The Worthing Saga

by Orson Scott Card

  “Well?” Arran demanded.

  “More than three times the total of those three loops put together!”

  Arran smiled. “Then I can retire?”

  “Only if you want to,” Triuff said. “I have several pretty good deals worked out—”

  “Forget it,” Arran said.

  “They wouldn't take much work, only a few days each—”

  “I said forget it. From now on I never strap another recorder to my leg again. I'll guest. But I won't record.”

  “Fine, fine,” Triuif said. “I told them, but they made me promise to ask you anyway.”

  “And probably paid you a pretty penny, too,” Arran answered. Triuif shrugged and smiled.

  “You're the greatest ever,” Triuff said. “No one has ever done so well as you.”

  Arran shook her head. “Might be true,” she said, “but I was really sweating it. That was a rotten trick you pulled on me, having Ham break character like that.”

  Triuff shook her head. “No, no, not at all, Arran. That must have been his idea. I told him to threaten to kill you—a real climax, you know. And then he went in and did what he did. Well, no harm done, It's an exquisite scene, and because he broke character, and you, too, there at the end—the audience believed that it was real. Beautiful. Of course, everybody and his duck is breaking character now, but it doesn't work anymore. Everyone knows it's just another device. But the first time, with you and Ham”—and Triuif made an expansive gesture—“it was magnificent.”

  Arran led the way down the corridor. “Well, I'm glad it worked. But I'm still looking forward to a chance to rake Ham over the coals for it.”

  “Oh, Arran, I'm sorry,” Triuff said.

  Arran stopped and faced her manager. “For what?”

  Triuif actually looked sad. “Arran, it's Hamilton. Not even a week after you went under—it was the saddest thing. Everybody talked about it for days.”

  “What? Did something happen to him.”

  “He hung himself. Turned off the lights in his flat so none of the Watchers could see him, and hung himself from a light fixture with a bathrobe tie. He died right away, no chance to revive him. It was terrible.”

  Arran was surprised to find a lump in her throat. A real one. “Ham's dead,” she said softly. She remembered all the scenes they had played together, and a regal fondness for him came over her. I'm not even acting, she realized. I truly cared for the man. Sweet, wonderful Ham.

  “Does anyone know why he did it?” Arran asked.

  Triuff shook her head. “No one has the slightest idea. And the thing I just can't believe—there it was, a scene they've never had before in a loop, a real suicide. And he didn't even record it!”

  16. Breaking the Game

  He man Nuber's feet were asleep, and every time he shifted his weight they tingled unbearably.

  “My feet are asleep,” he complained to the Sleeproom attendant.

  “Happens all the time,” answered the attendant, reassuringly.

  “I was under for three years,” Herman pointed out. “Was the circulation to my feet cut off all that time?”

  “It's the somec, Mr. Nuber,” said the attendant. “It makes your feet feel that way. But your circulation was never cut off.”

  Herman grunted and went back to reading the lists on the wall. His feet tingled a little less, and now he began to shift his weight back and forth. The new sheet was boring. Same list of victories for the Empire, victories that half the time left the enemy in possession of the star system with a few Empire ships able to limp home. The gossip sheets were almost as boring. All the big-name lifeloopers screwing their way to fame and fortune. One looper committed suicide—a novelty, since people who wanted to take themselves out of circulation usually just signed up for the colonies.

  The list he studied was, of course, the game sheet. He skimmed down to the International Games list, and there was the notice.

  “Europe 1914d, now in G1979. Biggest news this week is that Herman 'Italy' Nuber is up on Thursday, so all non-Italy players, watch out!”

  Very flattering, of course, to be named by the waking lists. But it was to be expected. The International Games had been around for years, dating back to well before somec. But there had never been a player like Herman Nuber.

  He left the Sleeproom, pausing, almost as an afterthought, to dress. This waking would be for only six months—last time he had won more money than usual on the side bets, which were strictly illegal but a very safe, pleasant investment. No one gave long odds against him—when he placed bets on himself the rate of return was only seventeen percent. But that was better than a savings bank or government bonds.

