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The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Big Fix
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
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Title: The Big Fix
Author: George O. Smith
Illustrator: Bernklau
Release date: November 23, 2007 [eBook #23599]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/23599
Credits: Produced by Greg Weeks, Bruce Albrecht, Stephen Blundell
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BIG FIX
***
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of
the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will
have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using
this eBook.
Title: The Big Fix
Author: George O. Smith
Illustrator: Bernklau
Release date: November 23, 2007 [eBook #23599]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/23599
Credits: Produced by Greg Weeks, Bruce Albrecht, Stephen Blundell
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BIG FIX
***
Page 4
Illustrated by Bernklau
THE
BIG FIX
THE
BIG FIX
Page 5
BY GEORGE O. SMITH
Anyone who holds that telepathy and psi
powers would mean an end to crime quite
obviously underestimates the ingenuity of
the human race. Now consider a horserace
that had to be fixed ...
T WAS April, a couple of weeks before the Derby. We were playing
poker, which is a game of skill that has nothing to do with the
velocity of horse meat.
Phil Howland kept slipping open but he managed to close up before I could
tell whether the combination of Three-Five-Two-Four meant a full house of
fives over fours or whether he was betting on an open-ended straight that he
hadn't bothered to arrange in order as he held them. The Greek was
impenetrable; he also blocked me from reading the deck so that I could
estimate his hand from the cards that weren't dealt out. Chicago Charlie's
mind was easy to read but no one could trust him. He was just as apt to
think high to score someone out as he was to think low to suck the boys in.
As for me, there I was, good old Wally Wilson, holding a pat straight flush
from the eight to the queen of diamonds. I was thinking "full house" but I
was betting like a weak three of a kind.
It was a terrific game. Between trying to read into these other guy's brains
and keeping them from opening mine, and blocking the Greek's sly stunt of
tipping over the poker chips as a distraction, I was also concerned about the
eight thousand bucks that was in the pot. The trouble was that all four of us
fully intended to rake it in. My straight flush would be good for the works
in any normal game with wild cards, but the way this bunch was betting I
couldn't be sure. Phil Howland didn't have much of a shield but he could
really read, and if he read me—either my mind or my hand—he'd
automatically radiate and that would be that.
Anyone who holds that telepathy and psi
powers would mean an end to crime quite
obviously underestimates the ingenuity of
the human race. Now consider a horserace
that had to be fixed ...
T WAS April, a couple of weeks before the Derby. We were playing
poker, which is a game of skill that has nothing to do with the
velocity of horse meat.
Phil Howland kept slipping open but he managed to close up before I could
tell whether the combination of Three-Five-Two-Four meant a full house of
fives over fours or whether he was betting on an open-ended straight that he
hadn't bothered to arrange in order as he held them. The Greek was
impenetrable; he also blocked me from reading the deck so that I could
estimate his hand from the cards that weren't dealt out. Chicago Charlie's
mind was easy to read but no one could trust him. He was just as apt to
think high to score someone out as he was to think low to suck the boys in.
As for me, there I was, good old Wally Wilson, holding a pat straight flush
from the eight to the queen of diamonds. I was thinking "full house" but I
was betting like a weak three of a kind.
It was a terrific game. Between trying to read into these other guy's brains
and keeping them from opening mine, and blocking the Greek's sly stunt of
tipping over the poker chips as a distraction, I was also concerned about the
eight thousand bucks that was in the pot. The trouble was that all four of us
fully intended to rake it in. My straight flush would be good for the works
in any normal game with wild cards, but the way this bunch was betting I
couldn't be sure. Phil Howland didn't have much of a shield but he could
really read, and if he read me—either my mind or my hand—he'd
automatically radiate and that would be that.
Page 6
I was about at the point of calling for the draw when the door opened
without any knock. It was Tomboy Taylor. We'd been so engrossed with one
another that none of us had caught her approach.
The Greek looked up at her and swore something that he hadn't read in
Plato. "Showdown," he said, tossing in his hand.
I grunted and spread my five beauties.
Phil growled and shoved the pot in my direction, keeping both eyes on
Tomboy Taylor.
She was something to keep eyes on, both figuratively and literally. The only
thing that kept her from being a thionite dream was the Pittsburgh stogie
that she insisted upon smoking, and the only thing that kept her from being
some man's companion in spite of the stogie was the fact that he'd have to
keep his mouth shut or she'd steal his back teeth—if not for fillings, then for
practice.
"You, Wally Wilson," she said around the cigar, "get these grifters out of
here. I got words."
The Greek growled. "Who says?"
"Barcelona says."
I do not have to explain who Barcelona is. All I have to say is that Phil
Howland, The Greek, and Chicago Charlie arose without a word and filed
out with their minds all held tight behind solid shields.
I said, "What does Barcelona want with me?"
Tomboy Taylor removed the stogie and said evenly, "Barcelona wants to see
it Flying Heels, Moonbeam, and Lady Grace next month."
When I got done gulping I said, "You mean Barcelona wants me to fix the
Kentucky Derby?"
without any knock. It was Tomboy Taylor. We'd been so engrossed with one
another that none of us had caught her approach.
The Greek looked up at her and swore something that he hadn't read in
Plato. "Showdown," he said, tossing in his hand.
I grunted and spread my five beauties.
Phil growled and shoved the pot in my direction, keeping both eyes on
Tomboy Taylor.
She was something to keep eyes on, both figuratively and literally. The only
thing that kept her from being a thionite dream was the Pittsburgh stogie
that she insisted upon smoking, and the only thing that kept her from being
some man's companion in spite of the stogie was the fact that he'd have to
keep his mouth shut or she'd steal his back teeth—if not for fillings, then for
practice.
"You, Wally Wilson," she said around the cigar, "get these grifters out of
here. I got words."
The Greek growled. "Who says?"
"Barcelona says."
I do not have to explain who Barcelona is. All I have to say is that Phil
Howland, The Greek, and Chicago Charlie arose without a word and filed
out with their minds all held tight behind solid shields.
I said, "What does Barcelona want with me?"
Tomboy Taylor removed the stogie and said evenly, "Barcelona wants to see
it Flying Heels, Moonbeam, and Lady Grace next month."
When I got done gulping I said, "You mean Barcelona wants me to fix the
Kentucky Derby?"
Page 7
"Oh no," she replied in a very throaty contralto that went with her figure
and her thousand dollars worth of simple skirt and blouse. "You needn't
'Fix' anything. Just be sure that it's Flying Heels, Moonbeam, and Lady
Grace in that order. One, two, three. Do I make Barcelona quite clear?"
I said, "Look, Tomboy, neither of them platers can even run that far, let
alone running ahead."
"Barcelona says they can. And will." She leaned forward and stubbed out
the Pittsburgh stogie and in the gesture she became wholly beautiful as well
as beautifully wholesome. As she leaned toward me she unfogged the
lighter surface of her mind and let me dig the faintly-leaking concept that
she considered me physically attractive. This did not offend me. To the
contrary it pleased my ego mightily until Tomboy Taylor deliberately let the
barrier down to let me read the visual impression—which included all of
the implications contained in the old cliché: "... And don't he look
nacheral?"
