The Game-Players of Titan (3 page)

“Yes.” He waited, unable to breathe; his lungs ached. If he were wrong, if the card really were an eight, then Joe Schilling had won again and his grip on New York City was even more secure.

Joe Schilling said quietly, “It was a six.” He flipped over the card. Luckman had been right; it had been a bluff.

And the title deed to Greater New York City was his.

The cat on Luckman’s desk yawped, now, hoping for breakfast; Luckman pushed it away and it hopped to the floor. “Parasite,” Luckman said to it, but he felt fond of the cat; he believed devoutly that cats were lucky. He had had two toms with him in the condominium apartment that night when he had beaten Joe Schilling; perhaps they had done it, rather than a latent Psionic talent.

“I have Dave Mutreaux on the vid,” his secretary said. “He’s standing by. Do you want to speak to him personally?”

“If he’s a genuine pre-cog,” Luckman said, “he already
knows what I want, so there’s no need for me or anyone else to speak to the
zwepp.”
The paradoxes of precognition always amused and irked him. “Cut the circuit, Sid, and if he never shows up here it proves he’s no good.”

Sid, obediently, cut the circuit; the screen died. “But let me point out,” Sid said, “you never spoke to him, so there never was anything for him to preview. Isn’t that right?”

“He can preview the actual interview with me,” Luckman answered. “Here in my office. When I give him his instructions.”

“I guess that’s right,” Sid admitted.

“Berkeley,” Luckman said musingly. “I haven’t been there in eighty or ninety years.” Like many Bindmen he did not like to enter an area which he did not own; it was a superstition, perhaps, but he considered it decidedly bad luck. “I wonder if it’s still foggy there. Well, I’ll soon see.” From his desk drawer he brought forth the title deed which the broker had delivered to him. “Let’s see who was Bindman last,” he said, reading the deed. “Walter Remington; he’s the one who won it last night and then right away sold it. And before him, a fellow named Peter Garden. I wouldn’t be surprised if this Peter Garden is angry as hell, right now, or will be when he finds out. He probably figured on winning it back.” And he’ll never win it back now, Luckman said to himself. Not from me.

“Are you going to fly out there to the Coast?” Sid asked.

“Right,” Luckman said. “As soon as I can get packed. I’m going to set up a vacation residence in Berkeley assuming I like it—assuming it isn’t decayed. One thing I can’t stand is a decayed town; I don’t mind them empty, that you expect. But decay.” He shuddered. If there was one thing that was surely bad luck it was a town which had fallen into ruin, as many of the towns in the South had. In his early days he had been Bindman for several towns in North Carolina. He would never forget the
fshnuger
experience.

Sid asked, “Can I be honorary Bindman while you’re gone?”

“Sure,” Luckman said expansively. “I’ll write you out a parchment scroll in gold and seal it with red wax and ribbon.”

“Really?” Sid said, eyeing him uncertainly.

Luckman laughed. “You’d like that, a lot of ceremony. Like Pooh-bah in
The Mikado.
Lord High Honorary Bindman of New York City, and tax assessments fixed on the side. Right?”

Flushing, Sid murmured, “I notice you worked hard for darn near sixty-five years to get to be Bindman for this area.”

“That’s because of my social plans to improve the milieu,” Luckman said. “When I took over the title deed there were only a few hundred people here. Now look at the population. It’s due to me—not directly, but because I encouraged non-B people to play The Game, strictly for the pairing and repairing of mates, isn’t that a fact?”

“Sure, Mr. Luckman,” Sid said. “That’s a fact.”

“And because of that, a lot of fertile couples were uncovered that otherwise never would have paired off, right?”

“Yes,” Sid said, nodding. “The way you’ve got this musical chairs you’re practically single-handedly bringing back the human race.”

“And don’t forget it,” Luckman said. Bending, he picked up another of his cats, this one a black Manx female. “I’ll take you along,” he told the cat as he petted her. “I’ll take maybe six or seven cats along with me,” he decided. “For luck.” And also, although he did not say it, for company. Nobody on the West Coast liked him; he would not have his people, his non-Bs, to say hello to him every time he ventured forth. Thinking that, he felt sad. But, he thought, after I’ve lived there a while I’ll have it built up like New York; it won’t be an emptiness haunted by the past.

