The Game-Players of Titan (8 page)

“I’ll see you at one-thirty,” Pete said. “At Third and Market.” Unless, he thought, the inchoate syndrome having to do with violence and death and Jerome Luckman becomes actual before then.

“It may,” Patricia said somberly. “That’s another quality of the unconscious, it stands outside of time. You can’t tell, in reading it, whether you’re picking up something minutes
away from actualization or days away or even years. It’s all blurred together.”

Wordlessly, Pete turned and strode out of the apartment, away from her.

The next he knew he was riding in his car, high over the desert.

He knew, instantly, that it was much later. Snapping on the radio transmitter he said, “Give me a time signal.”

The mechanical voice from the speaker said, “Six
P.M.
Mountain Standard Time, Mr. Garden.”

Where am I? he asked himself. “Where is this?” he said to the car. “Nevada?” It looked like Nevada, barren and empty.

The car said, “Eastern Utah.”

“When did I leave the Coast?”

“Two hours ago, Mr. Garden.”

“What have I done during the last five hours?”

The car said, “At nine-thirty you drove from Marin County, California to Carmel, to the Game Room in the Carmel condominium apartment building.”

“Whom did I see?”

“I don’t know.”

“Continue,” he said, breathing shallowly.

“You stayed there one hour. Then you came out and took off for Berkeley.”

“Berkeley!” he said.

“You landed at the Claremont Hotel. You stayed there only a short time, only a few minutes. Then you took off for San Francisco. You landed at San Francisco State College and went into the administration building.”

“You don’t know what I did there, do you?”

“No, Mr. Garden. You were there an hour. Then you came out and took off once more. This time you landed at
a parking lot in downtown San Francisco, at Fourth and Market; you parked me there and set out on foot.”

“Going which way?”

“I didn’t notice.”

“Go ahead.”

“You returned at two-fifteen, got back in, and directed me to fly in an East course. I have done so ever since.”

“And we didn’t land anywhere since San Francisco?”

“No, Mr. Garden. And by the way, I’m very short of fuel. We should come down at Salt Lake City, if possible.”

“All right,” he said. “Head that way.”

“Thank you, Mr. Garden,” the car said, and altered its course.

Pete sat for a time and then he switched on the transmitter and vidphoned his apartment in San Rafael.

On the small screen Carol Holt Garden’s face appeared. “Oh hello,” she said. “Where are you? Bill Calumine called; he’s getting the group together early this evening to discuss strategy. He wants to be sure both you and I are there.”

“Did Joe Schilling show up?”

“Yes. What do you mean? You came back to the apartment early this morning and sat out in your car talking to him; you talked out there so I wouldn’t hear.”

Pete said hoarsely, “What happened after that?”

“I don’t understand your question.”

“What did I do?” he demanded. “Did I go anywhere with Joe Schilling? Where is he now?”

“I don’t know where he is now,” Carol said. “What on earth is the matter with you? Don’t you know what you did today? Do you always have periods of amnesia?”

Pete grated, “Just tell me what happened.”

“You sat in the car talking to Joe Schilling and then he went off, I guess. Anyhow, you came back upstairs alone and said to me—Just a second, I have something on the stove.” She disappeared from the screen; he waited, counting the seconds, until at last she returned. “Sorry. Let’s see. You
came back upstairs—” Carol paused, meditating. “We talked. Then you went downstairs again, and that’s the last I’ve seen of you, until you called just now.”

“What did you and I talk about?”

“You told me that you wanted to play with Mr. Schilling as your partner tonight.” Carol’s voice was cold, withdrawn emotionally. “We shall I say,
discussed
it. Argued about it, actually. In the end—” She glared at him. “If you don’t know—”

“I don’t,” he said.

Carol said, “There’s no reason why I should tell you. Ask Joe, if you want to know; I’m sure you informed him.” “Where is he?”

“I have no idea,” Carol said, and broke the connection. The tiny image of her on the vidscreen died.

I’m sure, he said to himself, that I arranged with Joe for him to play as my partner, tonight. But that’s not the problem.

The problem—it was not what did I do? but why don’t I remember? I may have done nothing at all; that is, nothing that was unusual or important. Although going to Berkeley … perhaps I wanted to pick up some of my things which I’d left, he decided.

