The Game-Players of Titan - By Philip K. Dick Page 0,7

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.”

“I’m on my way to New Mexico,” Pete said, and got into his car. “Possibly I’ll see you later on.” He closed the car door. “Take off,” he instructed the auto-auto.

As the car rose the two children waved. Mrs. McClain did not. Why such animosity? Pete wondered. Or had he only imagined it? Perhaps she resented the existence of the two separate groups, B and non-B; perhaps she felt it was unfair that so few people had a chance at the Game-board.

I wouldn’t blame her, Pete realized. But she doesn’t understand that any moment any one of us can suddenly become non-B. We have only to recall Joe Schilling … once the greatest Bindman in the Western world and now non-B, probably for the rest of his life. The division is not as fixed as all that.

After all, he himself had been non-B once. He