The Game-Players of Titan by Philip K. Dick

The lanky, well-dressed, middle-aged Psi-man—he was in fact a minor Bindman in his own right, possessing the title to a meager county in Western Kansas—seated himself sprawlingly in the deep chair facing Luckman’s desk and drawled, “We’ve got to be careful, Mr. Luckman. Extremely careful. I’ve been severely limiting myself, trying to keep my talent out of sight. I can preview what you want me to do; fact is, I previewed it coming over here by auto-auto. Frankly I’m surprised that a man of your luck and stature would want to employ me.” A slow, insulting grin crossed the pre-cog’s features.

Luckman said, “I’m afraid when the players out on the Coast see me sitting in they won’t want to play. They’ll band together against me and conspire to keep their really valuable deeds in their safety deposit boxes instead of putting them out on the table. You see, David, they may not

know it’s me who obtained the Berkeley deed, because I-”

“They know,” Mutreaux said, still grinning lazily.

“Oh.”

“The rumor’s already going around … I heard it on that crooner’s TV show, that Nats Katz. It’s big news, Luck-man, that you’ve managed to buy into the West Coast. Real big news. ‘Watch Lucky Luckman’s smoke,’ Nats said; I recall his words.”

“Hmm,” Luckman said, disconcerted.

“I’ll tell you something else,” the pre-cog said. He crossed his long legs, slouched down in the chair, his arms folded. “I can preview a spread of possible this-evenings, some of them with me out there in Carmel, California, sitting in at The Game with the Pretty Blue Fox folks, and some with you.” He chuckled. “And in a couple of the possible this-evenings, those folks are sending out for an EEG machine. Don’t ask me why. They don’t normally keep one handy, so it must be a hunch.”

“Bad luck,” Luckman said, grumblingly.

“If I go there and they give me an EEG,” Mutreaux said, “and find out I’m Psionic, you know what that means? I lose all the deeds I hold. See what I’m getting at, Luckman? Are you prepared to reimburse me, if that occurs?”

“Sure,” Luckman said. But he was thinking of something else; if an EEG was run on Mutreaux, the Berkeley deed would be forfeited, and who would make that up? Maybe I better go myself and not use Mutreaux, he said to himself. But some primal instinct, some near-Psionic hunch inside his mind, told him not to go. Stay away from the West Coast it said. Stay here!

Why should he feel such a powerful, acute aversion to venturing forth from New York City? Was it merely the old superstition that a Bindman stayed in his own bind . . . or was it something more?

“I’m going to send you anyhow, Dave,” Luckman said. “And risk the EEG.”

Mutreaux drawled, “However, Mr. Luckman, I decline to go; I don’t care to take the risk myself.” Unwinding his limbs he rose awkwardly to his feet. “I guess you’ll just

have to go yourself,” he said with a smile bordering on an outright smirk.

Damn it, Luckman said to himself. These little two-bit Bindmen are haughty; you can’t get to them.

“What have you got to lose by going?” Mutreaux asked. “As far as I can preview, Pretty Blue Fox plays with you, and it appears, from here, that your luck holds out; I see you winning a second California deed the first night you play.” He added, “This forecast I give you free. No obligation.” He touched his forehead in a mock salute.

“Thanks,” Luckman snapped. Thanks for nothing, he thought. Because the biting, weak fright was still there in him, the pre-rational aversion to the trip. Gawd, he thought, I’m hooked; I paid plenty for Berkeley. I’ve got to go! Anyhow, it’s unreasonable, this fear.

One of his cats, an orange torn, had ceased washing and was now staring at Luckman with its tongue absurdly protruding. I’ll take you, Luckman decided. You can provide me with your magic protection. You and your—what was the old belief?—your nine or ten lives.

“Put your geschlumer tongue in,” he ordered the cat peevishly. The cat irritated him; it was so ignorant of fate, of reality.

Extending his hand, Dave Mutreaux said, “It’s good to see you again, fellow Bindman Luckman, and maybe I can be of use to you some other time. I’m heading back to Kansas now.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s getting late; almost time to begin this evening’s play.”

Luckman said, as he shook hands with the pre-cog, “Should I start this soon with Pretty Blue Fox? Tonight?”

“Why not?”