But according to the Rushmore Effect of the car, he had not gone to his old apartment; he had gone to the Claremont, and that was where Lucky Luckman was staying.

Evidently he had seen—or had tried to see—Luckman.

He thought, I’d better get hold of Joe Schilling. Find him and talk to him. Tell him that for reasons unknown to me I’m missing almost an entire day. The shock of what Pat McClain said—could that explain it?

And evidently he had met Patricia in downtown San Francisco as they had agreed.

If so, what had they done?

What was his relationship with her, now? Perhaps he had been successful; perhaps, on the other hand, he had only
antagonized her further. No way to tell. And the visit to San Francisco State College …

Evidently he had sought out Pat’s daughter, Mary Anne.

Good lord. What a day to lose!

Using the car’s transmitter he phoned Joe Schilling’s record shop in New Mexico and got a Rushmore variety of answering device. “Mr. Schilling is not currently here. He and his parrot are on the Pacific Coast; you can contact him through Marin County Bindman Peter Garden at San Rafael.”

Oh no you can’t, Pete said to himself. And cut the connection with a wild swipe of his hand.

After a time he vidphoned Freya Garden Gaines.

“Oh, hello there, Peter,” Freya said, looking pleased to hear from him. “Where are you? We’re all supposed to get together at—”

“I’m hunting for Joe Schilling,” he said. “You know where he is?”

“No. I haven’t seen him. Did you bring him out to the Coast to play against Luckman?”

“If you hear from him,” Pete said, “tell him to go to my apartment in San Rafael and stay there.”

“Okay,” Freya said. “Is something wrong?”

“Maybe so,” he said, and rang off.

I wish to hell I knew, he said to himself.

To the car he said, “Do you have enough fuel to head directly back to San Rafael without stopping at Salt Lake City?”

“No, Mr. Garden,” the car said.

“Get your damn fuel, then,” he told it, “and then let’s get back to California as fast as possible.”

“All right, but there’s no point in being angry at me; it was your instructions that brought us to this place.”

He cursed at the car. And sat impatiently waiting as it nosed down toward deserted, vast Salt Lake City below.

When finally he got back to San Rafael it was evening; he switched on the landing lights of the car and came to rest at the curb before his apartment building.

As he stepped out, a shape emerged from the darkness, hurrying toward him. “Pete!”

It was, he made out, Patricia McClain; she wore a long heavy coat and her hair was tied back in a knot. “What is it?” he said, catching her air of alarm and urgency.

“Just a second.” She came close to him, breathless, gasping, her eyes dilated with fear. “I want to scan your mind.”

“What’s happened?”

“My god,” she said. “You don’t remember. The whole day’s lost to you; Pete,
be careful.
I better go—my husband’s waiting. Goodbye. I’ll see you as soon as I can; don’t try to get in touch with me, I’ll call you.” She stared at him for an instant and then she disappeared down the street, rushing away into the evening darkness.

He went on, then, up the stairs to his apartment.

In the living room, large, red-bearded Joseph Schilling sat
waiting; seeing him, Schilling at once rose to his feet. “Where have you been?”

Pete said, “Is Carol here or are you alone?” He glanced around him. There was no sign of her.

“I haven’t seen her since this morning. Since the three of us were together here in the apartment. I was talking to your former wife, Freya, and she told me that you—”

“How did you get in,” Pete said, “if Carol isn’t here?”

“The apartment was unlocked.”

Pete said, “Listen, Joe. Something’s happened, today.”

“You mean Luckman’s disappearance?”

Staring at him, chilled, Pete said, “I didn’t know Luckman had disappeared.”

“Of course you do; you’re the one who told me.” Now Schilling stared back at him.

They were both silent.

Schilling said, “You called me from your car; you caught me at the con-apt in Carmel; I was studying recordings of your group’s past Gameplays. And then later on I heard it over Nats Katz’ afternoon program. Luckman disappeared this morning.”

“And he hasn’t been found?”

“No.” Schilling grabbed Pete by the shoulder.
“Why don’t you remember?”

“I had an encounter. With a telepath.”

“Pat McClain? You told me; you were remarkably upset. I could tell, I know you. You alluded to something she had picked up in your unconscious, something having to do with your obsessive suicidal impulses, you said. And then you suddenly signed off and broke the circuit.”