"How," I asked on the recoil, "can I fix the Derby?"
"Barcelona says you know more about the horse racing business than any
other big time operator in Chicago," she said smoothly. "Barcelona says that
he doesn't know anything about horse racing at all, but he has great faith in
your ability. Barcelona says that if anybody can make it Flying Heels,
Moonbeam, and Lady Grace, one, two, and three, Wally Wilson is the man
who can do it. In fact, Barcelona will be terribly disappointed if you can't."
I eyed her carefully. She was a composed and poised beauty who looked
entirely incapable of uttering such words. I tried to peer into her mind but it
was like trying to read the fine print of a telephone directory through a
knitted woolen shawl. She smiled at me, her shapely lips curving
graciously.
I said, "Barcelona seems to have a lot of confidence in my ability to arrange
things."
With those delicate lips still curved sweetly, she said, "Barcelona is willing
to bet money on your ability as a manager."
and her thousand dollars worth of simple skirt and blouse. "You needn't
'Fix' anything. Just be sure that it's Flying Heels, Moonbeam, and Lady
Grace in that order. One, two, three. Do I make Barcelona quite clear?"
I said, "Look, Tomboy, neither of them platers can even run that far, let
alone running ahead."
"Barcelona says they can. And will." She leaned forward and stubbed out
the Pittsburgh stogie and in the gesture she became wholly beautiful as well
as beautifully wholesome. As she leaned toward me she unfogged the
lighter surface of her mind and let me dig the faintly-leaking concept that
she considered me physically attractive. This did not offend me. To the
contrary it pleased my ego mightily until Tomboy Taylor deliberately let the
barrier down to let me read the visual impression—which included all of
the implications contained in the old cliché: "... And don't he look
nacheral?"
"How," I asked on the recoil, "can I fix the Derby?"
"Barcelona says you know more about the horse racing business than any
other big time operator in Chicago," she said smoothly. "Barcelona says that
he doesn't know anything about horse racing at all, but he has great faith in
your ability. Barcelona says that if anybody can make it Flying Heels,
Moonbeam, and Lady Grace, one, two, and three, Wally Wilson is the man
who can do it. In fact, Barcelona will be terribly disappointed if you can't."
I eyed her carefully. She was a composed and poised beauty who looked
entirely incapable of uttering such words. I tried to peer into her mind but it
was like trying to read the fine print of a telephone directory through a
knitted woolen shawl. She smiled at me, her shapely lips curving
graciously.
I said, "Barcelona seems to have a lot of confidence in my ability to arrange
things."
With those delicate lips still curved sweetly, she said, "Barcelona is willing
to bet money on your ability as a manager."
Page 8
At this point Tomboy Taylor fished another Pittsburgh stogie out of her
hundred dollar handbag, bit off the end with a quick nibble of even, pearly-
white teeth, and stuffed the cigar in between the arched lips. She scratched a
big kitchen match on the seat of her skirt after raising one shapely thigh to
stretch the cloth. She puffed the stogie into light and became transformed
from a beauty into a hag. My mind swore; it was like painting a mustache
on the Mona Lisa.
Out of the corner of her mouth she replied to my unspoken question: "It
helps to keep grippers like you at mind's length."
Then she left me alone with my littered card table and the eight thousand
buck final pot—and the unhappy recollection that Barcelona had gotten
upset at something Harold Grimmer had done, and he'd gone into
Grimmer's place and busted Grimmer flat by starting with one lousy buck
and letting it ride through eighteen straight passes. This feat of skill was
performed under the mental noses of about eight operators trained to exert
their extrasensory talents toward the defeat of sharpshooters who tried to
add paraphysics to the laws of chance.
Lieutenant Delancey of the Chicago police came in an hour later. He
refused my offer of a drink, and a smoke, and then because I didn't wave
him to a chair he crossed my living room briskly and eased himself into my
favorite chair. I think I could have won the waiting game but the prize
wasn't good enough to interest me in playing. So I said, "O.K., lieutenant,
what am I supposed to be guilty of?"
His smile was veiled. "You're not guilty of anything, so far as I know."
"You're not here to pass the time of day."
"No, I'm not. I want information."
"What kind of information?"
"One hears things," he said vaguely.
hundred dollar handbag, bit off the end with a quick nibble of even, pearly-
white teeth, and stuffed the cigar in between the arched lips. She scratched a
big kitchen match on the seat of her skirt after raising one shapely thigh to
stretch the cloth. She puffed the stogie into light and became transformed
from a beauty into a hag. My mind swore; it was like painting a mustache
on the Mona Lisa.
Out of the corner of her mouth she replied to my unspoken question: "It
helps to keep grippers like you at mind's length."
Then she left me alone with my littered card table and the eight thousand
buck final pot—and the unhappy recollection that Barcelona had gotten
upset at something Harold Grimmer had done, and he'd gone into
Grimmer's place and busted Grimmer flat by starting with one lousy buck
and letting it ride through eighteen straight passes. This feat of skill was
performed under the mental noses of about eight operators trained to exert
their extrasensory talents toward the defeat of sharpshooters who tried to
add paraphysics to the laws of chance.
Lieutenant Delancey of the Chicago police came in an hour later. He
refused my offer of a drink, and a smoke, and then because I didn't wave
him to a chair he crossed my living room briskly and eased himself into my
favorite chair. I think I could have won the waiting game but the prize
wasn't good enough to interest me in playing. So I said, "O.K., lieutenant,
what am I supposed to be guilty of?"
His smile was veiled. "You're not guilty of anything, so far as I know."
"You're not here to pass the time of day."
"No, I'm not. I want information."
"What kind of information?"
"One hears things," he said vaguely.
Page 9
"Lieutenant," I said, "you've been watching one of those halluscene
whodunit dramas where everybody stands around making witty sayings
composed of disconnected phrases. You'll next be saying 'Evil Lurks In The
Minds Of Men,' in a sepulchral intonation. Let's skip it, huh? What kind of
things does one hear and from whom?"
"It starts with Gimpy Gordon."
"Whose mind meanders."
He shrugged. "Gimpy Gordon's meandering mind is well understood for
what it is," he said. "But when it ceases to meander long enough to follow a
single train of thought from beginning to logical end, then something is up."
"Such as what, for instance."
The lieutenant leaned back in my easy-chair and stared at the ceiling.
"Wally," he said, "I was relaxing in the car with Sergeant Holliday driving.
We passed a certain area on Michigan near Randolph and I caught the
strong mental impression of someone who—in this day and age, mind you
—had had the temerity to pickpocket a wallet containing twenty-seven
dollars. The sum of twenty-seven dollars was connected with the fact that
the rewards made the risk worth taking; there were distinct impressions of
playing that twenty-seven bucks across the board on three very especial
nags at the Derby. The impression of the twenty-seven bucks changed into a
mental vision of a hand holding a sack of peanuts. There was indecision.
