The Game-Players of Titan (11 page)

“Okay,” Pete said. He agreed.

“Shall we go there now?” Sharp said, putting his document
away in his briefcase and rising to his feet. “It’s only ten o’clock; we may be able to catch her before she goes to bed.”

Also standing up, Pete said, “There’s a problem. She has a husband. Whom I’ve never met. If you understand me.”

Sharp nodded. “I see.” He meditated. “Maybe she’d be willing to fly here to San Francisco; I’ll give her a call. If not, is there any other place you can think of?”

“Not your apartment,” Joe Schilling said. “Carol’s there.” He regarded Pete somberly. “I have a place now. You don’t remember, but you found it for me, in your present bind, San Anselmo. It’s about two miles from your own apartment. If you want, I’ll call Pat McClain; she no doubt remembers me. Both she and Al, her husband, have bought Jussi Bjoerling records from me. I’ll tell her to meet us at my apartment.”

“Fine,” Pete said.

Joe Schilling went to the vidphone in the back of the restaurant to call.

“He’s a nice guy,” Sharp said to Pete as they waited.

“Yes,” Pete agreed.

“Do you think he killed Luckman?”

Startled, Pete jerked his head, stared at his lawyer.

“Don’t become unglued,” Sharp said smoothly. “I was just curious.
You
are my client, Garden; as far as I’m professionally concerned, everyone else is a suspect over and above you, even Joe Schilling whom I’ve known for eighty-five years.”

“You’re a jerry?” Pete said, surprised. With such energy, Pete had assumed Sharp to be no more than forty or fifty.

“Yes,” Sharp said. “I’m a geriatric, like yourself. One hundred and fifteen years old.” He sat broodingly twisting a match folder up into a ball. “Schilling could have done it; he’s hated Luckman for years. You know the story of how Luckman reduced him to penury.”

“Then why did he wait until now?”

Glancing at him, Sharp said, “Schilling came out here to play Luckman again. Right? He was positive he could beat
Luckman if they ever tangled again; he’s been telling himself that all this time, ever since Lucky beat him. Maybe Joe got out here, all prepared to play for your group against Luckman, then lost his nerve … discovered at the last moment that when it came right down to it he
couldn’t
beat Luckman after all—or at least feared he couldn’t.”

“I see,” Pete said.

“So he was in an untenable position, committed to playing and beating Luckman, not merely for himself but for his friends … and he knew he simply could not do it. What other way out than to—” Sharp broke off; Joe Schilling was crossing the near-empty restaurant, returning to the table. “It’s a compelling theory, anyhow,” Sharp said, and turned to greet Joe Schilling.

“What’s an interesting theory?” Joe said, seating himself.

Sharp said, “The theory that a single enormously powerful agency is at work manipulating the minds of the members of Pretty Blue Fox, turning them into a corporate instrument of its will.”

“You put it a little grandiosely,” Joe said, “but in the main I feel that must be the case. As I said to Pete.”

“What did Pat McClain say?” Pete asked.

“She’ll meet us here,” Joe said. “So let’s have a second cup of coffee; it’ll take her another fifteen minutes. She had gone to bed.”

A half hour later Pat McClain, wearing a light trench coat, low-heeled slippers and slacks, entered the restaurant and walked toward their table. “Hello, Pete,” she said to him; she looked pale, and her eyes were unnaturally dilated. “Mr. Schilling.” She nodded to Joe. “And—” She studied Laird Sharp as she seated herself. “I’m a telepath, you know, Mr. Sharp. Yes, I read that you know; you’re Pete’s lawyer.”

Pete thought, I wonder how—if at all—Pat’s telepathic talent could assist me, at this point. I had no doubts about Sharp, and I don’t in any way, shape, or form accept his theory about Joe Schilling.

Glancing at him, Pat said, “I’ll do all I can to help you,
Pete.” Her voice was low but steady; she had herself under control; the panic of a few hours ago was gone. “You don’t remember anything that happened between us, this afternoon.”

“No,” he admitted.

“Well,” Pat said, “you and I got on astonishingly well, for two people who are married to someone else entirely.”

Sharp asked her, “Was there anything in Pete’s mind, when he met you this afternoon, about Lucky Luckman?”

“Yes,” she said. “A tremendous desire for Luckman’s death.”

“Then he didn’t know Luckman was dead,” Joe said.

“Is that correct?” Sharp asked her.