“I saw her again just now,” Pete said. Her warning; probably it had to do with Luckman’s disappearance. Did Patricia think he had something to do with it?

Schilling said, “I’ll fix you a drink.” He went over to the cabinet by the large living-room windows. “While I was waiting for you I managed to find where you keep it. This scotch
isn’t bad, but as far as I’m concerned there’s nothing quite like—”

“I haven’t eaten dinner,” Pete said. “I don’t want a drink.” He went into the kitchen, to the refrigerator, with the vague idea of preparing some sort of meal.

“There’s some very fine kosher-style corn beef; I picked it up at a delicatessen in San Francisco, it and dark bread and slaw.”

“Okay.” Pete got the food out.

“We don’t have much time to get to Carmel. We’re supposed to be there early. But if Luckman doesn’t show up—”

“Are the police looking for him? Have they been called in?”

“I don’t know. You didn’t say and neither did Katz.” Pete said, “Did I tell you how I happened to know about it?”

“No.”

“This is terrible,” Pete said. He cut two thick slices of the dark bread; his hands were shaking.

“Why?”

“I don’t know why. Doesn’t it strike you that way?”

Schilling shrugged. “Maybe it would be a good thing if someone did him in. We should have such bad luck every day. Wouldn’t this solve our collective problems? His widow would have to play his hand and we can beat Dotty Luckman; I know her system and it’s mediocre.” He, too, cut himself some of the dark bread and helped himself to the kosher-style corn beef.

The vidphone rang.

“You get it,” Pete said. He felt dread.

“Sure.” Schilling strode into the living room. “Hello,” his voice came to Pete.

Bill Calumine’s voice: “Something’s come up. I want everyone at Carmel immediately.”

“Okay, we’ll leave now.” Schilling returned to the kitchen.

“I heard,” Pete said.

“Leave a note for your wife Carol.”

“Telling her what?”

“Don’t you know that either? Telling her to get down to Carmel; the agreement we arrived at—remember?—is for me to play the hands but for her to sit in and watch from behind me, seeing what I draw and how I play each turn. You don’t remember that either, do you?”

Pete said, “No.”

“She wasn’t very pleased.” Schilling got his hat and coat from the closet. “But you figured you’d come up with something just dandy, there. Come on; it’s time to leave. Bring your corn-beef sandwich along.”

As they left the apartment and came out into the hall they met Carol Holt Garden; she was stepping from the elevator. Her face looked tired. Seeing them, she halted.

“Well?” she said listlessly. “I suppose you heard.”

Schilling said, “We heard from Bill Calumine, if that’s what you mean.”

“I mean,” Carol said, “about Luckman. Since I’ve already called the police. If you want to see, come downstairs.”

By the elevator, the three of them descended to the ground floor, and Carol led them to her car, parked behind Schilling’s and Pete’s at the curb.

“I discovered it in mid-flight,” she said woodenly, leaning against the hood of the car, hands in her coat pockets. “I was flying along and I happened to wonder if I’d left my purse at my old apartment, where I and my previous husband lived. I was there today, getting some things I had forgotten.”

Pete and Joe Schilling opened the door to her car.

“I switched on the dome light,’ Carol said. “And saw it. It must have been put in while I was parked at my old apartment, but it’s barely possible that it was done even earlier, when I was here this morning.” She added, “You can see that he—it—is way down on the floor, out of sight. I—touched it, trying to find my purse.” She was silent, then.

By the glare of the dome light, Pete saw the body jammed behind the front seats of the car. It was Luckman; no doubt
of it. Even in death, the round, plump-cheeked face was recognizable. It was not ruddy, now. It was, in the artificial light, a pulpy gray.

“I called the police at once,” Carol said, “and arranged to meet them here.” Sirens were now audible in the black sky above them, a long way off.

Facing the members of the group Pretty Blue Fox, Bill Calumine said, “Ladies and gentlemen, Jerome Luckman has been murdered and every one of us is a suspect. That’s the situation. There isn’t much more I can tell you at this time. Naturally, there will be no Game-playing tonight.”

Silvanus Angst giggled and said, “I don’t know who did it, but whoever it is—congratulations.” He laughed, waiting for the others to join in.