The Game-Players Of Titan

by Philip K. Dick

  "If we can develop a strategy," Pete said, "we'll need the collective minds of everyone in Pretty Blue Fox. Among all of us there must be an idea we can use."

  "You think so?" Schilling said.

  "It's got to be," Pete said, harshly.

  XV

  AT TEN O'CLOCK that night they met in the group condominium apartment in Carmel. First came Silvanus Angst, this time—for perhaps the first time in his life—sober and silent, but as always carrying a paper bag containing a fifth of whiskey. He set it on the sideboard and turned to Pete and Carol Garden who followed him.

  "I just can't see letting Psis in," Angst murmured. "I mean, you're talking about something that'll make Game-playing impossible forever."

  Bill Calumine said drily, "Wait until everyone's here." His tone, to Angst, was unfriendly. "I want to meet the two of them," he said to Pete, "before I decide. The girl and the pre-cog, who, I understand, is on Jerome Luckman's staff back in New York." Although now voted out as spinner, Calumine automatically assumed the position of authority. And perhaps it was well he did, Pete reflected.

  "That's right," Pete murmured absently. At the sideboard he looked to see what Silvanus Angst had brought. Canadian whiskey, this time, and very good. Pete got himself a glass, held it under the ice machine.

  "Thank you sir," the ice machine piped.

  Pete mixed himself a drink, his back to the room as it slowly, steadily, filled with people. Their murmuring voices came to him.

  "And not just one Psi but two!"

  "Yes, but the issue involved; it's patriotic."

  "So what. Game-playing ends when Psis comes in."

  "It can be with the proviso that they terminate as Bindmen as soon as this fracas with the—what're they called? The Woo Poo Non? Something like that, according to the Chronicle this evening. Anyhow, the vug firebrands. You know. The ones we thought we beat."

  "You saw that article? The homeopape system at the Chronicle inferred that it's been these Woo Poo Noners who've kept our goddam birthrate down."

  "Implied."

  "Pardon?"

  "You said 'inferred.' That's grammatically unsound."

  "Anyhow, my point is, without quibbling, is that it's our duty to let these two Psi-people into Pretty Blue Fox. That vug detective, that E. B. Black, told us that it was to our national advantage to—"

  "You believe him? A vug?"

  "He's a good vug. Didn't you grasp that point?" Stuart Marks tapped Pete urgently on the shoulder. "That was the whole point you were trying to make to us, wasn't it?"

  "I don't know," Pete said. He really didn't, now. He was worn-out. Let me drink my drink in peace, the thought, and turned his back once more on the roomful of arguing men and women. He wished Joe Schilling would arrive.

  "Let them in this once, I say. It's for our own protection; we're not playing against each other, we're all on the same side in this, playing against the vug-bugs. And they can read our minds so they automatically win unless we can come up with something new. And anything new would have to be derived from the two Psi-people, right? Because where else is it going to come from? Straight ozone?"

  "We can't play against vugs. They'll just laugh at us. Look, they got six of us right here in this room to gang together and kill Jerome Luckman; if they can do that—"

  "Not me. I wasn't one of the six."

  "But it could have been. They just didn't happen to choose you."

  "Anyhow, if you read the article in the homeopape you know the vugs mean business. They slaughtered Luckman and that detective Hawthorne and kidnapped Pete Garden and then—"

  "But newspapers exaggerate."

  "Aw, there's no use talking to you." Jack Blau stalked away; he appeared beside Pete and said, "When are they getting here? These two Psi-people."

  Pete said, "Any time now."

  Coming up, slipping her smooth, bare arm through his, Carol said, "What are you drinking, darling?"

  "Canadian whiskey."

  "Everyone's been congratulating me," Carol said. "About the baby. Except of course Freya. And I think even she would, except—"

  "Except she can't stand the idea," Pete said.

  "Do you actually think it's been the vugs—or at least a segment of them—who've been keeping our birthrate down?"

  "Yes," Pete said.

  "So if we win, our birthrate might go up."

  He nodded.

  "And our cities would have something in them besides a billion Rushmore circuits all saying, 'Yes sir, no sir.'" Carol squeezed his arm.

  Pete said, "And if we don't win, there pretty soon won't be any births on our planet at all. And the race will die out."

  "Oh." She nodded wanly.

  "It's a big responsibility," Freya Garden Gaines said, from behind him. "To hear you tell it, anyhow."

  Pet shrugged.

  "And Joe was on Titan, too? You both were?"

  "Joe and I and Laird Sharp," Pete said.

  "Instantly."

  "Yes."

  "Quaint," Freya said.

  Pete said, "Get away."

  "I'm not going to vote to admit the two Psi-people," Freya said. "I can tell you that now, Pete."

  "You're an idiot, Mrs. Gaines," Laid Sharp said; he had been standing nearby, listening. "I can tell you that, at least. Anyhow, I think you'll be outvoted."

  "You're fighting against a tradition," Freya said. "People don't lightly and easily set aside one hundred years."

  "Not even to save their species?" Laird Sharp asked her.

  "No one's seen these Game-playing Titans except Joe Schilling and you," Freya said. "Even Pete doesn't claim to have seen them."

  "They exist," Sharp said quietly. "And you'd better believe it. Because soon you're going to see them, too."

  Carrying his glass, Pete walked through the apartment and outside, into the cool California evening air; he stood

  by himself in the semi-darkness, his drink in his hand, waiting. He did not know for what. For Joe Schilling and Mary Anne to arrive? Perhaps that was it.

  Or perhaps it was for something else, something even more meaningful to him than that. I'm waiting for The Game to begin, he said to himself. The last Game we Terrans may ever play.

  He was waiting for the Titanian Game-players to arrive.

  He thought, Patricia McClain is dead, but in a sense she never really existed; what I saw was a simulacrum, a fake. What I was in love with, if that's the proper word ... it wasn't there anyhow, so how can I really say I've lost it? You have to possess it first to lose it.

  Anyhow we can't think about that, he decided. We've got other matters to worry about. Doctor Philipson said that the Game-players are moderates; it's an irony that what we ultimately have to defeat is not the fringe of extremists but the great center group itself. Maybe it's just as well; we're taking on the core of their civilization, vugs not like E. G. Philipson but more like E. B. Black. The reputable ones. The ones who play by the rules.

  That's all we can count on, Pete realized, the fact that these players are law-abiding. If they weren't, if they were like Philipson and the McClains—

  We would not be facing them across a Game-board. They would simply kill us, as they killed Luckman and Hawthorne, and that would be that.

  A car descended, now, its headlights flashing; it came to rest at the curb, behind the other cars, and its lights switched off. The door opened and shut and a single figure, a man, came striding toward Pete.

  Who was this? He strained to see, not recognizing him.

  "Hi," the man said. "I dropped by. After I read the article in the homeopape. It looks interesting, here. No fnool, I say, buddy-friend. Correct?"

  "Who are you?" Pete said.

  The man said coolly, "You don't recognize me? I thought everyone knew who I am. Awop, awop woom. May I sit in on your group, tonight. Buddy, buddy, buddy; I know I'd enjoy it." He approached the porch, stood now beside Pete,

  his movements confident and alert, hand extended. "I'm Nats Katz." />
  Bill Calumine said, "Of course you can sit in on our Game, Mr. Katz. It's an honor to have you here." He waved the members of Pretty Blue Fox into momentary silence. "This is the world-renowned disc jokey and recording star Nats Katz, whom we all watch on TV; he's asked to sit in on our meeting tonight. Does anybody mind?"

  The group was watching, uncertain how to react.

  What was it Mary Anne had said about Katz? Pete thought. Is Nats Katz the center of all this? he had asked her. And she had said yes. And, at the time, it had seemed true.

  Pete said, "Wait."

  Turning, Bill Calumine said, "Surely there's no valid reason to object to this man's presence here. I can't believe you'd seriously—"

  "Wait until Mary Anne gets here," Pete said. "Let her decide about Katz."

  "She's not even a part of the group," Freya Gaines said.

  There was silence.

  "If he comes in," Pete said, "I go out."

  "Out where?" Calumine said.

  Pete said nothing.

  "A girl who isn't even part of our group—" Calumine began.

  "What's your basis for opposing him?" Stuart Marks asked Pete. "Is it rational? Something you are able to express?" They were all watching him, now, wondering what his reason was.

