“We mustn’t permit it,” Jack Blau agreed. He glared at Walt Remington. “How could you do it? We ought to expel you. And you’re such a jackass you probably haven’t got any idea what you’ve done.”
“He understands,” Bill Calumine said. “He didn’t intend to; he sold to brokers and they right away—”
“That’s no excuse,” Jack Blau said.
Clem Gaines said, “One thing we can do, we can insist that he submit to an EEG. I took the Liberty of bringing a machine along. That might bar him. We ought to be able to bar him somehow.”
“Should we check with U. S. Cummings and see if it has any idea?” Jean Blau asked. “I know it’s contrary to their intentions to have one man dominate both coasts; they were upset when Luckman pushed Joe Schilling out of New York City, in fact—I remember that distinctly.”
“I’d prefer not to turn to the vugs,” Bill Calumine said. He looked around at the group. “Anybody else have any ideas? Speak up.”
There was an uneasy silence.
“Aw come on,” Stuart Marks said. “Can’t we just—” He gestured. “You know. Scare him physically. There’re six men, here. Against one.”
After a pause Bill Calumine said, “I’m for that. A little force. At least we can agree to combine against him during The Game itself. And if-”
He broke off. Someone had come in.
Rising to her feet, Jean Blau said, “Folks, this is the new player who’s come to us from Straw Man Special, Carol
Holt.” Jean advanced to take the girl by the arm and lead her into the room. “Carol, this is Freya and Clem Gaines, Jean and Jack Blau, Silvanus Angst, Walter and Janice Remington, Stuart Marks, Yule Marks, and over here is your Bluff-partner, Pete Garden. Pete, this is Carol Holt; we spent two hours picking her out for you.”
“And I’m Mrs. Angst,” Mrs. Angst said, entering the room after Carol. “My, but this is an exciting night. Two new people, I understand.”
Freya studied Carol Holt and wondered what Pete’s reaction was; he showed nothing on the surface, only polite formality as he greeted the girl. He seemed abstracted tonight. Perhaps he hadn’t entirely recovered from the shock of the night before. She herself had not, certainly.
The girl from Straw Man Special, Freya decided, was not too terribly bright-looking. And yet she appeared to have personality; her hair was nicely bound up in the currently-modish ratnest knot and her eye make-up was well-applied. Carol wore low-heeled slippers, no stockings, and a madras wrap-around skirt which made her seem, Freya thought, a trifle hefty at the midsection. But she had nice fair skin, and her voice, when she spoke, was pleasant enough.
Even so, Freya concluded, Pete won’t go for her; she’s just not his kind. And what is Pete’s kind? she asked herself. Me? No, not herself either. Their marriage had been one-sided; she had felt all the deep emotions and Pete had simply been gloomy, anticipating in some vague way the calamity which would end their relationship: the loss of Berkeley.
“Pete,” Freya reminded him, “you still have to roll a three.”
Turning to Bill Calumine, their spinner, Pete said, “Give me the device and I’ll begin now. How many turns am I allowed?” A complex rule governed the situation, and Jack Blau went off to get the rules book to look it up.
Together, Bill Calumine and Jack Blau decided that tonight Pete was entitled to six throws.
Carol said, “I didn’t realize he hadn’t rolled his three, yet. I hope I haven’t made a trip all the way here for noth-
ing.” She seated herself on the arm of a couch, smoothed her skirt over her knees—fair, smooth knees, Freya noted— and lit a cigarette, looking bored.
Seated with the spinning device, Pete rolled. His first roll was a nine. To Carol he said, “I’m doing the best I can.” In his voice there was an overtone of resentment. His new relationship, Freya saw, was getting into motion in the customary way. She smiled to herself. It was impossible not to take a measure of enjoyment in the situation.
Scowling, Pete rolled again. This time it was ten.
“We can’t start playing anyhow,” Janice Remington said brightly. “We have to wait for Mr. Luckman to get here.”
Carol Holt snorted smoke from her nostrils and said, “Good god, is Lucky Luckman a part of Pretty Blue Fox? Nobody told me that!” She shot a brief, tense glare in Jean Blau’s direction.
