The Game-Players of Titan - By Philip K. Dick

1

It had been a bad night, and when he tried to drive home he had a terrible argument with his car.

“Mr. Garden, you are in no condition to drive. Please use the auto-auto mech and recline in the rear seat.”

Pete Garden sat at the steering tiller and said as distinctly as he could manage, “Look, I can drive. One drink, in fact several make you more alert. So stop fooling around.” He punched the starter button, but nothing happened. “Start, darn it!”

The auto-auto said, “You have not inserted the key.”

“Okay,” he said, feeling humiliated. Maybe the car was right. Resignedly, he inserted the key. The engine started up, but the controls were still dead. The Rushmore Effect was still taking place inside the hood, he knew; it was a losing argument. “All right, I’ll let you drive,” he said with as much dignity as possible. “Since you’re so eager. You’ll probably louse it all up anyhow, like you always do when I’m—not feeling well.”

He crawled into the back seat, threw himself down, as the car lifted from the payement and skimmed through the night sky, its signal lights blinking. God, he felt bad. His head was killing him.

His thoughts turned, as always, back to The Game.

Why had it gone so badly? Silvanus Angst was responsible. That clown, his brother-in-law or rather former brother-in-law. That’s right, Pete said to himself; I have to remember. I’m not married to Freya anymore. Freya and I lost and so our marriage was dissolved and we’re starting over again with Freya married to Clem Gaines and I’m not married to anybody yet because I haven’t managed to roll a three, yet.

I’ll roll a three tomorrow, he told himself. And when I do, they’ll have to import a wife for me; I’ve used them all up in the group.

His car hummed on, finding its way above the deserted midsection of California, the desolate lands of abandoned towns.

“Did you know that?” he asked his car. “That I’ve been married to every woman in the group now? And I haven’t had any luck, yet, so it must be me. Right?”

The car said, “It’s you.”

“Even if it were me, it wouldn’t be my fault; it’s the Red Chinese. I hate them.” He lay supine, staring up at the stars through the transparent dome of the car. “I love you, though; I’ve had you for years. You’re never going to wear out.” He felt tears rise up in his eyes. “Is that all right?”

“It depends on the preventative maintenance you faithfully follow.”

“I wonder what kind of woman they’ll import for me.” “I wonder,” the car echoed.

What other group was his group—Pretty Blue Fox—in closest contact with? Probably Straw Man Special, which met in Las Vegas and represented Bindmen from Nevada, Utah and Idaho. Shutting his eyes, he tried to remember what the women of Straw Man Special looked like.

When I get home to my apartment in Berkeley, Pete said to himself, I’ll—and then he remembered something dreadful.

He could not go home to Berkeley. Because he had lost Berkeley in The Game, tonight. Walt Remington had won it from him by calling his bluff on square thirty-six. That was what had made it such a bad night.

“Change course,” he said hoarsely to the auto-auto circuit. He still held title deed to most of Marin County; he could stay there. “We’ll go to San Rafael,” he said, sitting up and rubbing his forehead, groggily.

A male voice said, “Mrs. Gaines?”

Freya, combing her short blonde hair before the mirror, did not look around; absorbed, she thought, It sounds like that awful Bill Calumine.

“Do you want a ride home?” the voice asked, and then Freya realized that it was her new husband, Clem Gaines. “You are going home, aren’t you?” Clem Gaines, large and overstuffed, with blue eyes, she thought, like broken glass that had been glued there, and glued slightly awry, strolled across the Game room toward her. It pleased him, obviously, to be married to her.

It won’t be for long, Freya thought. Unless, she thought suddenly, we have luck.

She continued brushing her hair, paying no attention to him. For a woman one hundred and forty years old, she decided critically, I look all right. But I can’t take responsibility for it … none of us can.

They were preserved, all of them, by the absence of something, rather than the presence; in each of them the Hynes Gland had been removed at maturity and so for them the aging process was now imperceptible.

“I like you,