Ghosts, he thought, of our life the way it was, when our population was splitting the seams of this planet, spilling over onto Luna and even Mars. Populations on the verge of migration, and then those stupid jackasses, those Red Chinese,
had to use that East German invention of that ex-Nazi, that—he could not even
think
the words that described Bernhardt Hinkel. Too bad Hinkel isn’t still alive, Luckman said to himself. I’d like to have a few minutes alone with him. With no one else watching.

The only good thing you could say about the Hinkel Radiation was that it had finally reached East Germany.

There was one person who would know whom Matt Pendleton Associates would be fronting for, Pete Garden decided as he left the apartment in San Rafael and hurried to his parked car. It’s worth a trip to New Mexico, to Colonel Kitchener’s town, Albuquerque. Anyhow I have to go there to pick up a record.

Two days ago he had received a letter from Joe Schilling, the world’s foremost rare phonograph record dealer; a Tito Schipa disc which Pete had asked for had finally been tracked down and was waiting for him.

“Good morning, Mr. Garden,” his car said as he unlocked the door with his key.

“Hi,” Pete said, preoccupied.

Now, from the driveway of the apartment house across the street, the two children that he had heard earlier emerged to stare at him.

“Are you the Bindman?” the girl asked. They had made out his insignia, the brilliantly-colored armband. “We never saw you before, Mr. Bindman,” the girl said, awed. She was, Pete guessed, about eight years old.

He explained, “That’s because I haven’t been here to Marin County in years.” Walking toward the two of them, he said, “What are your names?”

“I’m Kelly,” the boy said. He appeared to be younger than the girl, Pete thought. Perhaps six at the most. Both of them were sweet-looking kids. He was glad to have them in his area. “And my sister’s name is Jessica. And we have an
older sister named Mary Anne who isn’t here; she’s in San Francisco, in school.”

Three children in one family! Impressed, Pete said, “What’s your last name?”

“McClain,” the girl said. With pride, she said, “My mother and father are the only people in all California with three children.”

He could believe that. “I’d like to meet them,” he said.

The girl Jessica pointed. “We live there in that house. It’s funny you don’t know my father, since you’re the Bindman. It was my father who organized the street-sweeper and maintenance machines; he talked to the vugs about it and they agreed to send them in.”

“You’re not afraid of the vugs, are you?” Pete said.

“No.” Both children shook their heads.

“We did fight a war with them,” he reminded the two children.

“But that was a long time ago,” the girl said.

“True,” Pete said. “Well, I approve of your attitude.” He wished that he shared it.

From the house down the street a slender woman appeared, walking toward them. “Mom!” the girl Jessica called excitedly. “Look, here’s the Bindman.”

The woman, dark-haired, attractive, wearing slacks and a brightly checkered cotton shirt, lithe and youthful-looking, approached. “Welcome to Marin County,” she said to Pete. “We don’t see much of you, Mr. Garden.” She held out her hand, and they shook.

“I congratulate you,” Pete said.

“For having three children?” Mrs. McClain smiled. “As they say, it’s
luck.
Not skill. How about a cup of coffee before you leave Marin County? After all, you may never be back again.”

“I’ll be back,” Pete said.

“Indeed.” The woman did not seem convinced; her handsome smile was tinged with irony. “You know, you’re almost
a legend to us non-Bs in this area, Mr. Garden. Gosh, we’ll be able to liven conversations for weeks to come, telling about our meeting you.”

For the life of him Pete could not tell if Mrs. McClain was being sardonic; despite her words, her tone was neutral. She baffled him and he felt confused. “I really will be back,” he said. “I’ve lost Berkeley, where I—”

“Oh,” Mrs. McClain said, nodding. Her effective, commanding smile increased. “I see. Bad luck at The Game. That’s why you’re visiting us.”

“I’m on my way to New Mexico,” Pete said, and got into his car. “Possibly I’ll see you later on.” He closed the car door. “Take off,” he instructed the auto-auto.

As the car rose the two children waved. Mrs. McClain did not. Why such animosity? Pete wondered. Or had he only imagined it? Perhaps she resented the existence of the two separate groups, B and non-B; perhaps she felt it was unfair that so few people had a chance at the Game-board.

I wouldn’t blame her, Pete realized. But she doesn’t understand that any moment any one of us can suddenly become non-B. We have only to recall Joe Schilling … once the greatest Bindman in the Western world and now non-B, probably for the rest of his life. The division is not as fixed as all that.