  “Herman?” said a quiet man, even shorter than Herman Nuber.

  “Hi, Grey,” Nuber said.

  “Good waking?”

  “Of course.” Grey Glamorgan was a good business manager. He always remembered that even though he was something of a financial genius, with many good connections, he was not in business for himself. Trustworthy. A born underling. Herman liked to surround himself with men who were shorter than himself.

  “Well?” asked Grey.

  Herma looked unconcerned. “Buy Italy, of course.”

  And Grey nodded. It was a kind of ritual, but the game laws specified that a place in the game only be purchased when the player was awake—there must always be a waking player at the computer.

  Well, I'm awake, Herman said. And unless things had changed considerably, this was the waking when he'd make the grand play—to end the game by conquering the world.

  The computer wall was already warmed up when he got to his flat—another thoughtful gesture from Grey. Herman tortured himself as he always did, ignoring the screen, refusing to look at it; pretending the computer wasn't waiting for him as he toured the flat, made sure all the arrangements were correct. Herman wasn't really rich; only mildly well-to-do. He couldn't afford to keep an empty flat while he was under. His belongings were stored, instead, or sold each time. Someday, though, I'll be rich enough, he thought. Someday, I'll get to the really high somec levels, like live years under for three months up. And I'll own a flat, not just lease one for a waking.

  It was everyone's dream, of course. Everyone's plan. And one out of every seven million people in the Empire made it. Horatio Alger is alive and well forever.

  At last, orange juice drunk, bed bounced on, woman for the night paid and picked out, toilet used, he allowed himself to settle down comfortably in the chair before the computer module. But still he kept the screen dead. He punched out the code for Europe 1914d.

  He had been twenty-two when he had first decided to invest some money in the expensive hobby of International Games. It had cost him two months' salary, and he had only been able to buy a third-ranked position in Italy in the start of a new game. He had chosen Europe 1914, even though it was the fourth game of that name, because he had specialized in twentieth-century strategies in his small-game playing. And now, with an inter-planetarily broadcast game, he'd have a chance to see if he was really as good as he had thought.

  I am that good, he reminded himself now, flashing on the holo. The globe appeared before him, and he studied it. First the weather patterns were shown; then the political map.

  “How is it?” asked Grey, appearing quietly behind Herman.

  “Lovely. No one has tried anything rash. Good caretakers.”

  Italy showed up as pink on the map. Herman remembered the beginning—an Italy newly united, weak, unsure whether to join Germany and Austria-Hungary. In the real twentieth century, no one of any force had emerged in Italy until after the 1914 war. No one until that nincompoop Mussolini. But in Europe 1914d, Italy had Herman Nuber, and even though he was a third-ranked player, he had bet quite a bit on himself—and on Italy.

  It was three years before his daytime work earned Herman enough money to go on somec for the first time. In that time he had married, had a daughter, and divorced. No time for marriage. She didn't like it
when he spent all night on the game. But it had been worth it, in the long run. A bit painful, some emotional scenes, but at the end of the three years, Herman's bets paid oil'. Forty to one. He had driven out other, less skillful players, and when he went under somec, he did it as dictator of Italy, and Italy had turned savagely on Austria-Hungary, brilliantly defeated the Prussian army (oh, no, actually German, he reminded himself. Have to keep the periods straight) near Munich, and a peace treaty had been signed. America never joined the war, much to the chagrin of the players who had paid heavily for that choice position, only to see it become useless in the real game.

  Italy, then, had been the major power in eastern Europe. But now, Herman saw with a smile, Italy was Europe, the entire continent pink, and most of Asia as well. His last waking had been the consummation of the struggle with Russia. And now Italy stood poised on the Pacific, on the indian Ocean through Persia, and on the Atlantic, ready to try for everything.