“Seeing the future must give you a hell of a lot of confidence,” Luckman said, complainingly.

“It is useful,” Mutreaux agreed.

“I wish I had it on my trip,” Luckman said, and then he thought, I’m tired of catering to my superstitions. I don’t need any Psionic power to protect me; I’ve got a lot more than that.

Sid Mosk, entering the office, glanced from Luckman to

Mutreaux and then back at his employer again. “You’re going?” he said.

“That’s right.” Luckman nodded. “Pack my things for me and load them into an auto-auto; I intend to set up a temporary residence in Berkeley before The Game begins this evening. So I’ll feel comfortable; you know, as if I be-long.”

“Will do,” Sid Mosk agreed, making a note of the request.

Before I go to bed tonight, Luckman realized”, I’ll have sat in with Pretty Blue Fox, will have begun almost a new Me … I wonder what it’ll bring?

Once more, fervently, he wished for Dave Mutreaux’ talent.

V

IN THE condominium apartment in Carmel which the Bluff-playing group of Bindmen, Pretty Blue Fox, owned jointly, Mrs. Freya Gaines, making herself comfortable, not sitting too close to her husband Clem, watched the others arrive one by one.

Bill Calumine, sauntering aggressively through the open door in his loud sports shirt and tie, nodded to her and Clem. “Greetings.” His wife and Bluff-partner Arlene followed after him, a preoccupied frown of worry on her rather wrinkled face. Arlene had taken advantage of the Hynes operation somewhat later in life than had the others.

“Hi ya,” Walt Remington said gloomily, glancing furtively around as he entered with his alert, bright-eyed wife Janice. “I understand we’ve got a new member,” he said in a self-conscious, uncomfortable voice; guilt was written all over him as he shakily removed his coat and laid it over a chair.

“Yes,” Freya said to him. And you know why, she thought.

Now the sandy-haired baby of the group, Stuart Marks, put in his appearance, and with him his tall, masculine,

no-nonsense wife Yule, wearing a black suede leather jacket and jeans. “I was listening to Nats Katz,” Stuart said, “and he said—”

“He was correct,” Clem Gaines answered. “Lucky Luck-man is already on the West Coast, setting up residence in Berkeley.”

Carrying a bottle of whiskey wrapped up in a paper bag, Silvanus Angst strolled in, smiling broadly at everyone, in a good mood as always. And immediately after him came swarthy Jack Blau, his dark eyes flickering as he looked at everyone in the room; he jerked his head in greeting but did not speak.

Jean, his wife, greeted Freya. “You might be interested … we looked into the business of getting Pete a new wife; we were with Straw Man Special for two whole hours, today.”

“Any luck?” Freya asked, trying to make her voice sound casual.

“Yes,” Jean Blau said. “There’s a woman named Carol Holt coming over from Straw Man Special, this evening; she should be here any time.”

“What’s she like?” Freya said preparing herself.

Jean said, “Intelligent.”

“I mean,” Freya said, “what does she look like?”

“Brown hair. Small. I really can’t describe her; why don’t you just wait?” Jean glanced toward the door, and there stood Pete Garden; he had come in and was standing listening.

“Hi,” Freya said to him. “They found you a wife.”

Pete said to Jean, “Thanks.” His voice was gruff.

“Well, you must have a partner to play,” Jean pointed out.

“I’m not sore,” Pete said. Like Silvanus Angst, he carried a bottle wrapped up in a paper bag; he now set it down on the sideboard next to Silvanus’ and took off his coat. “In fact I’m glad,” he said.

Silvanus giggled and said, “What Pete’s worried about is the man who got hold of the Berkeley deed, isn’t it, Pete? Lucky Luckman, they say.” Short and plump, Silvanus wad-

dled over to Freya and stroked her hair. “You worried, too?”

Carefully disengaging Angst’s fingers from her hair, Freya said, “I certainly am. It’s a terrible thing.”

“It is,” Jean Blau agreed. “We’d better discuss it before Luckman gets here; there must be something we can do.”

“Refuse to seat him?” Angst said. “Refuse to play against him?”

Freya said, “No vital deeds should be offered during the play. His getting a toe-hold here in California is bad enough; if he gains more—”

Pages: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41

Leave a Reply 0

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *