It was not a three. It was a four.
The group had won-not lost-$14,000. The vug, had failed to call the bluff.
"Astonishing," the vug said, presently, "that such a handicapping of your ability would actually enable you to win. That you should profit by it." It savagely drew a card, then shoved its piece ahead seven squares. Postman injured on your front walk. Protracted lawsuit settled out of court for the sum of $300,000.
Good god in heaven, Pete thought. It was a sum so staggering that The Game certainly hinged on it. He scrutinized the vug, as everyone else in Pretty Blue Fox was doing, trying to discover some indication. Was it bluffing or was it not?
If we had one single telepath, he thought bitterly. If only—
But they could never have had Patricia, and Hawthorne was dead. And, had they possessed a telepath, the vug authority would undoubtedly have summoned up some system of neutralizing it, just as they had neutralized its telepathic factor; that was obvious. "Both sides had played The Game too long to be snared as simply as that; both were prepared.
If we lose, Pete said to himself, I will kill myself before I let myself fall into the hands of the Titanians. He reached into his pocket, wondering what he had there. Only a couple of methamphetamines, perhaps left over from his luck-binge.
How long ago had it been? One day? Two? It seemed like months ago, now. Another world away.
Methamphetamine hydrochloride.
On his binge it had made him temporarily into an involuntary telepath; a meager one, bat to a decisive degree. Methamphetamine was a thalamic stimulator; its effect was precisely the opposite from that of the phenothiazines.
He thought, Yes!
Without water he managed—gagging—to gulp down the two small pink methamphetamine tablets.
"Wait," he said hoarsely to the group. "Listen; I want to make the decision on this play. Wait!" They would wait at least ten minutes he knew for the methamphetamine to take effect.
The vug said, "There is cheating on your side. One member of your group has ingested drug-stimulants."
At once, Joe Schilling said, "You previously accepted the phenothiazine class; in principle you accepted the use of medication in this Game."
"But I am not prepared to deal with a telepathic faculty emanating from your side," the vug protested. "I scanned your group initially and saw none in evidence. And no plan to obtain such a faculty."
Joe Schilling said, "That appears to have been an acute error on your part." He turned to watch Pete; all the members of Pretty Blue Fox were watching Pete, now. "Well?" Joe asked him, tensely.
Pete Garden sat waiting, fists clenched, for the drug to take effect.
Five minutes passed. No one spoke. The only sound was Joe Schilling drawing on his cigar.
"Pete," Bill Calumine said abruptly, "we can't wait any longer. We can't stand the strain."
"That's true," Joe Schilling said. His face was wet and florid, shiny with perspiration; now his cigar had gone out, too. "Make your decision. Even if it's the wrong one."
Mary Anne said, "Pete! The vug is attempting to shift the value of its card!"
"Then it was a bluff," Pete said, instantly. It had to be, or
the vug would have left the value strictly alone. To the vug he said, "We call your bluff."
The vug did not stir. And then, at last, it turned over the card.
The card was a six.
It had been a bluff.
Pete said, "It gave itself away. And," he was shaking wildly, "the amphetamines didn't help me and the vug can tell that it can read my mind, so I'm happy to say it aloud. It turned out to be a bluff on our part, on my part. I didn't have enough of the amphetamines and there wasn't any alcohol to speak of in my system. It was not successfully developing a telepathic faculty in my system; I wouldn't have been able to call it. But I had no way of knowing that."
The vug, palpitating and a dark slate color, now, bill by bill paid over the sum of $300,000 to Pretty Blue Fox.
The group was extremely close to winning The Game. They knew it and the vug opposing them knew it. It did not have to be said.
Joe Schilling murmured, "If it hadn't lost its nerve—" With trembling fingers he managed to relight his cigar. "It would at least have had a fifty-fifty chance. First it got greedy and then it got scared." He smiled at the members of the group on both sides of him. "A bad combination, in Bluff." His voice was low, intense. "It was the combination in me, many years ago, that helped wipe me out. In my final play against Bindman Lucky Luckman."
The vug said, "It seemed to me that I have, for all intents and purposes, lost this Game against you Terrans."
"You don't intend to continue?" Joe Schilling demanded, removing his cigar from his lips and scrutinizing the vug; he had himself completely under control. His face was hard.
To him, the vug said, "Yes, I intend to continue."
Everything burst in Pete Garden's face; the board dissolved and he felt dreadful pain and at the same time he knew what had happened. The vug had given up, and in its agony it intended to destroy them, along with it. It was continuing—but in another dimension. Another context entirely.
And they were here with it, on Titan. On its world, not their own.
Their luck had been bad in that respect. Decisively so.
XVII
MARY ANNE'S VOICE reached him, coolly and placidly. "It's attempting to manipulate reality, Pete. Using the faculty by which it brought us to Titan. Shall I do what I can?"
"Yes," he grated. He could not see her; he lay in darkness, in a darkened pool which was not the presence of matter around him but its absence. Where are the others? he wondered. Scattered, everywhere. Perhaps over millions of miles of vacant, meaningless space. And—over millenniums.
There was silence.
"Mary," he said aloud.
No answer.
"Mary!" he shouted in desperation, scratching at the darkness. "Are you gone, too?" He listened. There was no response.
And then he heard something, or rather felt it. In the darkness, some living entity was probing in his direction. Some sensory extension of it, a device feeling its way; it was aware of him. Curious about him in a dim, limited, but shrewd, way.
Something even older than the vug against which they had played.
He thought, It's something that lives here between the worlds. Between the layers of reality which make up our experience, ours and the vugs'. Get away from me, he thought. He tried to scramble, to move rapidly or at least repel it.
The creature, interested even more now, came closer.
"Joe Schilling," he called. "Help me!"
"I am Joe Schilling," the creature said. And it made its
way toward him urgently, now, unwinding and extending itself greedily. "Greed and fear," it said. "A bad combination."
"The hell you're Joe Schilling," he said in terror; he slapped at it, twisting, trying to roll away.
"But greed alone," the thing continued, "is not so bad; it's the prime motivating pressure of the self-system. Psychologically speaking."
Pete Garden shut his eyes. "God in heaven," he said. It was Joe Schilling. What had the vugs done to him?
What had he and Joe become, out here in the darkness?
Or had the vugs done this? Was it, instead, just showing them this?
He bent forward, found his foot, began feverishly to unlace his shoe; he took off the shoe and, reaching back, clouted the thing, Joe Schilling, as hard as he could with it.
"Hmmm," the thing said. "I'll have to mull this over." And it withdrew.