Should he take more risk and run up his available cash to make a larger
killing, or would one Joseph Barcelona take a stand-offish attitude if some
outsider were to lower the track odds by betting a bundle on Flying Heels,
Moonbeam, and Lady Grace."
I said, "Lieutenant, you've a pickpocket to jug. Horse betting is legal."
"Since wagering on the speed of a horse has been redefined as 'The
purchase of one corporate share to be valid for one transaction only and
redeemable at a par value to be established by the outcome of this aforesaid
single transaction,' horse betting is legal. This makes you an 'Investment
Counselor, short-term transactions only,' and removes from you the odious
nomenclature of 'Bookie.' However, permit me to point out that the buying
whodunit dramas where everybody stands around making witty sayings
composed of disconnected phrases. You'll next be saying 'Evil Lurks In The
Minds Of Men,' in a sepulchral intonation. Let's skip it, huh? What kind of
things does one hear and from whom?"
"It starts with Gimpy Gordon."
"Whose mind meanders."
He shrugged. "Gimpy Gordon's meandering mind is well understood for
what it is," he said. "But when it ceases to meander long enough to follow a
single train of thought from beginning to logical end, then something is up."
"Such as what, for instance."
The lieutenant leaned back in my easy-chair and stared at the ceiling.
"Wally," he said, "I was relaxing in the car with Sergeant Holliday driving.
We passed a certain area on Michigan near Randolph and I caught the
strong mental impression of someone who—in this day and age, mind you
—had had the temerity to pickpocket a wallet containing twenty-seven
dollars. The sum of twenty-seven dollars was connected with the fact that
the rewards made the risk worth taking; there were distinct impressions of
playing that twenty-seven bucks across the board on three very especial
nags at the Derby. The impression of the twenty-seven bucks changed into a
mental vision of a hand holding a sack of peanuts. There was indecision.
Should he take more risk and run up his available cash to make a larger
killing, or would one Joseph Barcelona take a stand-offish attitude if some
outsider were to lower the track odds by betting a bundle on Flying Heels,
Moonbeam, and Lady Grace."
I said, "Lieutenant, you've a pickpocket to jug. Horse betting is legal."
"Since wagering on the speed of a horse has been redefined as 'The
purchase of one corporate share to be valid for one transaction only and
redeemable at a par value to be established by the outcome of this aforesaid
single transaction,' horse betting is legal. This makes you an 'Investment
Counselor, short-term transactions only,' and removes from you the odious
nomenclature of 'Bookie.' However, permit me to point out that the buying
Page 10
and selling of shares of horseflesh does not grant a license to manipulate the
outcome."
"You sound as though you're accusing me of contemplating a fix."
"Oh no. Not that."
"Then what?"
"Wally, Flying Heels, Moonbeam, and Lady Grace were refused by the
National Association Of Dog Food Canners because of their substandard
health. If I'm not mistaken, the Derby Association should have to run the
race early that Saturday afternoon."
"Early?"
"Uh-huh. Early. Y'see, Wally, the blue laws of the blue grass state make it
illegal to run horseraces on Sunday, hence the start of the Derby must be
early enough to let our three platers complete the race before midnight."
"Lieutenant, there still stands a mathematical probability that—"
"That the rest of the field will catch the Martian Glanders as they lead our
three dogs past the clubhouse turn?"
"Lieutenant, you are wronging me."
"I haven't said a thing."
"Then why have you come here to bedevil me, lieutenant? If Barcelona has
ideas of arranging a fix—"
"If Barcelona has such notions, Wally Wilson would know about it."
"Everybody," I said, "entertains notions of cleaning up a bundle by having
the hundred-to-one shot come in by a length. Even Barcelona must have
wild dreams now and then—"
"Come off it," he snapped. "Something's up and I want to know what's
cooking."
outcome."
"You sound as though you're accusing me of contemplating a fix."
"Oh no. Not that."
"Then what?"
"Wally, Flying Heels, Moonbeam, and Lady Grace were refused by the
National Association Of Dog Food Canners because of their substandard
health. If I'm not mistaken, the Derby Association should have to run the
race early that Saturday afternoon."
"Early?"
"Uh-huh. Early. Y'see, Wally, the blue laws of the blue grass state make it
illegal to run horseraces on Sunday, hence the start of the Derby must be
early enough to let our three platers complete the race before midnight."
"Lieutenant, there still stands a mathematical probability that—"
"That the rest of the field will catch the Martian Glanders as they lead our
three dogs past the clubhouse turn?"
"Lieutenant, you are wronging me."
"I haven't said a thing."
"Then why have you come here to bedevil me, lieutenant? If Barcelona has
ideas of arranging a fix—"
"If Barcelona has such notions, Wally Wilson would know about it."
"Everybody," I said, "entertains notions of cleaning up a bundle by having
the hundred-to-one shot come in by a length. Even Barcelona must have
wild dreams now and then—"
"Come off it," he snapped. "Something's up and I want to know what's
cooking."
Page 11
"Lieutenant, you're now asking me to describe to you how someone might
rig the Kentucky Derby in a world full of expert telepaths and perceptives
and manipulators, a large number of which will be rather well-paid to lend
their extrasensory power to the process of keeping the Derby pure."
He eyed me sourly. "Remember, 'Fireman' O'Leary?"
"That's an unfair allegation," I replied. "The rumor that he started the
Chicago Fire is absolutely unfounded."
"As I recall, 'Fireman' O'Leary came by his nickname about one hundred
years after the holocaust that started on DeKoven Street in 1871. It seems
that 'Fireman' O'Leary was most useful in helping the fillies home at
Washington Park by assaulting them in the region of the bangtail with small
bollops of pure incandescence. He was a pyrotic."
"That is a false accusation—"
"It was never proved," admitted the lieutenant, "because any one who
accused anybody of making use of extrasensory faculties in 1971 would
have been tossed into that establishment out on Narragansett Avenue where
the headshrinkers once plied their mystic trade."
"Things are different now."
"Indeed they are, Wally. Which is why I'm here. No one but a fumbling
idiot would try anything as crude as speeding a dog over the line by
pyrotics or by jolting the animals with a bolt of electrical energy."
"So—?"
"So considering the sad and sorry fact that human nature does not change
very much despite the vast possibility for improvement, we must anticipate
a fix that has been contrived and executed on a level that takes full
cognizance of the widespread presence of psi-function."
"But again, why me?"
"Was not 'Fireman' O'Leary an ancestor of yours?"
"He was my maternal grandparent."
rig the Kentucky Derby in a world full of expert telepaths and perceptives
and manipulators, a large number of which will be rather well-paid to lend
their extrasensory power to the process of keeping the Derby pure."
He eyed me sourly. "Remember, 'Fireman' O'Leary?"
"That's an unfair allegation," I replied. "The rumor that he started the
Chicago Fire is absolutely unfounded."
"As I recall, 'Fireman' O'Leary came by his nickname about one hundred
years after the holocaust that started on DeKoven Street in 1871. It seems
that 'Fireman' O'Leary was most useful in helping the fillies home at
Washington Park by assaulting them in the region of the bangtail with small
bollops of pure incandescence. He was a pyrotic."
