The children outside his window, for instance . . . Along the street a homeostatic maintenance vehicle swished collecting trash and checking on the growth of lawns, first on one side of the street and then on the other. The
steady whirring of the machine rose above the children’s voices.
The empty city is kept tidy, Pete said to himself as the machine halted to send out pseudopodia to grope peevishly at a camellia bush. Or rather, virtually empty city—a dozen or so non-B people lived here, at least according to the census he had last been shown.
Behind the maintenance vehicle came a second construct, this one even more elaborate; like a great twenty-legged bug it propelled itself down a driveway, hot on the scent of decay. The repair vehicle would rebuild whatever had fallen into ruin, Pete knew; it would bind up the wounds of the city, halt deterioration before it began. And for what? For whom? Good questions. Perhaps the vugs liked to look down from their observation satellites and see an intact civilization, rather than mere ruins.
Putting out his cigarette, Pete went into the kitchen, hoping to find food for breakfast. He had not inhabited this apartment for several years, but nonetheless he opened the vacuum-sealed refrigerator and found in it bacon and milk and eggs, bread and jam, all in good shape, everything he needed for breakfast. Antonio Nardi had been Bindman in Residence here before Pete; undoubtedly he had left these, not knowing that he was going to lose his title in The Game, would never be coming back.
But there was something more important than breakfast, something Pete had to do first.
Clicking on the vidphone he said, “I’d like Walter Remington in Contra Costa County.”
“Yes, Mr. Garden,” the vidphone said. And the screen, after a pause, lit up.
“Hi.” Walt Remington’s dour, elongated features appeared and he gazed dully at Pete. Walt had not shaved yet this morning; stubble coated his jowls, and his eyes, small and red-rimmed, were puffy from lack of sleep. “Why so early?” he mumbled. He was still in his pajamas.
Pete said, “Do you remember what happened last night?”
“Oh yeah. Sure.” Walt nodded, smoothing his disordered hair in place.
“I lost Berkeley to you. I don’t know why I put it up. It’s been my bind, my residence, you know.”
“I know,” Walt said.
Taking a deep breath, Pete said, “I’ll trade you three cities in Marin County for it. Ross, San Rafael and San Anselmo. I want it back; I want to live there.”
Walt pointed out, “You can live in Berkeley. As a non-B resident, of course; not as Bindman.”
“I can’t live like that,” Pete said. “I want to own it, not just be a squatter. Come on, Walt; you don’t intend to live in Berkeley. I know you. It’s too cold and foggy for you. You like the hot valley climate, like Sacramento. Where you are now, in Walnut Creek.”
“That’s true,” Walt said. “But—I can’t trade Berkeley back to you, Pete.” The admission was dragged out of him, then. “I don’t have it. When I got home last night a broker was waiting for me; don’t ask me how he knew I’d acquired it from you, but he did. A big wheeler and dealer from the East, Matt Pendleton Associates.” Walt looked glum.
“And you sold Berkeley to them?” Pete could hardly believe it. It meant that someone who was not part of their group had managed to buy into California. “Why’d you do it?” he demanded.
“They traded me Salt Lake City for it,” Walt said, with morose pride. “How could I turn that down? Now I can join Colonel Kitchener’s group; they play in Provo, Utah. Sorry, Pete.” He looked guilty. “I was still a little stewed, I guess. Anyhow it sounded too good to turn down at the time.”
Pete said, “Who’d Pendleton Associates acquire it for?”
“They didn’t say.”
“And you didn’t ask?”
“No,” Walt admitted morosely. “I didn’t. I guess I should have.”
Pete said, “I want Berkeley back. I’m going to track the deed down and get it back, even if I have to trade off all of Marin County. And in the meantime, I’ll be looking forward to beating you at Game-time; look for me to take away everything you’ve got—no matter who your partner is.”
Savagely, he clicked off the vidphone. The screen became dark.
How could Walt do it? he asked himself. Turn the title right over to someone outside the group—someone from the East.
I’ve got to know who Pendleton Associates would be representing in a deal like that, he said to himself.
He had a feeling, acute and ominous, that he knew.
III
IT WAS A very good morning for Mr. Jerome Luckman of New York City. Because—and it flashed into his mind the moment he awoke—today was the first time in his life that he owned Berkeley, California. Operating through Matt Pendleton Associates he had at last been able to obtain a choice piece of California real estate, and this meant that now he could sit in on the Game-playing of Pretty Blue Fox which met at Carmel each night. And Carmel was almost as nice a town as Berkeley.
“Sid,” he called. “Come into my office.” Luckman sat back in his chair, puffed on his after-breakfast delicado Mexican cigarette.
His secretary, non-Bindman Sid Mosk, opened the office door and put his head in. “Yes, Mr. Luckman.”
“Bring me that pre-cog,” Luckman said. “I’ve finally got a use for him.” A use, he thought, which justifies the risk of disbarment from The Game. “What’s his name? Dave Mutreaux or something.” Luckman had a hazy memory of interviewing the pre-cog, but a man of his position saw so many people every day. And after all, New York City was well-populated; almost fifteen thousand souls. And many were children, hence new. “Make sure he comes up a back way,” Luckman said. “I don’t want anybody to see him.” He had his reputation to maintain. And this was a touchy situation.
It was illegal, of course, to bring a person with Psionic
talents to The Game, because Psi, in terms of Game-playing, represented a form of cheating pure and simple. For years, EEGs, electroencephalograms, had been given customarily by many groups, but this practice had died out. At least, Luck-man hoped so. Certainly, it was done no longer in the East, because all the Psi-people were known, and the East set the style for the whole country, did it not?
One of Luckman’s cats, a gray and white short-haired tom, hopped onto his desk; he absently scratched the cat’s chin, thinking to himself, If I can’t work that pre-cog into the Pretty Blue Fox group, I think I’ll go myself. True, he hadn’t played The Game in a year or more . . . but he had been the best player around. How else could he have become the Bindman for Greater New York City? And there had been strong competition in those days. Competition which Luckman had rendered non-B single-handedly.
There’s no one that can beat me at Bluff, Luckman said to himself. And everybody knows that. Still, with a pre-cog . . . it was a sure thing. And he liked the idea of a sure thing because although he was an expert Bluff player he did not like to gamble. He had not played because he enjoyed it; he had played to win.
He had, for instance, run the great Game-player Joe Schilling right out of existence. Now Joe operated a little old phonograph record shop in New Mexico; his Game-playing days were over.
“Remember how I beat Joe Schilling?” he said to Sid. “That last play, it’s still in my mind, every detail. Joe rolled a five with the dice and drew a card from the fifth deck. He looked at it a long time, much too long. I knew then that he was going to bluff. Finally he moved his piece eight squares ahead; that put him on a top-win square; you know, that one about inheriting one hundred and fifty thousand dollars from a dead uncle. That piece of his sat on that square and I looked at it—” He had, perhaps, a little Psionic talent of his own, because it had seemed to him that actually he could read Joe Schilling’s mind. You drew a six, he had felt with absolute conviction. Your move eight squares ahead is a bluff.
Aloud, he said that, called Schilling’s bluff. At that time,
Joe had been New York City Bindman and could beat anyone at The Game; it was rare for any player to call one of Joe’s moves.
Raising his great shaggy, bearded head, Joe Schilling had eyed him. There was silence. All the players waited.
“You really want to see the card I drew?” Joe Schilling asked.
“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.