The Game-Players of Titan - By Philip K. Dick Page 0,12

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 tom, 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 back 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 belong.”

“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 life … I wonder what it’ll bring?

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

5

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