Pat nodded. “He was terribly afraid. He felt that—” She hesitated. “He felt that Luckman would beat Joe again, as he did years ago; Pete was going into a psychological fugue, a retreat from the whole situation regarding Luckman.”

“No plans to kill Luckman, I assume,” Sharp said.

“No,” Pat said.

“If it can be established that Luckman was dead by one-thirty,” Joe Schilling said, “wouldn’t that clear Pete?”

“Probably,” Sharp said. To Pat he said, “You’d testify to this in court?”

“Yes.” She nodded.

“Despite your husband.”

After a pause she again nodded.

Sharp said, “And would you let the telepaths of the police scan you?”

“Oh Christ,” she said, drawing back.

“Why not?” Sharp said. “You’re telling the truth, aren’t you?”

“Y-yes,” Pat said. “But—” She gestured. “There’s so much more, so many personal matters.”

Schilling said wryly, “Ironic. As a telepath she’s been scanning people’s private ruminations all her life. Now, when it’s a question of a telepath scanning her—”

“But you don’t understand!” Pat said.

“I understand,” Schilling said. “You and Pete had an assignation today; you’re having an affair. Correct? And your husband isn’t to know and Pete’s wife isn’t to know. But that’s the stuff life is made of; you know that perfectly well. If you allow the telepathic police to scan you, possibly you will save Pete’s life; isn’t that worth being scanned for? Or perhaps you’re not telling the truth, and they’d find out.”

“I’m telling the truth,” Pat said angrily, her eyes blazing. “But—I can’t allow the police telepaths to scan me and that’s that.” She turned to Pete. “I’m sorry. Maybe someday you’ll know why. It has nothing to do with you, or with my husband finding out. There really isn’t anything to find out anyhow; we met, walked, had lunch, then you left.”

Sharp said astutely, “Joe, this girl’s obviously mixed up in something extra-legal. If the police scan her she’s lost.”

Pat said nothing. But the expression on her face showed that it was so; the attorney was right.

What could she be involved with? Pete wondered. Strange … he would never have imagined it about her; Pat McClain seemed too withdrawn, too encapsulated.

“Maybe it’s a pose,” she said, picking up his thought.

Sharp said, “So we can’t get you to testify for Pete, even though it’s direct evidence that he did not know of Luckman’s death.” He eyed her intently.

“I heard on TV,” she said, “that Luckman is believed to have been killed sometime late today, near dinner time. So,” she gestured, “my testimony wouldn’t help anyhow.”

“Did you hear that?” Sharp said. “Odd. I listened, too, on the way here from New Mexico. And according to Nats Katz, the time of Luckman’s death had still to be established.”

There was silence.

“It’s too bad,” Sharp said acidly, “that we can’t read your mind, Mrs. McClain, as you can read ours. It might prove somewhat interesting.”

“That clown Nats Katz,” Pat said. “He’s not a newscaster anyhow; he’s a pop singer and disc jockey. He sometimes is
six hours behind in his so-called news briefs.” With steady fingers she got out a cigarette and lit up. “Go out and track down a news vendor; get a late edition of the
Chronicle.
It’s probably in that.”

Sharp said, “It doesn’t matter. Because in any case you won’t testify for my client.”

To Pete, she said, “Forgive me.”

“Hell,” Pete said, “if you won’t testify you won’t.” And anyhow he tended to believe her about the time of death having been established as late in the day.

“What sort of extra-legal activity would a pretty woman like you be mixed up in?” Sharp asked her.

Pat said nothing.

“It could be noised about,” Sharp pointed out to her. “And then the authorities would want to scan you whether you testify in this or not.”

“Let it drop,” Pete said to him.

Sharp glanced his way, shrugged. “Whatever you say.”

“Thank you, Pete,” Pat said. She sat smoking silently.

“I have a request,” Sharp said, after a time, “to make of you, Mrs. McClain. As you have probably already gleaned from Mr. Garden’s mind, five other members of Pretty Blue Fox have shown up with amnesia regarding the day’s activities.”

“Yes.” Pat nodded.

“Undoubtedly they will all be attempting to determine what they did and did not do today in the manner that Pete employed, checking with various Rushmore units and so on. Would you be willing to assist us by scanning these five people in the next day or so to determine what they’ve learned?”

“Why?” Joe said.

“I don’t know why,” Sharp answered. “And I won’t know until she gives us the information. But,” he hesitated, chewing his lower lip and scowling, “I’d like to find out if the paths of these six people intersected at any moment during the day. During the now-forgotten interval.”

