The Game-Players of Titan - By Philip K. Dick Page 0,1

Freya,” Clem said. “You’re a refreshing person; you make it obvious you don’t like me.” He did not seem bothered; oafs like Clem Gaines never were. “Let’s go somewhere, Freya, and find out right away if luckwise you and I—” He broke off, because a vug had come into the room.

Jean Blau, putting on her coat, groaned, “Look, it wants to be friendly. They always do.” She backed away from it.

Her husband, Jack Blau, looked about for the group’s vug-stick. “I’ll poke it a couple of times and it’ll go away,” he said.

“No,” Freya protested. “It’s not doing any harm.”

“She’s right,” Silvanus Angst said; he was at the sideboard, preparing himself a last drink. “Just pour a little salt on it.” He giggled.

The vug seemed to have singled out Clem Gaines. It likes you, Freya thought. Maybe you can go somewhere with it, instead of me.

But that was not fair to Clem, because none of them consorted with their former adversaries; it was just not done, despite the efforts by the Titanians to heal the old rift of wartime dislike. They were a silicon-based life form, rather than carbon-based; their cycle was slow, and involved methane rather than oxygen as the metabolic catalyst. And they were bisexual … which was a rather non-B system indeed.

“Poke it,” Bill Calumine said to Jack Blau.

With the vug-stick, Jack prodded the jelly-like cytoplasm of the vug. “Go home,” he told it sharply. He grinned at Bill Calumine. “Maybe we can have some fun with it. Let’s try to draw it into conversation. Hey, vuggy. You like make talk-talk?”

At once, eagerly, the Titanian’s thoughts came to them, addressed to all the humans in the condominium apartment. “Any pregnancies reported? If so, our medical facilities are available and we urge you to—”

“Listen, vuggy,” Bill Calumine said, “if we have any luck we’ll keep it to ourselves. It’s bad luck to tell you; everybody knows that. How come you don’t know that?”

“It knows it,” Silvanus Angst said. “It just doesn’t like to think about it.”

“Well, it’s time the vugs faced reality,” Jack Blau said. “We don’t like them and that’s it. Come on,” he said to his wife. “Let’s go home.” Impatiently, he waved Jean toward him.

The various members of the group filed out of the room and down the front steps of the building to their parked cars. Freya found herself left with the vug.

“There have been no pregnancies in our group,” she told the vug, answering its question.

“Tragic,” the vug thought back in response.

“But there will be,” Freya said. “I know we’ll have luck, soon.”

“Why is your particular group so hostile to us?” the vug asked.

Freya said, “Why, we hold you responsible for our sterility; you know that.” Especially our spinner Bill Calumine does, she thought.

“But it was your military weapon,” the vug protested. “No, not ours. The Red Chinese.” The vug did not grasp the distinction. “In any case we are doing all we can to—” “I don’t want to discuss it,” Freya said. “Please.” “Let us help,” the vug begged.

She said to it, “Go to hell.” And left the apartment, striding down the stairs to the street and her car.

The cold, dark night air of Carmel, California revived her; she took a deep breath, glanced up at the stars, smelled the freshness, the clean new scents. To her car she said, “Open the door; I want to get in.”

“Yes, Mrs. Garden.” The car door swung open.

“I’m not Mrs. Garden anymore; I’m Mrs. Gaines.” She entered, seated herself at the manual tiller. “Try to keep it straight.”

“Yes, Mrs. Gaines.” As soon as she put the key in, the motor started up.

“Has Pete Garden already left?” She scanned the gloomy street and did not see Pete’s car. “I guess he has.” She felt sad. It would have been nice to sit out here under the stars, so late at night, and chat a little. It would be as if they were still married … damn The Game, she thought, and its spins. Damn luck itself, bad luck; that’s all we seem to have, anymore. We’re a marked race.

She held her wrist watch to her ear and it said in its tiny voice, “Two-fifteen A.M., Mrs. Garden.”

“Mrs. Gaines,” she grated.

“Two-fifteen A.M., Mrs. Gaines.”

How many people, she wondered, are alive on the face of Earth at this moment? One million? Two million? How many groups, playing The Game? Surely no more than a few hundred thousand. And every time there was a fatal accident, the population decreased