  “Looks very good, doesn't it?” Herman asked Grey, who was still silent.

  “For the Italy player, it does,” said Grey, and Herman turned in surprise. “You mean you didn't buy it?”

  Grey looked a little embarrassed. “Actually,” he said, “I was afraid of this.”

  “Afraid of what?”

  “Someone's apparently been speculating in Italy. My staff gave me the report when I came up three weeks ago. Someone's been buying and selling Italy in closed bids ever since you went under last.”

  “That's illegal!”

  “Weep, then. We've done it ourselves, you know. Shall we call in an investigation? All the books open?”

  “Why didn't you get a good proxy and keep it?”

  “They pulled it off again, Herman. The bidding was last night at midnight. Not precisely prime time. But I placed my bid. Frankly, it was ridiculously high. But no taker. The player who got it bid twice what I did.”

  “Then you should have bid higher still!”

  Grey shook his head. “Couldn't. I only have fifty percent power of attorney, remember?”

  Herman gasped in spite of himself. “Fifty percent! Grey, fifty percent? It was more than fifty?”

  Grey nodded. “More than fifty liquid, anyway. I couldn't match it. Not from your funds. And I just don't have enough loose money around to add any of my own.”

  “Well, who's the player?”

  “Believe it or not, Herman, it's an assistant minister of colonization, a real flunkie. It's his first time in the broadcast games. No record at all. And no way he could have the money to buy that place in the game himself.”

  “Find out who the organization is, Grey, and buy that position.”

  Grey shook his head. “I don't have enough money. Whoever's buying it is serious, and they've got more money than you.”

  Herman felt, weak and cold. This was not expected. Of course there were always speculators in the games. But Herman always paid well for his position, and because he had contributed most to the slot, when he was awake no one could buy Italy but him, as long as he offered at least fifteen percent over the last purchase price. But now the purchase price had been more than half his wealth.

  “It doesn't matter,” Herman told Grey. “Borrow. Liquidate. I'll give you ninety percent power of attorney. But buy Italy.”

  “What if they won't sell?”

  Herman leapt to his feet, so that he towered (delicious) over Grey. “They can't! They can only sell to me. They have to be speculating on stripping me. Well, let 'em. This time Italy takes over the world, Grey. And the bets won't be just seventeen percent. We'll be in for the long odds. Do you understand?”

  “They don't have to sell to you, Herman,” Grey said. “The player who has it isn't on somec.”

  “I don't care. I'll outlast them. They have to quit sometime. Pay their price, They have a price.”

  Grey nodded, unsure. Herman turned away, and heard Grey shuffle softly through the carpet as he left. Herman switched on the screen as his stomach churned. Italy was valuable, but only because of Herman Nuber. Only a genius could have taken that second-rate country and made it a world power. Only Herman Nuber, the greatest International Game player in history, dammit. They're just trying to rob me, Herman concluded. Well, let em.

  And then, though he knew it would torture him, he flashed the screen through to a close-up of current military operations by the Italian Empire. There was a border skirmish in Korea. India was becoming hostile. The Italian agents were doing well at subverting Japanese rule in Arabia.

  Everything's perfect, Herman said softly. In three days I can have this game flying. In three days, if I can once get Italy.

  Grey didn't come or call all day. By evening, Herman was a nervous wreck. He had already had to watch as three perfect opportunities for quick, decisive action had been passed by the idiot playing Italy. Of course, that kind of thing happened all the time when Herman was on somec—but he was asleep, he didn't have to watch. And still Grey didn't come.

  The buzzer. Not Grey, since the door opened to his hand. Must be the woman. Herman stroked the release strip and the door opened. She was young and had a beautiful smile. Just what the doctor ordered.

  At first, because she was beautiful and cheerful and good at her job, Herman forgot the game, or at least was able to concentrate on something else. But then, even as she tried to arouse him again, the pent-up worry flooded back, and he sat up on the bed.

  “What's wrong?”

