pavanaz recognized someone who would be a good player. Also someone with authority—among the ’Vader-addicts, anyway.

“What?”
Kem was outraged. He was twice as big as the runt but held back. “Aces, this guy cost me a big score! For no good reason he comes in here mouthing off, I’m distracted, and—”

“I saw all that,” said Aces. “Also that you were about to be blown sky-high. So he put you off a little—maybe. So what? Didn’t you hear what the man said? He said five gets you fifteen he’s the best.”

Kem looked past Aces at Pavanaz. “Shit,” he said, “this beanpole doesn’t look like he ever
had
fifteen!”

Pavanaz waved a wad at them. “I have it,” he said; “and a lot more. But I’m greedy and you suckers are in here spending money that could be mine. So can you play or can’t you? I mean, if you don’t want to try me out—hell, there are other arcades where I won’t be wasting my talent!” He offered them his best come-and-get-it sneer, and began to turn away. But Aces caught his sleeve and stopped him.

Pavanaz looked at the hand on his arm until it was taken away, then said: “Yeah?”

“Kem could probably take you,” said Aces, all soft-voiced. “And if he can’t, I sure as hell can.”

So you’re the big cat around here, are you?
But out loud Pav said, “Zat right, Kem? You play good? You can borrow five to go after my fifteen?”

“I don’t borrow
shit
!” Kem slapped a five into Aces’ open hand. Aces held out his hand to Pav, who stuck three fives in it. “What’s your name, anyway, beanpole?” Kem scowled. “I like to know whose money I’m spending.”

“Name’s Grint Pavanaz,” said Pav, “but you can call me The Man.” Kem’s score was still lit up on the ’Vader screen. Nine hundred and eighty-seven thousand was OK—but only just. Pavanaz knew he could beat it without even trying, but he wouldn’t.

“Checking my score?” Kem grinned. “Starting to feel warm?” But then he snarled again: “Remember, it would have been a lot higher if you hadn’t bust in here mouthing off!”

“That was when you were playing for laughs,” Pav told him. “Anybody can make a score when there’s nothing riding. But now it’s for money, which is different.” He bowed sarcastically and offered Kem the bucket-seat. “You want to show me what you’re made of?”

“Brother—Pfefferminz?—do
you
have things to learn!” Kem grinned and climbed into the bucket, paid for the game, scored almost one and a quarter million before being scrambled. But he was an amateur like the rest of them. They didn’t live it, that was their trouble. And this time Pav wouldn’t either.

He got into the seat, let her roll and was taken out with a score of seven hundred and sixty thousand. Kem was jubilant. He laughed at Pav and yelled, “Hey, you got any more of the green stuff you want to give away?”

The crowd hee-heed and hoo-hooed. Pav scowled. “So you were lucky. Hell, it was the first time I played this model!”

“Excuses, excuses!” Kem snorted, laughing nasally.

Pavanaz scowled harder, yanked out his wad. “Laughing boy,” he said, “I got eighty-seven here, all I’m holding. My eight-seven against yours—or is that too rich for you?”

Aces stood to one side, arms folded on his chest. Not as innocent as he looked, he believed he’d seen all this before. Heard about it, anyway. His eyes narrowed where they followed Pav’s every move. Kem, on the other hand: he obviously wasn’t thinking straight—or maybe he was bloated with success.

Eighty-seven creds! Kem’s mouth formed a silent “O.” He counted thirty-one out of his pocket, plus the twenty Aces was holding. “Fifty-one,” he said, biting his lip. “I’m looking for thirty-six more. Anyone want to double his money, fast?”

“I’m with you, Kem!” A shriveled kid with specs pushed his way forward. He counted out thirty-six into Kem’s sweaty paw.

Which was when Aces cut in. “You sure you want to do this?”

Kem grinned. “Are you kidding? This is candy!”

“I’d say it was hard shekel,” Aces retorted. “But—” and he shrugged, “—it’s your ass.”

Kem still couldn’t see it. “Hell, no! It’s
his
ass, Aces!”

The opponents handed over their cash to Fat Bill, who just happened to be standing there. And Pav told Kem: “Your turn in the hot seat, I believe?”

Kem clocked a million six hundred and forty-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-one—and Pav took it exactly
nine
higher to a million six hundred and fifty thousand. This time Kem had sweated, but Pav wasn’t even mildly fazed.

As he got down from the bucket Kem looked at his score, shook his head, and staggered away through the crowd to throw up in a corner. Fat Bill stood them with his bottom jaw flapping and the money flapping in his hand—until Pavanaz snatched it from him. And: “That’s all, folks,” Pav grinned.

“Not so fast, hotshot,” said Aces, having moved in close. “You knew you could beat him. It was robbery.”

“Now you’re
really
joking,” Pav sneered. “Is it illegal to bet on a sure thing? Or are you saying he was the best you have to offer, and you don’t much cotton to a new champ? Sure it was robbery. Like he said: candy from a baby! So unless the rest of you kids have business with me, I’ll just—”

“My turn,” Aces cut in. “I can’t fly as high as you, Paraquat, but I’ve got fifty—if you’d care to go for it…?”

Pavanaz looking like he might accept, narrowed his eyes, then said: “Naw, who needs it?”

“You’re backing off? Backing down?” Aces’ face was blank.

Pavanaz shook his head. “Lessons from me are expensive,” he said. “Fifty—” he shrugged “who needs it?”

