The Game-Players of Titan (13 page)

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 great 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.”

“For chrissakes!”

“It’s god’s truth, Mr. Garden; I swear it.”

Pete said, “You’re awfully articulate for a Rushmore circuit, aren’t you?” Opening the car door he peered in, blinking in the glare of the dome light. Peered suspiciously, and in fright.

Someone sat behind the tiller.

After a pause the figure said, “Get in, Mr. Garden.”

“Why?” he said.

“So I can drive you where you want to go.” “I don’t want to go anywhere,” he said. “I want to stay here.”

“Why are you looking at me so funny? Don’t you remember coming and getting me? It was your idea to do the town—do several towns, as a matter of fact.” She smiled. It was a woman; he saw that now.

“Who the hell are you?” he said. “I don’t know you.”

“Why, you certainly do. You met me at Joseph Schilling’s rare record shop in New Mexico.”

“Mary Anne McClain,” he said, then. He got slowly into the car beside her. “What’s been going on?”

Mary Anne said calmly, “You’ve been celebrating your wife Carol’s pregnancy.”

“But how’d I get mixed up with you?”

“First you dropped by the apartment in Marin County. I wasn’t there because I was at the San Francisco public library doing research. My mother told you and you flew to San Francisco, to the library, and picked me up. And we drove to Pocatello because you had the idea that an eighteen-year-old girl would be served in a bar in Idaho, and she isn’t in San Francisco as we found out.”

“Was I right?”

“No. So you went in alone, to Dave’s Place, and I’ve been
sitting out here in the car waiting for you. And you just now came out of that alley and began yelling.”

“I see,” he said. He lay back against the seat. “I feel sick. I wish I was home.”

Mary Anne McClain said, “I’ll drive you home, Mr. Garden.” The car now had lifted into the sky; Pete shut his eyes.

“How’d I get mixed up with that vug?” he said, after a time.

“What vug?”

“In the bar. I guess. Doctor something Philipson.”

“How would I know? They wouldn’t let me in.”

“Well, was there a vug in there? Didn’t you see in?”

“I saw in; I went in at first. But there was no vug while I was there. But of course I came right back out; they made me leave.”

“I’m quite a heel,” Pete said, “staying inside drinking while you sat out here in the car.”

“I didn’t mind,” Mary Anne said. “I had a nice conversation with the Rushmore unit. I learned a lot about you. Didn’t I, car?”

“Yes, Miss McClain,” the car said.

“It likes me,” Mary Anne said. “All Rushmore Effects like me.” She laughed. “I charm them.”

“Evidently,” Pete said. “What time is it?”

“About four.”

“A.M
.?” He couldn’t believe it. How come the bar was still open? “They don’t allow bars open that late, in any state.”

“Maybe I looked at the clock wrong,” Mary Anne said.

“No,” Pete said. “You looked at it right. But something’s wrong; something’s terribly wrong.”

“Ha, ha,” Mary Anne said.

He glanced at her. At the tiller of the car sat the shapeless slime of a vug. “Car,” Pete said instantly. “What’s at the tiller? Tell me.”

“Mary Anne McClain, Mr. Garden,” the car said.

But the vug still sat there. He saw it.

“Are you sure?” Pete said.

“Positive,” the car said.

The vug said, “As I said, I can charm Rushmore circuits.”

“Where are we going?” Pete said.

“Home. To take you back to your wife Carol.”

“And then what?”

“And then I’m going home to bed.”

“What are you?”
he said to it.

“What do you think? You can see. Tell someone about it; tell Mr. Hawthorne the detective or better yet tell E.B. Black the detective. E.B. Black would get a kick out of it.”

Pete shut his eyes.

When he opened them again it was Mary Anne McClain sitting there beside him, at the tiller of the car.

“You were right,” he said to the car. Or were you? he wondered. God, he thought; I wish I was home, I wish I hadn’t come out tonight. I’m scared. Joe Schilling, he could help me. Aloud he said, “Take me to Joe Schilling’s apartment, Mary Anne or whatever your name is.”

“At
this
time of night? You’re crazy.”

“He’s my best friend. In all the world.”

“It’ll be five
A.M
. when we get there.”

“He’ll be glad to see me,” Pete said. “With what I have to tell him.”

“And what’s that?” Mary Anne said.

Cautiously, he said, “You know. About Carol. The baby.”

“Oh yes,” Mary Anne said. She nodded. “As Freya said, ‘I hope it’s a baby.’”

“Freya said that? Who to?”

“To Carol.”

“How do you know?”

Mary Anne said, “You telephoned Carol from the car before we went to Dave’s Place; you wanted to be sure she was all right. She was very upset and you asked why and she said that she had called Freya, looking for you, and Freya had said that.”

“Damn that Freya,” Pete said.

“I don’t blame you for feeling like that. She’s a hard,
schizoid type, it sounds like. We studied about that in psych.”

“Do you like school?”

“Love it,” Mary Anne said.

“Do you think you could be interested in an old man of one hundred and fifty years?”

“You’re not so old, Mr. Garden. Just confused. You’ll feel better after I get you home.” She smiled at him, briefly.

“I’m still potent,” he said. “As witness Carol’s impregnation. Whooee!” he cried.

“Three cheers,” Mary Anne said. “Just think: one more Terran in the world. Isn’t that delightful?”

“We don’t generally refer to ourselves as Terrans,” Pete said. “We generally say ‘people.’ You made a mistake.”