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 yawned, 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 pre-cognition 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 superstitution, 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 figures 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 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 re-pairing 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 un-
covered 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.”