Aces nodded sourly. “You played Kem when all he had was five. What’s wrong, Paraquat? Nerve gone?”

“I’d seen Kem’s game.” Pav grinned. “He looked easy to me.” His words sounded loose but he’d chosen them with care.

“You only play the easy ones?” Aces spoke quietly but
his
words held a sneer. The sort that said: brother, you are real
chickenshit
! The crowd held its breath.

Pavanaz made himself go white. He’d had the practice; it wasn’t hard. “Find another twenty-five—make it seventy-five—” he snapped, “you’ve got yourself a game!”

The rest of the gang forked out and again the stake went to Fat Bill. And Bill was grinning now. He liked Pavanaz a lot.

Five minutes later it was all over; Pavanaz had a pocketful of creds; the kids followed him as he went back out through the humidity doors to his ’Vader. When they got there he turned and said: “Listen, chumps. This one is mine and it makes those antiques in back look like so much scrap. But this is a nasty big old planet for nice expensive metal like this, which is why the Fat Man is going to find me a nice dry room all my own to keep her in. If you guys are good, I might let you watch me practice with this baby. And if you’re
especially
good—you could even get to play a game or two yourselves! So tell me, am I good to you or am I good to you.”

“Shaganass,” said Aces, now recovered. “I just can’t hate someone who plays like you do. But I can’t admire you either. So let’s just say I’m coldly indifferent.”

“What you mean is,” said Pavanaz, “that you’d like to try out my ’Vader, right? Live and let live? Forgive and forget?”

“I didn’t say that,” said Aces. “In fact I’d like to see you get your ass best! But I’m not the one who can do it to you, so in fact I’m not going to have
anything
to do with you. ’Cos you just don’t smell right. Look after yourself, Parrotsquat.” And he turned on his heel and left.

But the rest of them were putty in Pav’s hands. He played for them; they
oohed
and
aahed
! He let them play, watched as they got blasted all over space. He was light-years ahead of them. Any fool could see that….

An hour later and it was time to close the place up. Pavanaz enlisted the aid of his worshippers to drag his ’Vader into a room Fat Bill was only too pleased to clear out for him, and before they left he said to them:

“Guys, I have an idea which I think you’ll like. Kem, you’ll like it best of all. A lot of you lost money tonight, creds you loaned to Aces and Kem here. Now I’m going to give you a chance to get those creds back.”

“Big deal!” somebody groaned. “Pavanaz, we couldn’t beat you in a thousand years! Win our money back? That’s not the funniest thing you ever said.”

“I didn’t say ‘win’ it back,” Pav sighed. “Who mentioned miracles? So why don’t we talk about earning it back, eh?”

“Earn it back?” (This from Kem, who was learning caution.) “You mean we should work for you?”

Pavanaz shrugged. “You can call it that if you like. Me, I’d call it easy money. I mean, there are other arcades on this morass, right? Other ‘champions’? So go on out there and bring ’em back alive! Bring ’em here, to me. Guys long on creds and short on talent—by my standards. And that covers everybody, you dig?”

“This is easy money?” someone piped up. “You rip ’em off, and we get beaten up? Easy money for who—Grint Pavanaz?”

Again Pavanaz sighed. “All you got right was my name,” he said. “Look, why should they take it out on you? You think I want you to lie? Like you should tell them there’s this nut called Pavanaz who’s loaded and an easy mark for anyone with one good eye and a steady hand? Hell, no! Tell ’em the truth and nothing but—that I’m the best there is. That way, who could resist coming to see for himself? Could you? And for every hundred I take off one of these suckers, it’s ten creds to the guy who reeled him in. Now tell me, is that easy money or isn’t it?”

With which, no one could find anything to disagree.

III

It happened like Pavanaz figured: customers were shy; and business quiet—for forty-eight hours. Then word got out and the punters came in. At first from arcades on the spaceport perimeter, then from Guni, the supply town, eventually from halfway across Shankov’s as Pavanaz’s legend spread. By night five, his take was approaching four thousand credits and all debts paid, however grudgingly.

For this he’d had to lose the occasional game (the little ones, to give the punters heart) and the rest of the time he’d played as only Grint Pavanaz could, but not once extending himself too far. It was all good practice for the tournament.

Fat Bill was happy; Pav’s pals were happy, including Kem; happiest of all was Pavanaz himself. A packet for Earth was due in a fortnight, and he’d made the down payment on a ticket for himself and a crate for his ’Vader. He needed another grand to buy his passage outright and give him floating creds to spare.

But the next day takings were down, and the day after that they fell away entirely. By the next morning Pavanaz was back to playing two credit games with the local talent, and already he suspected he wasn’t going to make it. Only eleven days left and hopes rapidly fading, Pavanaz despaired. He’d been a shade too good, too greedy, too soon. That’s what was wrong.

Noon of that same day, after Fat Bill went out for lunch, who should walk in but Aces with…somebody. Pavanaz knew he was somebody as soon as he saw him.

He was cleaning his ’Vader when the two came over. He heard Aces’ sneakers on the tiled floor, but not the footsteps of the other. This one walked like a cat, looked like one, too. But an old cat, a mouser out of time. To Pav, anyone over thirty-five was ancient—history, almost—and this guy was ten plus beyond that. He looked like…a relic from the Khuum wars? In that last observation, Pavanaz couldn’t be more accurate if he tried. Indeed Hal Gaddy
was
a relic from the Khuum wars.