  Pete said, "We're in a much worse position than any of you realize. There's very little chance that we can win against our opponents."

  "So?" Stuart Marks said. "What's that have to do—"

  "I think," Pete said, "that Katz is on their side."

  After a moment Nats Katz laughed. He was handsome, dark, with sensuous lips and strong, intelligent eyes. "That's a new one," he said. "I've been accused of just about everything, but hardly that. Awop woom! I was born in Chicago, Mr. Garden. I assure you; I'm a Terran. Woom, woom, woom!" His round, animated face radiated a potent cheer-

  fulness. Katz did not seem offended, only surprised. "What will you see, my birth certificate? You know, buddy-friend Garden woom, I really am well-known here and there, no fnool. If I were a vug it probably would have come to light before now. Wouldn't you think? Correct?"

  Pete sipped his drink; his hands, he found, were shaking. Have I lost contact with reality? he asked himself. Maybe so. Maybe I never fully recovered from my binge, my temporary psychotic interlude. Am I the person to judge about Katz?

  Should I be here at all? he wondered.

  Maybe this is the end for me, he said to himself. Not for them; for me. Personally. At last.

  Aloud, he said, "I'm going out. I'll be back later." Turning, he set his drink glass down and left the room; he descended the porch steps and arrived at his car. Getting in, he slammed the door and sat in silence for a long, long time.

  Maybe I'm more of a detriment to the group than an asset at this point, he said to himself. He lit a cigarette, then abruptly dropped it into the disposal chute of the car. For all I know, Nats might even come up with the idea we need; he's an imaginative guy.

  Someone was standing on the porch, calling him; the voice drifted to him faintly. "Hey, Pete, what're you doing? Come on back inside!"

  Pete started up the car. "Let's go," he ordered it.

  "Yes, Mr. Garden." The car moved forward, then lifted from the pavement, skimmed above the other parked cars, beep-beeping, then above the rooftops of Carmel; at last, it headed toward the Pacific, a quarter mile west.

  All I have to do, Pete thought idly, is give it the command to land. Because in another minute we'll be over water.

  Would the Rushmore circuit do that? Probably.

  "Where are we?" he asked it, to see if it knew.

  "Over the Pacific Ocean, Mr. Garden."

  "What would you do," he said, "If I asked you to set down?"

  There was a moment of silence. "Call Doctor Macy at—" It hesitated; he heard the unit clicking, trying different combinations. "I would set down," it decided. "As instructed."

  It had chosen. Had he?

  I shouldn't be this depressed, he told himself." I shouldn't be doing things like this; it isn't reasonable.

  But he was.

  For a time he managed to look down at the dark water below. And then, with a turn of the tiller, he steered the car into a wide arc until it was skimming back toward land. This way isn't for me, Pete said to himself. Not the ocean. I'll pick up something at the apartment, something I can take; a bottle or so of phenobarbital, maybe. Or Emphytal.

  He flew above Carmel, going north, and presently his car was passing above South San Francisco. And a few minutes later he was over Marin County. San Rafael lay directly ahead. He gave the Rushmore circuit the instructions to land at his apartment building; settling back, he waited.

  "Here we are, sir." The car bumped the curb slightly. The motor clicked itself off; the car dutifully opened its door.

  Pete stepped out, walked to the building door, put his key in the lock and then entered.

  Upstairs, he reached the door of his and Carol's apartment; the door was unlocked and he opened it and passed on inside.

  The lights were on. In the living room a lanky, middle-aged man sat in the center of the couch, legs crossed, reading the Chronicle.

  "You forget," the man said, tossing the newspaper down, "that a pre-cog previews every possibility that he's later going to know about. And a suicide on your part would be big news." Dave Mutreaux rose to his feet, hands in his pockets; he seemed completely at ease. "This would be an especially unfortunate time for you to kill yourself, Garden."

  "Why?" Pete demanded.

  Mutreaux said quietly, "Because if you don't, you're on the verge of finding an answer to the Game-problem. The answer to how one bluffs a race of telepaths. I can't give it to you; only you can think it up. But it's going to be there. Not, however, if you're dead ten minutes from now." He nodded in the direction of the bathroom and its medicine cabinet. "I've done a little rigging along the lines of the alternate future I'd like to see become actual; while I've

  been here I've disposed of your pills. The medicine cabinet is empty."

