The cadre randomatician gave no sign that he saw anything improper in Scarne’s behavior. “We’ve discussed your story, Mr. Scarne,” he said. “We found it quite interesting.”
“But what does it mean?”
“Your experience can only have been subjective, of course. We think you have a type of mind which has a particularly intuitive grasp of mathematical relations. The jackpot shot must have impinged on this faculty in some way, inducing an hallucination. It’s possible. The incident with the identity machine would be a hangover from that. In many ways you have a fortunate combination of qualities. You will make a good gamesman.”
The Negro hesitated, became reflective. “You have what we pure theoreticians lack, in fact.”
“Really? I’ve always considered myself too much of a mathematician, not enough of a player,” Scarne said dubiously.
A faint smile came to the other’s lips. “Jerry Soma’s assessment shows you to be quite talented. You may be just the type of person we are looking for-but that’s by the way, for now.” He straightened, self-consciously formal again. “The Chairman would be pleased if you would join him at breakfast, which he is about to take.”
The invitation was so sudden that it sent a shock of anticipation through Scarne. “Yes, of course. I would be honored,” he murmured.
The sound of a string quartet, weaving a melancholy pattern of melody, was the first impression Scarne received as his guide opened the door to Marguerite Dom’s breakfast room. The cadre member did not follow him in; Scame heard the door close
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softly behind him. He was alone with one of the most powerful men-in some eyes the most powerful man -in human-held space.
The Wheel leader rose from a wrought-iron chair, one of two facing one another across a low table, to greet him. He wore a long soft jacket of green velvet;
a foot-long cigarette holder dangled from one hand. “So pleased to meet you, Mr. Scame. Did you have a good journey? I do hope my couriers were courteous …” He waved his hand, causing the music to stop, and pointed negligently to the table. “Shall we be seated?”
Obediently Scarne took the chair opposite the grand master.
Dom’s frame was spare, his height medium. His sparse black hair, slicked and combed back, failed to cover a balding pate. He had been born at a time when there had been a brief fashion for naming one’s children after members of the opposite sex-though usually with ancient-sounding names. Consequently Sol was replete with middle-aged male Marguerites, Pamelas and Elkas, and with female Arthurs, Yuris and Dwights. It so happened that Dom suited his first name perfectly. He was that ripe combination, the thoroughly masculine, camp, decadent male. His movements were almost feminine. When he spoke, an ingratiating and deceptively defensive smile was apt to come to his features, and the modulations of his voice were more exaggerated than those of the average man, giving the impression of a neurotic factor in his make-up.
Although he seemed a far cry from the tough, solid types who had built up the Wheel centuries ago, Scarne needed to contemplate his face for scant moments to realize that there was only one vital difference between him and those legendary creators of the syndicate. As a rule, those men had not been addicted to the practices which brought them their wealth. But Dom’s face, with its creases and strain lines, its deep intensive eyes, told Scame that he belonged to a highly specific human type: the compulsive gambler. It was a
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strong face: his was not a weakness, or a compulsion to lose, as it was with many. It was a need to win.
A butler appeared and began serving coffee, steak and eggs. “I hear you have some unusual tendencies,” Dom said lightly. “Glimpses into ultimate reality and so forth.” His mouth creased into a tight smile, as though with nervousness or sarcasm.
“Your cadre people assure me it was hallucinatory,” Scarne said.
“Oh, they always put everything down to delusion. But we know it’s not that simple, don’t we? After all, everything you saw is known scientifically. We know that matter is constructed of waves, and that these waves are waves of probability. We also know that below this quantum level there is another level, a level of pure randomness where no physical laws obtain. The material world floats on that, so to speak. But then it’s all in the Tarot, isn’t it?” Dom flicked his hand; a card appeared in it, and he passed it to Scarne.
Scame bent his head to study the card. It was number Ten, the Wheel of Fortune. The card was of traditional design: the upright wheel was held in a frame which was supported by boats, or pontoons, floating on water.
“Somewhat cursory symbolism, but apt,” Dom was saying. “In substance, that represents the content of your first vision, does it not?”
Scame felt slightly dizzy. Dom was right. The picture on the card seemed bland and ordinary-until one put one’s mind to work on it. The wheel stood for chance as it was manifested in the physical universe-in human life, for instance. But it floated on the waters of a greater randomness, the one he had perceived in his ‘black-out’ in the gaming house.
“Water symbolizes the foundation of the universe in several ancient mythologies,” Dom continued. “Because it is fluid and formless, the ancients thought it a perfect symbol of randomness. In Hindu mythology, the world is supported by a series of animals standing on one another’s backs, all ultimately carried by a
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turtle swimming in an infinite sea. Sometimes the turtle is a fish, but again swimming in the sea of chaos. Charming, don’t you think?”
“But not very scientific.” Scame laid down the card and attempted to tackle the food he had been given, feeling not at all hungry.
Dom chuckled. “But what is science studying, after all? Don’t be put off by the mathematical cadre. The gods are greater than science-but purely scientific types can never understand that. All they can do is calculate.”
“You believe in the gods, then?”
“Not as persons, of course. Not as actual entities.” It was the standard reply an educated person gave-often covering up for a more primitive acceptance of the gambler’s pantheon.
“I’m glad you’re not superstitious,” Scarne said.
Dom flicked his hand again, producing the card numbered zero: the Fool. “Do I look like one of these?”
“No.”
Scame felt awkward. He was aware that Dom was watching him, that behind all his charm and camaraderie a cold shrewdness was at work.
“I’ve gained the impression that �� being groomed for a special project,” he said boldly.
“A game,” Dom said, a veiled look coming over his face. “We’re setting up a new, very important game.”
“Who’s playing?”
Dom laughed.
Having eaten all he could, Scame pushed aside his plate. “Chairman, perhaps you can clear up a conundrum for me. The very same night I was introduced into the Wheel I hit a mugger jackpot. Now, I’ve made a simple calculation about that. The odds against hitting a jackpot are high enough, but the odds of its coinciding with another equally significant event … do you follow me? They are unbelievable. The gods may, as you say, be greater than science, but why
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should the gods be interested in me? �m forced to the conclusion that your people rigged the mugger.”
“Out of the question. Whatever you got, you got by chance.”
“But it just doesn’t make sense.”
Dom laughed again. “Then perhaps we have learned to propitiate Lady! You certainly were very lucky. And we do employ the very best mathematicians …”
Dom continued to chuckle, and Scarne made no reply. He had gone as far as he dared in sounding the chairman out. Dom’s replies were meant to be cryptic, of course-he had no idea that Scame had ever heard of the luck equations.
But his answer was a final confirmation that luck was an authentic scientific principle, a universal quantity-and that the Wheel had derived equations that brought it within reach!
Scarne wondered who was responsible for this awesome feat. The people who had just questioned him? And how was it done? Imagine a high-tension charge of luck, steered onto one individual so as to make him bit a billions-to-one shot… it was incredible.
As the butler cleared away the breakfast things, Dom produced a fresh Tarot pack. “Well how about a game? I believe you have never played Kabala …”
Kabala, it was said, if played properly, brought about a change of consciousness in the players. Scame, already brain-weary from his interrogation, found the contest with Dom equally an ordeal. The game required a unique combination of calculation and intuition, and he was forced to think so fast, to extend his mind so far, that at tunes he did feel almost as though he were on some drug-induced high. But it was only the kind of mental exhilaration that came from prolonged effort.