"That is a false accusation—"
"It was never proved," admitted the lieutenant, "because any one who
accused anybody of making use of extrasensory faculties in 1971 would
have been tossed into that establishment out on Narragansett Avenue where
the headshrinkers once plied their mystic trade."
"Things are different now."
"Indeed they are, Wally. Which is why I'm here. No one but a fumbling
idiot would try anything as crude as speeding a dog over the line by
pyrotics or by jolting the animals with a bolt of electrical energy."
"So—?"
"So considering the sad and sorry fact that human nature does not change
very much despite the vast possibility for improvement, we must anticipate
a fix that has been contrived and executed on a level that takes full
cognizance of the widespread presence of psi-function."
"But again, why me?"
"Was not 'Fireman' O'Leary an ancestor of yours?"
"He was my maternal grandparent."
Page 12
"And so you do indeed come from a long line of horse operators, don't
you?"
"I resent your invidious implications."
"And wasn't 'Wireless' Wilson the paternal ancestor from whom the family
name has come?"
"I fail to see ... the allegation that my father's father employed telepathy to
transmit track information faster than the wire services has never been
proved."
He smiled knowingly. "Wally," he said slowly, "if you feel that allegations
have somehow impugned the pure name of your family, you could apply for
a review of their several appearances in court. It's possible that 'Fireman'
O'Leary did not use his pyrotic talent to enhance the running speed of some
tired old dogs."
"But—"
"So I think we understand one another, Wally. There is also reason to
believe that psionic talent tends to run in families. You're a psi-man and a
good one."
"If I hear of anything—"
"You'll let me know," he said flatly. "And if Flying Heels, Moonbeam, and-
or Lady Grace even so much as succeed in staying on their feet for the
whole race, I'll be back demanding to know how you—Wally Wilson—
managed to hold them up!"
After which the good Lieutenant Delancey left me to my thoughts—which
were most uncomfortable.
Barcelona had to be kept cheerful. But the dogs he'd picked could only
come in first unassisted if they happened to be leading the field that started
the next race, and even then the post time would have to be delayed to give
them a longer head start. That meant that if our three platers came awake,
everybody would be looking for the fix.
Anybody who planned a caper would sure have to plan it well.
you?"
"I resent your invidious implications."
"And wasn't 'Wireless' Wilson the paternal ancestor from whom the family
name has come?"
"I fail to see ... the allegation that my father's father employed telepathy to
transmit track information faster than the wire services has never been
proved."
He smiled knowingly. "Wally," he said slowly, "if you feel that allegations
have somehow impugned the pure name of your family, you could apply for
a review of their several appearances in court. It's possible that 'Fireman'
O'Leary did not use his pyrotic talent to enhance the running speed of some
tired old dogs."
"But—"
"So I think we understand one another, Wally. There is also reason to
believe that psionic talent tends to run in families. You're a psi-man and a
good one."
"If I hear of anything—"
"You'll let me know," he said flatly. "And if Flying Heels, Moonbeam, and-
or Lady Grace even so much as succeed in staying on their feet for the
whole race, I'll be back demanding to know how you—Wally Wilson—
managed to hold them up!"
After which the good Lieutenant Delancey left me to my thoughts—which
were most uncomfortable.
Barcelona had to be kept cheerful. But the dogs he'd picked could only
come in first unassisted if they happened to be leading the field that started
the next race, and even then the post time would have to be delayed to give
them a longer head start. That meant that if our three platers came awake,
everybody would be looking for the fix.
Anybody who planned a caper would sure have to plan it well.
Page 13
Barcelona hadn't planned the fix, he merely stated a firm desire and either
Barcelona got what he wanted or I got what I didn't want, and I had to do it
real good or Delancey would make it real hot for me.
I was not only being forced to enter a life of crime, I was also being forced
to perform cleverly.
It wasn't fair for the law to gang up with the crooks against me.
And so with a mind feeling sort of like the famous sparrow who'd gotten
trapped for three hours in a badminton game at Forest Hills, I built a strong
highball, and poured it down while my halluscene set was warming up. I
needed the highball as well as the relaxation, because I knew that the
"Drama" being presented was the hundred and umpty-umpth remake of
"Tarzan of the Apes" and for ninety solid minutes I would be swinging
through trees without benefit of alcohol. Tarzan, you'll remember, did not
learn to smoke and drink until the second book.
The halluscene did relax me and kept my mind from its worry even though
the drama was cast for kids and therefore contained a maximum of tree-
swinging and ape-gymnastics and a near dearth of Lady Jane's pleasant
company. What was irritating was the traces of wrong aroma. If one should
not associate the African jungle with the aroma of a cheap bar, one should
be forgiven for objecting to Lady Jane with a strong flavor of tobacco and
cheap booze on her breath.
And so I awoke with this irritating conflict in my senses to discover that I'd
dropped out of my character as Tarzan and my surroundings of the jungle,
but I'd somehow brought the stench of cheap liquor and moist cigarettes
with me.
There was an occupant in the chair next to mine. He needed a bath and he
needed a shave but both would have been wasted if he couldn't change his
clothing, too. His name was Gimpy Gordon.
I said, "Get out!"
Barcelona got what he wanted or I got what I didn't want, and I had to do it
real good or Delancey would make it real hot for me.
I was not only being forced to enter a life of crime, I was also being forced
to perform cleverly.
It wasn't fair for the law to gang up with the crooks against me.
And so with a mind feeling sort of like the famous sparrow who'd gotten
trapped for three hours in a badminton game at Forest Hills, I built a strong
highball, and poured it down while my halluscene set was warming up. I
needed the highball as well as the relaxation, because I knew that the
"Drama" being presented was the hundred and umpty-umpth remake of
"Tarzan of the Apes" and for ninety solid minutes I would be swinging
through trees without benefit of alcohol. Tarzan, you'll remember, did not
learn to smoke and drink until the second book.
The halluscene did relax me and kept my mind from its worry even though
the drama was cast for kids and therefore contained a maximum of tree-
swinging and ape-gymnastics and a near dearth of Lady Jane's pleasant
company. What was irritating was the traces of wrong aroma. If one should
not associate the African jungle with the aroma of a cheap bar, one should
be forgiven for objecting to Lady Jane with a strong flavor of tobacco and
cheap booze on her breath.
And so I awoke with this irritating conflict in my senses to discover that I'd
dropped out of my character as Tarzan and my surroundings of the jungle,
but I'd somehow brought the stench of cheap liquor and moist cigarettes
with me.
There was an occupant in the chair next to mine. He needed a bath and he
needed a shave but both would have been wasted if he couldn't change his
clothing, too. His name was Gimpy Gordon.
I said, "Get out!"
Page 14
He whined, "Mr. Wilson, you just gotta help me."
"How?"
"Fer years," he said, "I been living on peanuts. I been runnin' errands for
hard coins. I been—"
"Swiping the take of a Red Cross box," I snapped at him.
"Aw, Mr. Wilson," he whined, "I simply gotta make a stake. I'm a-goin' to
send it back when I win."
"Are you going to win?"