Seated with the spinner, Pete said, “I got it.” He rose stiffly to his feet.
Bending, Bill Calumine said, “He sure did. A real, authentic three.” He picked up the spinner; it was over. “Now the ceremony and except for waiting on Mr. Luckman we can go ahead.”
Patience Angst said, “I’m vows-giver this week, Bill. I’ll administer the ceremony.” She brought out the group ring which she passed to Pete Garden; Pete stood beside Carol Holt, who had not yet recovered from the news about Lucky Luckman. “Carol and Peter, we are gathered here to witness your entering into holy matrimony. Terran and Titanian law cojoin to empower me to ask you if you voluntarily acquiesce in this sacred and legal binding. Do you, Peter, take Carol to be your lawful wedded wife?”
“Yes,” Pete said, glumly. Or so it seemed to Freya.
“Do you, Carol—” Patience Angst paused, because a new figure had appeared in the doorway of the condominium apartment. It stood silently watching.
Lucky Luckman, the big winner from New York, the greatest Bindman in the Western World, had arrived. Everyone in the room turned at once to look.
“Don’t let me interrupt,” Luckman said, and did not budge.
Patience, then murmuringly continued the ceremony to its conclusion.
So this is what the one and only Lucky Luckman looks like, Freya said to herself. A brawny man, stockily-built, with a round, apple-shaped face, all his coloration pale and straw-like, a peculiar vegetable quality as if Luckman had been nourished indoors. His hair had a soft, thin texture and did not hide the pinkish scalp. At least Luckman had a clean, well-washed look, Freya observed. His clothes, neutral in cut and quality, showed taste. But his hands . . . she found herself staring at his hands. Luckman’s wrists were thick and furred with the same pale whisker-like hair; the hands themselves were small, the fingers short, and the skin near his knuckles was spotted with what appeared perhaps to be freckles. His voice was oddly high-pitched, mild. She did not like him. There was something wrong with him; he had a capon-like quality; like a defrocked, barred priest. He looked soft where he should be hard.
And we really have worked out no strategy against him, Freya said to herself. We don’t know how to work together and now it’s too late.
I wonder how many of us in this room will be playing a week from now, she thought.
We must find a way to stop this man, she said to herself.
“And this is my wife Dotty,” Jerome Luckman was saying, introducing to the group an ample, crow-haired, Italian-looking woman who smiled nicely around at them all. Pete Garden scarcely paid any attention. Let’s get the EEG machine in here, he thought. He went over to Bill Calumine and squatted down beside him.
“It’s EEG time,” he said softly to Calumine. “As a starter.”
“Yes.” Calumine nodded, rose and disappeared into the other room, along with Clem Gaines. Presently he returned, the Crofts-Harrison machine tagging along behind him, a wheeled egg with coiled receptors, rows of meters sparkling. It had not been used for a long time; the group was quite stable. Until now.
But now, Pete thought, it’s all changed; we have two new members, one of whom is unknown, the other a patent
enemy who must be fought with all we’ve got. And he felt the struggle personally because the deed had been his. Luck-man, entrenched at the Claremont Hotel in Berkeley, now dwelt in Pete’s own bind. What could constitute a more intimate invasion than that? He stared at Luckman and now the short, light-haired big Bindman from the East stared back. Neither man said anything; there was nothing to say.
“An EEG,” Luckman said, as he made out the Crofts-Harrison machine. An unusual, twisting grimace touched his features. “Why not?” He glanced at his wife. “We don’t mind, do we?” He held out his arm, and Calumine strapped the anode belt ‘tightly in place. “You won’t find any Psi-power in me,” Luckman said as the cathode terminal was fixed to his temple. He continued to smile.
Presently the Crofts-Harrison machine excreted its short spinner, examined it, then passed it to Pete. Together, they read the tape, silently conferring.
No Psionic cephalic activity, Pete decided, at least not at the moment. It might come and go; that’s common, certainly. So anyhow, dammit, we can’t legitimately bar Luckman on this count. Too bad, he thought, and returned the tape to Calumine, who then passed it to Stu Marks and Silvanus Angst.