  Pete went at once into the bathroom and looked.

  Not even the aspirin remained. He saw only bare shelves.

  To the medicine cabinet he said, angrily, "You let him do this?"

  Its Rushmore Effect answered cringingly, "He said it was for your own good, Mr. Garden. And you know how you are when you're depressed."

  Slamming the cabinet door, Pete walked back into the living room.

  "You've got me, Mutreaux," he conceded. "At least in one respect. The way I had in mind—"

  "You can find some other way, of course," Mutreaux said calmly. "But emotionally you lean toward suicide by oral means. Poisons, narcotics, sedatives, hypnotics and so forth." He smiled. "There's a resistance to doing it by any other means. For instance, by dropping into the Pacific."

  Pete said, "Can you tell me anything about my solution to the Game-playing problem?"

  "No," Mutreaux said. "I can't. That's entirely up to you."

  "Thanks," Pete said sardonically.

  "Ill tell you one thing, however. A hint. One which may cheer you or it may not. I can't preview it because you aren't going to show your reaction visibly. Patricia McClain is not dead."

  Pete stared at him.

  "Mary Anne didn't destroy her. She set her down somewhere. Don't ask me where because I don't know. But I preview Patricia's presence in San Rafael within the next few hours. At her apartment."

  Pete could think of nothing to say; he continued to stare at the pre-cog.

  "See?" Mutreaux said. "No palpable reaction of any sort. Perhaps you're ambivalent." He added, "She'll only be there a short time; then she's going to Titan. And not by Doctor Philipson's Psionic means but in the more conventional manner, by interplan ship."

  "She's really on their side, isn't she? There's no doubt of that?"

  "Oh yes," Mutreaux said, nodding. "She's really on their side. But that's not going to stop you from going, is it?"

  "No," Pete said, and st
arted from the apartment.

  "May I come along?" Mutreaux asked.

  "Why?"

  "To keep her from killing you."

  Pete was silent a moment. "It's really like that, is "it?"

  Mutreaux nodded. "It certainly is, and you know it. You watched them shoot Hawthorne."

  "Okay," Pete said. "Come with me." He added, "Thanks." It was hard to say it.

  They left the apartment building together, Pete slightly ahead of David Mutreaux.

  As they reached the street, Pete said, "Did you know that Nats Katz, the disc jockey, showed up at the con-apt in Carmel?"

  Nodding, Dave Mutreaux said, "Yes. I met him an hour or so ago and talked to him; he looked me up. It was the first time I had ever run into him, although of course I had heard of him." He added, "It's because of him that I crossed over."

  "Crossed over?" Halting, Pete turned toward Mutreaux, who followed after him.

  And found himself, incredibly, facing a heat-needle.

  "With Katz," Mutreaux said calmly. "The pressure simply was too much on me, Pete. I couldn't effectively resist it. Nats is extraordinarily powerful. He was chosen to be leader of the Wa Pei Nan here on Terra for a good reason. Come on, let's continue on our way to Patricia McClain's apartment." He gestured with the heat-needle.

  After a moment Pete said, "Why didn't you just let me kill myself? Why intervene at all?"

  "Because," Dave Mutreaux said, "you're coming over to our side, Pete. We can make good use of you. The Wa Pei Nan doesn't approve of this Game-playing solution; once we manage to penetrate Pretty Blue Fox by means of you, we can call The Game off from, this end." He added, "We've already discussed it with the moderate faction on Titan and they're determined to play; they like to play and they feel

  this controversy between the two cultures ought to be resolved within a legal framework. Needless to say, the Wa Pei Nan does not agree."

  They continued along the dark sidewalk, toward the Mc-Clain apartment, Dave Mutreaux slightly behind Pete.

  "I should have guessed," Pete said. "When Katz showed up. I had an intuition but I didn't act on it." They had penetrated the group and directly, it seemed, through him. He wished now that he had managed to find the courage to drop his car into the sea; he had been right; it would have been better for everyone concerned. Everyone and everything he believed in.