"Can't I?"
For a moment I toyed with the idea of being honest with the Gimp.
Somehow, someone should tell the duffer that all horse players die broke, or
that if he could make a living I'd be out of business.
Gimpy Gordon was one of Life's Unfortunates. If it were to rain gold coins,
Gimpy would be out wearing boxing gloves. His mental processes
meandered because of too much methyl. His unfortunate nickname did not
come from the old-fashioned reason that he walked with a limp, but from
the even more unfortunate reason that he thought with a limp. In his own
unhealthy way he was—could we call it "Lucky" by any standard of
honesty? In this world full of highly developed psi talent, the Gimp could
pick a pocket and get away with it because he often literally could not
remember where and how he'd acquired the wallet for longer than a half
minute. And it was a sort of general unwritten rule that any citizen so utterly
befogged as to permit his wealth to be lifted via light fingers should lose it
as a lesson!
But then it did indeed occur to me that maybe I could make use of the
Gimp.
I said, "What can I do, Gimpy?"
"Mr. Wilson," he pleaded, "is it true that you're workin' for Barcelona?"
"Now, you know I can't answer that."
"How?"
"Fer years," he said, "I been living on peanuts. I been runnin' errands for
hard coins. I been—"
"Swiping the take of a Red Cross box," I snapped at him.
"Aw, Mr. Wilson," he whined, "I simply gotta make a stake. I'm a-goin' to
send it back when I win."
"Are you going to win?"
"Can't I?"
For a moment I toyed with the idea of being honest with the Gimp.
Somehow, someone should tell the duffer that all horse players die broke, or
that if he could make a living I'd be out of business.
Gimpy Gordon was one of Life's Unfortunates. If it were to rain gold coins,
Gimpy would be out wearing boxing gloves. His mental processes
meandered because of too much methyl. His unfortunate nickname did not
come from the old-fashioned reason that he walked with a limp, but from
the even more unfortunate reason that he thought with a limp. In his own
unhealthy way he was—could we call it "Lucky" by any standard of
honesty? In this world full of highly developed psi talent, the Gimp could
pick a pocket and get away with it because he often literally could not
remember where and how he'd acquired the wallet for longer than a half
minute. And it was a sort of general unwritten rule that any citizen so utterly
befogged as to permit his wealth to be lifted via light fingers should lose it
as a lesson!
But then it did indeed occur to me that maybe I could make use of the
Gimp.
I said, "What can I do, Gimpy?"
"Mr. Wilson," he pleaded, "is it true that you're workin' for Barcelona?"
"Now, you know I can't answer that."
Page 15
I could read his mind struggling with this concept. It was sort of like trying
to read a deck of Chinese Fortune Cards being shuffled before they're
placed in the machine at the Penny Arcade. As the drunk once said after
reading the Telephone Directory: "Not much plot, but egad! What a cast of
characters!" The gist of his mental maundering was a childlike desire to
have everything sewed up tight. He wanted to win, to be told that he'd win,
and to have all the rules altered ad hoc to assure his winning.
Just where he'd picked up the inside dope that Barcelona favored Flying
Heels, Moonbeam, and Lady Grace in the Derby I could not dig out of him.
Just how Gimpy had made the association between this clambake and me—
good old Wally Wilson—I couldn't dig either. But here he was with his—by
now—sixty-five bucks carefully heisted, lifted, pinched and fingered, and
by the great Harry, Gimpy was not a-goin' to lay it across the board on those
three rejects from a claiming race unless he had a cast-iron assurance that
they'd come in across the board, one, two, and three.
I said slowly, "If I were even thinking of working for Mr. Barcelona," I told
him, "I would be very careful never, never to mention it, you know."
This bundle of The Awful Truth hit him and began to sink in with the
inexorable absorption of water dropping down into a bucket of dry sand. It
took some time for the process to climax. Once it reached Home Base it
took another period of time for the information to be inspected, sorted out,
identified, analyzed, and in a very limited degree, understood.
to read a deck of Chinese Fortune Cards being shuffled before they're
placed in the machine at the Penny Arcade. As the drunk once said after
reading the Telephone Directory: "Not much plot, but egad! What a cast of
characters!" The gist of his mental maundering was a childlike desire to
have everything sewed up tight. He wanted to win, to be told that he'd win,
and to have all the rules altered ad hoc to assure his winning.
Just where he'd picked up the inside dope that Barcelona favored Flying
Heels, Moonbeam, and Lady Grace in the Derby I could not dig out of him.
Just how Gimpy had made the association between this clambake and me—
good old Wally Wilson—I couldn't dig either. But here he was with his—by
now—sixty-five bucks carefully heisted, lifted, pinched and fingered, and
by the great Harry, Gimpy was not a-goin' to lay it across the board on those
three rejects from a claiming race unless he had a cast-iron assurance that
they'd come in across the board, one, two, and three.
I said slowly, "If I were even thinking of working for Mr. Barcelona," I told
him, "I would be very careful never, never to mention it, you know."
This bundle of The Awful Truth hit him and began to sink in with the
inexorable absorption of water dropping down into a bucket of dry sand. It
took some time for the process to climax. Once it reached Home Base it
took another period of time for the information to be inspected, sorted out,
identified, analyzed, and in a very limited degree, understood.
Page 16
He looked up at me. "I couldn't cuff a hundred, could I?"
I shook my head. I didn't have to veil my mind because I knew that Gimpy
was about as talented a telepath as a tallow candle. Frankly between me and
thee, dear reader, I do not put anybody's bet on the cuff. I do a fair-to-
middling brisk trade in booking bets placed and discussed by telepathy, but
the ones I accept and pay off on—if they're lucky—are those folks who've
been sufficiently foresighted to lay it on the line with a retainer against
which their losses can be assessed.
On the other hand I could see in Gimpy's mind the simple logic that told
him that as a bookmaker I'd be disinclined to lend him money which he'd
use to place with me against a sure-thing long shot. If I were to "Lend" him
a century for an on-the-cuff bet on a 100:1 horse, especially one that I knew
I shook my head. I didn't have to veil my mind because I knew that Gimpy
was about as talented a telepath as a tallow candle. Frankly between me and
thee, dear reader, I do not put anybody's bet on the cuff. I do a fair-to-
middling brisk trade in booking bets placed and discussed by telepathy, but
the ones I accept and pay off on—if they're lucky—are those folks who've
been sufficiently foresighted to lay it on the line with a retainer against
which their losses can be assessed.
On the other hand I could see in Gimpy's mind the simple logic that told
him that as a bookmaker I'd be disinclined to lend him money which he'd
use to place with me against a sure-thing long shot. If I were to "Lend" him
a century for an on-the-cuff bet on a 100:1 horse, especially one that I knew
Page 17
was sure to come in, I might better simply hand him one hundred times one
hundred dollars as a gift. It would save a lot of messy bookkeeping.
So the fact that I wouldn't cuff a bet for Gimpy gave him his own proof that
I was confirming the fix.
Then I buttered the process.
"Gimp, do you know another good bookmaker?"
"Sure. But you're the best."