  Herman shook his head.

  “Too tired?”

  Good a reason as any. No reason to pour out your heart to an edna.

  “Yeah. I'm tired.”

  She sighed, leaned back again on the pillows. “Don't I know it. I get tired, too. They give me shots so I can keep going for hours, but it's so nice to get a breather.”

  A talker. Damn. “Want something to eat?”

  “We aren't supposed to?”

  “Diet or something?”

  “Naw. Sometimes they try to drug us.”

  “I won't drug you.”

  “Rules are rules,” the woman insisted. The girl, rather.

  “You're pretty young.”

  “Working my way through college. I'm older than I look. But they can rent me juvenile too, so we all get more money.”

  Money money money. Pay for sex and you get a treatise on the state of the economy. “Look, kid, why not go now?”

  “You paid for all night,” she said, surprised.

  “Fine. You were wonderful. But I'm tired.”

  “They don't like giving a refund.”

  “I don't want a refund.”

  She looked doubtful, but when he started dressing, so did she. “That's an expensive habit,” she said.

  “What is?”

  “Paying for love and then not using up what you pay for.”

  “Well, right,” Herman said, then added wryly, “wouldn't want any extra love lying around, would we?”

  “Everybody's a comic,” she answered, but even at that the habits of the trade stayed. It was sexy, her smile and her tone of voice, and for a moment he wondered if he really wanted her to go. But then he thought of Italy and decided he'd rather be alone.

  She kissed him goodbye—it was company policy—and then left him alone. He sat up all night, watching Italy. The imbecile was letting things go. He could have had Arabia around three in the morning. But instead, he made a ridiculous peace treaty that actually gave up land in Egypt. Stupid! By morning, Herman had fallen asleep, but he woke with a headache and called Grey.

  “Dammit, what's happening?” Herman demanded.

  “Herman, please,” Grey said. “We're working hard here.”

  “Yeah, and I'm just sitting around here watching Italy turn to crap.”

  “Didn't you get an edna tonight?”

  “What the hell business is that of yours?” Herman snapped. “Buy Italy, Grey!”

  “This Abner Doon, the assistant minister of colonization, he's pretty adamant.”

 
“Offer him the moon.”

  “It's already owned. But I offered him everything else. He just laughed. He just told you to watch the game and you'd see a real genius at work.”

  “Genius! The man's a moron! Already he—” And Herman launched into a description of the stupidities of the night before.

  “Look, I'm not into International Games,” Grey finally said. “You know that, that's why you hired me. Okay? So let's just have me do my job and you follow the scoreboard.”

  “So when are you going to do your job?”

  Grey sighed. “Do we have to do this on the phone, with Mother's Little Boys listening in?”

  “Let 'em listen.”

  “All right, I've tried to trace who's controlling this Doon. The man has connections, but they're all legitimate. I can't find a bankroll, all right? So how can I get the people who are paying him to sell out if I can't find who's paying him?”

  “Can't he have an accident or something?”

  Grey was silent for a moment. “This is the telephone, Mr. Nuber, and it's illegal to suggest criminal activities over the telephone.”

  “Sorry.”

  “It's also very stupid. Do you want me to lose my license?”

  “They don't listen to every conversation.”

  “All right, keep praying. But we don't do anything criminal. Now sit and watch the holo or something,”

  Herman punched off the phone and sat at the computer terminal. Italy had just launched a pointless, half-assed war in Guiana. Guiana! As if anything that happened there mattered. And it was such a naked act of aggression that the alliances were starting to form against Italy. Stupid!

  He had to do something to take his mind off the delay. He punched in a private game, offered it for free for any taker, normal specs, and pretty soon he had a good five-man game of Acquitaine going. He won't in seven hours. I Pathetic. The great players were all on the broadcast games. What's keeping Grey?

  “Nothing's keeping me,” Grey insisted when he finally came to Herman's flat that night. “I'm performing heroic tasks for you, Herman.”