After all, he himself had been non-B once. He had obtained title to real estate the only way legally possible: he had posted his name and then waited for a Bindman somewhere to die. He had followed the rules set up by the vugs, had guessed a particular day, month and year. And sure enough, his guess had been lucky; on May 4, 2143, a Bindman named William Rust Lawrence had died, killed in an auto accident in Arizona. And Pete had become his heir, inherited his holdings and entered his Game-playing group.

The vugs, gamblers to the core, liked such chancy systems for inheritance. And they abhorred cause and effect situations.

He wondered what Mrs. McClain’s first name was. Certainly
she was pretty, he thought. He had liked her despite her peculiar bitter attitude, liked the way she looked, carried herself. He wished he knew more about the McClain family; perhaps they had once been Bindmen and had been wiped out. That would explain it.

I could ask around, he thought. After all, if they have three children they’re certainly quite well known. Joe Schilling hears everything. I can ask him.

“Sure,” Joseph Schilling said, leading the way through the dusty utter disorder of his record shop to the living quarters behind. “I know Patricia McClain. How’d you happen to run into her?” He turned questioningly.

Pete said, “The McClains are living in my bind.” He managed to thread a passage among the piles of records, packing cartons, letters, catalogues and posters from the past. “How do you ever find anything in this place?” he asked Joe Schilling.

“I have a system,” Schilling said vaguely. “I’ll tell you why Pat McClain’s so bitter. She used to be a B, but she was barred from The Game.”

“Why?”

“Pat’s a telepath.” Joe Schilling cleared a place at the table in the kitchen and set out two handle-less teacups. “Oolong tea?” he asked.

“Ah so,” Pete said, nodding.

“I’ve got your
Don Pasquale
record,” Schilling said as he poured tea from a black ceramic pot. “The Schipa aria. Da-dum da-da da. A beautiful piece.” Humming, he produced lemon and sugar from the cupboard over the dish-filled sink.
Then, in a low voice, he said, “Look, I’ve got a customer out front.” He winked at Pete and pointed, peering past the dusty, stained curtain which separated the living quarters from the store. Pete saw a tall, skinny youth with horn-rimmed glasses and shaved head; the youth was examining a tattered, ancient record catalogue. “A nut,” Schilling said softly. “Eats yogurt and practices Yoga. And lots of vitamin E—for potency. I get all kinds.”

The youth called in a stammering voice, “Say, do you h-have any Claudia Muzio records, Mr. Sch-schilling?”

“Just the
Letter Scene
from
Traviata”
Schilling said, making no move to rise from the table.

Pete said, “I found Mrs. McClain physically attractive.”

“Oh yes. Very vivacious. But not for you. She’s what Jung described as an introverted feeling type; they run deep. They’re inclined toward idealism and melancholy. You need a shallow, bright blonde type of woman, someone to cheer you up. Someone to get you out of your suicidal depressions that you’re always either falling into or out of.” Schilling sipped his tea, a few drops spattering his reddish, thick beard. “Well? Say something. Or are you in a depression right now?”

“No,” Pete said.

In the front of the store the tall, skinny youth called, “M-mr. Schilling, can I listen to this Gigli record of
Una Furtiva Lagrima?”

“Sure,” Schilling said. He hummed that, absently, scratching his cheek. “Pete,” he said, “you know, rumors get to me. I hear you’ve lost Berkeley.”

“Yes,” Pete admitted. “And Matt Pendleton Associates—”

“That would be Lucky Jerome Luckman,” Schilling said.
“Oy vey
, he’s a hard man in The Game; I ought to know. Now he’ll be sitting in with your group and pretty soon he’ll own all of California.”

“Can’t anybody play against Luckman and beat him?”

“Sure.” Joe Schilling nodded. “I can.”

Pete stared at him. “You’re serious? But he wiped you out; you’re a classic case!”

“Just bad luck,” Schilling said. “If I had had more title deeds to put up, if I had been able to stay in a little longer—” He smiled a bleak, crooked smile. “Bluff’s a fascinating game. Like poker, it combines chance and skill equally; you can win by either, or lose by either. I lost by the former, on a single bad run—actually, on a single lucky guess by Luckman.”

“Not skill on his part.”

“Hell no! Luckman is to luck as I am to skill; we ought to be called Luckman and Skillman. If I ever get a stake and can start again …” Joe Schilling abruptly belched. “Sorry.”