"Know one that'll take a bet from you—one that you don't like?"
"Sure, Mr. Wilson."
"Then," I said hauling a thousand out of my wallet, "Put this on our horses
for me."
He eyed the grand. "But won't Mr. Barcelona be unhappy? Won't that run
down the track odds?"
I laughed. "The whole world knows them dogs as also-rans," I said.
"Gimpy, they put long shots like those into races just to clip the suckers
who think there is a real hundred-to-one chance that a 100:1 horse will
outrun favorites."
"Well, if you say so, Mr. Wilson."
"I say so."
"Thanks. I'll pay it back."
He would. I'd see to that.
Gimpy Gordon scuttled out of my bailiwick almost on a dead run. He was
positively radiating merriment and joy and excitement. The note in his hand
represented a sum greater than he had ever seen in one piece at any time of
his life, and the concept of the riches he would know when they paid off on
the Kentucky Derby was vague simply because Gimpy could not grasp the
magnitude of such magnificence. Oddly, for some unexpected reason or
hundred dollars as a gift. It would save a lot of messy bookkeeping.
So the fact that I wouldn't cuff a bet for Gimpy gave him his own proof that
I was confirming the fix.
Then I buttered the process.
"Gimp, do you know another good bookmaker?"
"Sure. But you're the best."
"Know one that'll take a bet from you—one that you don't like?"
"Sure, Mr. Wilson."
"Then," I said hauling a thousand out of my wallet, "Put this on our horses
for me."
He eyed the grand. "But won't Mr. Barcelona be unhappy? Won't that run
down the track odds?"
I laughed. "The whole world knows them dogs as also-rans," I said.
"Gimpy, they put long shots like those into races just to clip the suckers
who think there is a real hundred-to-one chance that a 100:1 horse will
outrun favorites."
"Well, if you say so, Mr. Wilson."
"I say so."
"Thanks. I'll pay it back."
He would. I'd see to that.
Gimpy Gordon scuttled out of my bailiwick almost on a dead run. He was
positively radiating merriment and joy and excitement. The note in his hand
represented a sum greater than he had ever seen in one piece at any time of
his life, and the concept of the riches he would know when they paid off on
the Kentucky Derby was vague simply because Gimpy could not grasp the
magnitude of such magnificence. Oddly, for some unexpected reason or
Page 18
from some unknown source hidden deep in his past, his mind pronounced it
"Darby."
I returned to my African jungle still bored with the lack of anything
constructive. I returned at about the point where Tarzan and Jane were
going through that silly, "Me Tarzan; You Jane" routine which was even
more irritating because the program director or someone had muffed the
perfume that the Lady Jane wore. Instead of the wholesome freshness of the
free, open air, Jane was wearing a heady, spicy scent engineered to cut its
way through the blocking barrier of stale cigar smoke, whisky-laden
secondhand air, and a waft of cooking aroma from the kitchen of the
standard cosmopolitan bistro.
Worse, it got worse instead of better. Where a clever effects-director might
have started with the heavy sophisticated scent and switched to something
lighter and airier as Jane was moved away from civilization, this one had
done it backwards for some absolutely ridiculous reason. It finally got
strong enough to distract me out of my characterization, and I came back to
reality to realize once more that reality had been strong enough to cut into
the concentration level of a halluscene. There was strong woman-presence
in my room, and as I looked around I found that Tomboy Taylor had come
in—just as Gimpy Gordon had—and was sitting in the other halluscene
chair. She was probably playing Lady Jane to my Tarzan.
Tomboy Taylor had changed to a short-skirted, low-necked cocktail dress;
relaxed with her eyes closed in my halluscene chair she looked lovely. She
looked as vulnerable as a soft kitten. Remembering that it's the soft
vulnerable ones that claw you if you touch, I refrained.
I went to my little bar and refilled my highball glass because swinging
through the jungle makes one thirsty, and while I was pouring I took a sly
peek into Tomboy Taylor's mind.
She was not halluscening. She was watching me. And when I made contact
with her, she radiated a sort of overall aura of amusement-emotion, covered
"Darby."
I returned to my African jungle still bored with the lack of anything
constructive. I returned at about the point where Tarzan and Jane were
going through that silly, "Me Tarzan; You Jane" routine which was even
more irritating because the program director or someone had muffed the
perfume that the Lady Jane wore. Instead of the wholesome freshness of the
free, open air, Jane was wearing a heady, spicy scent engineered to cut its
way through the blocking barrier of stale cigar smoke, whisky-laden
secondhand air, and a waft of cooking aroma from the kitchen of the
standard cosmopolitan bistro.
Worse, it got worse instead of better. Where a clever effects-director might
have started with the heavy sophisticated scent and switched to something
lighter and airier as Jane was moved away from civilization, this one had
done it backwards for some absolutely ridiculous reason. It finally got
strong enough to distract me out of my characterization, and I came back to
reality to realize once more that reality had been strong enough to cut into
the concentration level of a halluscene. There was strong woman-presence
in my room, and as I looked around I found that Tomboy Taylor had come
in—just as Gimpy Gordon had—and was sitting in the other halluscene
chair. She was probably playing Lady Jane to my Tarzan.
Tomboy Taylor had changed to a short-skirted, low-necked cocktail dress;
relaxed with her eyes closed in my halluscene chair she looked lovely. She
looked as vulnerable as a soft kitten. Remembering that it's the soft
vulnerable ones that claw you if you touch, I refrained.
I went to my little bar and refilled my highball glass because swinging
through the jungle makes one thirsty, and while I was pouring I took a sly
peek into Tomboy Taylor's mind.
She was not halluscening. She was watching me. And when I made contact
with her, she radiated a sort of overall aura of amusement-emotion, covered
Page 19
up her conscious deliberation, and blocked any probing by directing me
mentally, "Make it two, Wally."
I built her one, handed it to her, and then said, "Folks these days sure have
forgotten how to use doorbells."
"If you don't want people coming in, Wally, you should restrict your
mindwarden a little. It's set to admit anybody who does not approach the
door with vigorous intent to commit grave physical harm. When the thing
radiates 'Come in and relax' is a girl supposed to stand outside twiggling on
the doorbell?"
I dropped the subject thinking that maybe I shouldn't have brought it up in
the first place. It's one that can't be answered by logic, whereas a firm
emotional statement of like or dislike stops all counter-argument and I'd
made the mistake of questioning my own judgment.
So I eyed her and said, "Tomboy, you did not come here to indulge in small
talk."
"No," she admitted. "I'm here to keep track of you, Wally."
"Oh?"
"Our great and good friend wants me to make notes on how clever you are
at arranging things."
"You mean Barcelona sent you."
"That's about it."
I looked at her askance. "And how long are you going to stay?"
She smiled. "Until Flying Heels, Moonbeam, and Lady Grace come across
the finish line One, Two, and Three at Churchill Downs on Derby Day."
I grinned at her. "Considering that trio of turtles, Tomboy, it may be for
years and it may be forever."
She held up her glass in a sort of a toast. "Or," she said, "'Til death do us
part!"
mentally, "Make it two, Wally."