“Give us your operational theory,” Joe said.

Sharp said, “It’s possible that all six acted in concert, as part of a complicated, far-reaching plan. They may have elaborated it some time in the past and had
that
removed by electroshock also.”

With a grimace Joe Schilling said, “But they didn’t know until just the other day that Lucky Luckman was coming out here.”

“The death of Luckman may be nothing more than a symptom of a greater strategy,” Sharp said. “His presence here may have spoiled the effective operation of this larger plan.” He eyed Pete. “What do you say to this?”

“I say you’ve got a theory much more ornate than the situation itself,” Pete said.

“Possibly,” Sharp said. “But evidently it was necessary to mentally blind six people today, when one would expect two or three to be sufficient. Two in addition to the murderer himself would have made prosecution difficult enough, I think. But I could be wrong; whoever is behind this may simply be playing it as cautious as he can.”

“The Master Game-player,” Pete said.

“Pardon?” Sharp said. “Oh yes. Bluff, the game Mrs. McClain can never play because she’s too talented. The Game that cost Joe Schilling his status and Luckman his life. Doesn’t this homicide make you a trifle less bitter, Mrs. McClain? Maybe you’re not so badly off, after all.”

“How did you know that?” Pat asked him. “About what you term my ‘bitterness.’ I’ve never seen you before tonight, have I? Or is my ‘bitterness’ that well-known?”

“It’s all in the briefcase,” Sharp said, patting the leather side of it. “The police got it from Pete’s mind.” He smiled at her. “Now let me ask you something, Mrs. McClain. As a Psi-person,
do you have contact with very many other Psi-individuals?”

“Sometimes,” Pat said.

“Do you know first hand the range of Psionic ability? For instance, we all know about the telepath, the pre-cog, the psycho-kinetic, but what about the rarer talents? For example,
is there a sub-variety of Psi which deals with the alteration of the contents of other people’s psyches? A sort of mental psycho-kinesis?”

Pat said, “Not—to my knowledge, no.”

“You understand my question.”

“Yes.” She nodded. “But to my knowledge, which is limited, no Psi talents exist which could explain the amnesia of the six members of Pretty Blue Fox nor the alteration in Bill Calumine’s mind regarding what Pete did or did not say to him.”

“You say your knowledge is limited.” Sharp scrutinized her as he spoke. “Then it’s not impossible that such a talent—and such a Psi-person—could exist.”

“Why would a Psionic individual want to kill Luckman?” Pat asked.

“Why would anyone want to?” Sharp said. “Obviously, someone did.”

“But someone in Pretty Blue Fox. They had reasons to.”

Sharp said quietly, “There is nothing in the make-up of the members of Pretty Blue Fox which would account for the capacity to cripple the memories of six people and alter the memory of a seventh.”

“Does such a capacity exist anywhere that you know of?” Pat asked him.

“Yes,” Sharp said. “During the war both sides used techniques of that sort. It goes all the way back to mid-twentieth-century Soviet brainwashing procedures.”

“Horrible,” Pat said with a shudder. “One of the worst periods in our history.”

At the door of the restaurant an automated news vending machine appeared, with a late edition of the
Chronicle.
Its Rushmore Effect bleated out, “Special coverage of the Luckman murder case.” The restaurant, except for their party, was empty; the news vending machine, being homotropic, headed toward them, still bleating. “The
Chronicle’s
own circuit investigates and discloses startling new details not
found in the
Examiner
or the
News Call-Bulletin.”
It waved the newspaper in their faces.

Getting out a coin, Sharp inserted it in the slot of the machine; it at once presented him with a copy of the paper and rolled back out of the restaurant, to hunt for more people.

“What does it say?” Pat asked, as Sharp read the lead article.

“You’re correct,” Sharp said, nodding. “Time of death believed to be late in the afternoon. Not too long before Mrs. Garden found the body in her car. So I owe you an apology.”

Joe Schilling said, “Maybe Pat’s also a pre-cog. The news wasn’t out yet when she told you that. She previewed this edition in advance of its release. How useful she’d be in the newspaper business.”

“Not very funny,” Pat said. “That’s one of the reasons why Psis become so cynical; we’re so mistrusted, no matter what we do.”

“Let’s go somewhere that we can get a drink,” Joe Schilling said. To Pete he said, “What’s a good bar in the Bay Area? You must know the situation around here; you’re a sophisticate, urbane and cosmopolitan.”