I built her one, handed it to her, and then said, "Folks these days sure have
forgotten how to use doorbells."
"If you don't want people coming in, Wally, you should restrict your
mindwarden a little. It's set to admit anybody who does not approach the
door with vigorous intent to commit grave physical harm. When the thing
radiates 'Come in and relax' is a girl supposed to stand outside twiggling on
the doorbell?"
I dropped the subject thinking that maybe I shouldn't have brought it up in
the first place. It's one that can't be answered by logic, whereas a firm
emotional statement of like or dislike stops all counter-argument and I'd
made the mistake of questioning my own judgment.
So I eyed her and said, "Tomboy, you did not come here to indulge in small
talk."
"No," she admitted. "I'm here to keep track of you, Wally."
"Oh?"
"Our great and good friend wants me to make notes on how clever you are
at arranging things."
"You mean Barcelona sent you."
"That's about it."
I looked at her askance. "And how long are you going to stay?"
She smiled. "Until Flying Heels, Moonbeam, and Lady Grace come across
the finish line One, Two, and Three at Churchill Downs on Derby Day."
I grinned at her. "Considering that trio of turtles, Tomboy, it may be for
years and it may be forever."
She held up her glass in a sort of a toast. "Or," she said, "'Til death do us
part!"
Page 20
A little bitterly I said, "One might think that Barcelona doesn't trust me."
She replied, "It isn't a matter of trust. Barcelona holds you among his very
closest friends. He is well aware of the fact that you would do anything for
him, that you prize his friendship so highly yourself that you would go to
the most desperate lengths to keep it firm and true. Yet he realizes that the
simple desire he has recently expressed does place you in a delicate mental
attitude. You are likely to feel that he shouldn't have expressed this desire
since you feel obligated to fulfill it. He feels that maybe this obligation to
maintain friendship at all costs may cause resentment. Since Barcelona does
not want you to resent him, he sent me to be your companion in the hope
that I might get some forewarning should your friendship for him begin to
weaken."
Just why in this day and age she didn't just come out and say—or think—
flatly that she was there to keep me in line, I don't know. But there she was,
talking all around the main point and delivering the information by long-
winded inference.
Even so, without her Pittsburgh stogie, Tomboy Taylor was a mighty
attractive dish, and I knew that she could also be a bright and interesting
conversationalist if she wanted to be. Under other circumstances I might
have enjoyed the company, but it was no pleasure to know that every grain
of her one hundred and fourteen pounds avoirdupois was Barcelona's
Personal Property. At that moment I realized that I was not too much
concerned with what Barcelona's reaction might be. Instead, I was wishing
that things were different so that any activity between us would be for our
own personal gain and pleasure rather than the order of or the fight against
one Joseph Barcelona. There was one consolation. Tomboy Taylor had not
come equipped with a box of Pittsburgh stogies with which to make my
appreciation of beauty throw up its lunch.
She said, sweetly, "The better to ensnare you, my dear."
But as she spoke, for just a moment her thick woolly mind shield thinned
out enough for me to catch a strange, puzzled grasp for understanding. As if
She replied, "It isn't a matter of trust. Barcelona holds you among his very
closest friends. He is well aware of the fact that you would do anything for
him, that you prize his friendship so highly yourself that you would go to
the most desperate lengths to keep it firm and true. Yet he realizes that the
simple desire he has recently expressed does place you in a delicate mental
attitude. You are likely to feel that he shouldn't have expressed this desire
since you feel obligated to fulfill it. He feels that maybe this obligation to
maintain friendship at all costs may cause resentment. Since Barcelona does
not want you to resent him, he sent me to be your companion in the hope
that I might get some forewarning should your friendship for him begin to
weaken."
Just why in this day and age she didn't just come out and say—or think—
flatly that she was there to keep me in line, I don't know. But there she was,
talking all around the main point and delivering the information by long-
winded inference.
Even so, without her Pittsburgh stogie, Tomboy Taylor was a mighty
attractive dish, and I knew that she could also be a bright and interesting
conversationalist if she wanted to be. Under other circumstances I might
have enjoyed the company, but it was no pleasure to know that every grain
of her one hundred and fourteen pounds avoirdupois was Barcelona's
Personal Property. At that moment I realized that I was not too much
concerned with what Barcelona's reaction might be. Instead, I was wishing
that things were different so that any activity between us would be for our
own personal gain and pleasure rather than the order of or the fight against
one Joseph Barcelona. There was one consolation. Tomboy Taylor had not
come equipped with a box of Pittsburgh stogies with which to make my
appreciation of beauty throw up its lunch.
She said, sweetly, "The better to ensnare you, my dear."
But as she spoke, for just a moment her thick woolly mind shield thinned
out enough for me to catch a strange, puzzled grasp for understanding. As if
Page 21
for the first time she had been shown how admiration for physical
attractiveness could be both honest and good. That my repugnant attitude
over her Pittsburgh stogies was not so much based upon the spoiling of
beauty by the addition of ugliness, but the fact that the act itself cheapened
her in my eyes.
Then she caught me peeking and clamped down a mind screen that made
the old so-called "Iron Curtain" resemble a rusty sieve.
"I'm the one that's supposed to keep track of you, you remember," she said,
once more covering up and leaping mentally to the attack.
"I'll remember," I said. "But will you tell me something?"
"Maybe," she said in a veiled attitude.
"Is your boy friend really interested in cleaning up, or is he interested in
watching me squirm out of a trap he set for me?"
"In the first place," she said, "I may have been seen in Barcelona's presence
but please remember that my association with Mr. Joseph Barcelona has
always been strictly on a financial plane. This eliminates the inference
contained under the phrase 'Boy Friend.' Check?"
"O.K., Tomboy, if that's the—"
"That's not only the way I want it," she said, "but that's the way it always
has been and always will be. Second, I have been getting tired of this
nickname 'Tomboy'. If we're going to be racked this close together, you'll
grate on my nerves less if you use my right name. It's just plain 'Nora' but
I'd like to hear it once in a while."
I nodded soberly. I held out a hand but she put her empty highball glass in it
instead of her own little paw. I shrugged and mixed and when I returned and
handed it to her I said, "I'll make you a deal. I'll call you 'Nora' just so long
as you maintain the manners and attitude of a female, feminine, lady-type
woman. I'll treat you like a woman, but you've got to earn it. Is that a deal?"
She looked at me, her expression shy and as defenseless as a bruiser-type
caught reading sentimental poetry. I perceived that I had again touched a
sensitive spot by demanding that she be more than physically spectacular.
attractiveness could be both honest and good. That my repugnant attitude
over her Pittsburgh stogies was not so much based upon the spoiling of
beauty by the addition of ugliness, but the fact that the act itself cheapened
her in my eyes.
Then she caught me peeking and clamped down a mind screen that made
the old so-called "Iron Curtain" resemble a rusty sieve.
"I'm the one that's supposed to keep track of you, you remember," she said,
once more covering up and leaping mentally to the attack.
"I'll remember," I said. "But will you tell me something?"
"Maybe," she said in a veiled attitude.
"Is your boy friend really interested in cleaning up, or is he interested in
watching me squirm out of a trap he set for me?"
"In the first place," she said, "I may have been seen in Barcelona's presence
but please remember that my association with Mr. Joseph Barcelona has
always been strictly on a financial plane. This eliminates the inference
contained under the phrase 'Boy Friend.' Check?"
"O.K., Tomboy, if that's the—"
"That's not only the way I want it," she said, "but that's the way it always
has been and always will be. Second, I have been getting tired of this
nickname 'Tomboy'. If we're going to be racked this close together, you'll
grate on my nerves less if you use my right name. It's just plain 'Nora' but
I'd like to hear it once in a while."
I nodded soberly. I held out a hand but she put her empty highball glass in it
instead of her own little paw. I shrugged and mixed and when I returned and
handed it to her I said, "I'll make you a deal. I'll call you 'Nora' just so long
as you maintain the manners and attitude of a female, feminine, lady-type
woman. I'll treat you like a woman, but you've got to earn it. Is that a deal?"
She looked at me, her expression shy and as defenseless as a bruiser-type
caught reading sentimental poetry. I perceived that I had again touched a
sensitive spot by demanding that she be more than physically spectacular.
Page 22
Her defenses went down and I saw that she really did not know the answer
to my question. I did. It had to do with something that only the achievement
of a God-like state—or extreme old age—would change.
This time it was not so much the answer to why little boys walk high fences
in front of little girls. It had much more to do with the result of what
happens between little boys when the little girl hides her baseball bat and
straightens the seams of her stockings when one certain little boy comes
into sight. Joseph Barcelona did not admire my ability. He had, therefore,
caused me to back myself into a corner where I'd be taken down a peg,
shown-up as a second-rater—with the little girl as a witness.
And why had Barcelona been so brash as to send the little girl into my
company in order for her to witness my downfall?
Let me tell you about Joe Barcelona.
Normally honest citizens often complain that Barcelona is living high off'n
the hawg instead of slugging it out in residence at Stateville, Joliet, Illinois.
With their straight-line approach to simple logic, these citizens argue that
the advent of telepathy should have rendered the falsehood impossible, and
that perception should enable anybody with half a talent to uncover hidden
evidence. Then since Mr. Joseph Barcelona is obviously not languishing in
jail, it is patent that the police are not making full use of their talented
extrasensory operators, nor the evidence thus collected.
And then after having argued thus, our upstanding citizen will fire off a fast
thought to his wife and ask her to invite the neighbors over that evening for
a game of bridge.
None of these simple-type of logicians seem to be aware of the rules for
bridge or poker that were in force prior to extrasensory training courses.
Since no one recognized psionics, the rules did not take telepathy,
perception, manipulation, into any consideration whatsoever. Psionics
hadn't done away with anything including the old shell game. All psionics
had done was to make the game of chance into a game of skill, and made
to my question. I did. It had to do with something that only the achievement
of a God-like state—or extreme old age—would change.
This time it was not so much the answer to why little boys walk high fences
in front of little girls. It had much more to do with the result of what
happens between little boys when the little girl hides her baseball bat and
straightens the seams of her stockings when one certain little boy comes
into sight. Joseph Barcelona did not admire my ability. He had, therefore,
caused me to back myself into a corner where I'd be taken down a peg,
shown-up as a second-rater—with the little girl as a witness.
And why had Barcelona been so brash as to send the little girl into my
company in order for her to witness my downfall?
Let me tell you about Joe Barcelona.
Normally honest citizens often complain that Barcelona is living high off'n
the hawg instead of slugging it out in residence at Stateville, Joliet, Illinois.
With their straight-line approach to simple logic, these citizens argue that
the advent of telepathy should have rendered the falsehood impossible, and
that perception should enable anybody with half a talent to uncover hidden
evidence. Then since Mr. Joseph Barcelona is obviously not languishing in
jail, it is patent that the police are not making full use of their talented
extrasensory operators, nor the evidence thus collected.
And then after having argued thus, our upstanding citizen will fire off a fast
thought to his wife and ask her to invite the neighbors over that evening for
a game of bridge.
None of these simple-type of logicians seem to be aware of the rules for
bridge or poker that were in force prior to extrasensory training courses.
Since no one recognized psionics, the rules did not take telepathy,
perception, manipulation, into any consideration whatsoever. Psionics
hadn't done away with anything including the old shell game. All psionics
had done was to make the game of chance into a game of skill, and made
Page 23
the game of skill into a game of talent that required better control and
longer training in order to gain full proficiency.
In Barcelona's case, he had achieved his own apparent immunity by
surrounding himself with a number of hirelings who drew a handsome
salary for sitting around thinking noisy thoughts. Noisy thoughts, jarring
thoughts, stunts like the concentration-interrupter of playing the first twenty
notes of Brahms' Lullaby in perfect pitch and timing and then playing the
twenty-first note in staccato and a half-tone flat. Making mental contact
with Barcelona was approximately the analogue of eavesdropping upon the
intimate cooing of a lover sweet-talking his lady in the middle of a sawmill
working on an order three days late under a high priority and a penalty
clause for delayed delivery.
People who wonder how Barcelona can think for himself with all of that
terrific mental racket going on do not know that Barcelona is one of those
very rare birds who can really concentrate to the whole exclusion of any
distraction short of a vigorous threat to his physical well-being.
And so his trick of sending Nora Taylor served a threefold purpose. It
indicated his contempt for me. It removed Nora from his zone of
interference so that she could really witness firsthand my mental squirmings
as I watched my own comeuppance bearing down on me. It also gave him
double the telepathic contact with me and my counter-plans—if any.
In the latter, you see, Barcelona's way of collecting outside information was
to order a temporary cease-fire of the mental noise barrage and then he'd
sally forth like a one-man mental commando raid to make a fast grab for
what he wanted. Since the best of telepaths cannot read a man's opinion of
prunes when he's thinking of peanuts, it is necessary for someone to be
thinking of the subject he wants when he makes his raid. Having two in the
know and interested doubled his chance for success.
There was also the possibility that Barcelona might consider his deliberate
"Leak" to Gimpy Gordon ineffective. Most sensible folks are disinclined to
treat Gimpy's delusions of grandeur seriously despite the truth of the cliché
that states that a one-to-one correspondence does indeed exist between the
perception of smoke and the existence of pyrotic activity. Nora Taylor
would add some certification to the rumor. One thing simply had to be:
longer training in order to gain full proficiency.
In Barcelona's case, he had achieved his own apparent immunity by
surrounding himself with a number of hirelings who drew a handsome
salary for sitting around thinking noisy thoughts. Noisy thoughts, jarring
thoughts, stunts like the concentration-interrupter of playing the first twenty
notes of Brahms' Lullaby in perfect pitch and timing and then playing the
twenty-first note in staccato and a half-tone flat. Making mental contact
with Barcelona was approximately the analogue of eavesdropping upon the
intimate cooing of a lover sweet-talking his lady in the middle of a sawmill
working on an order three days late under a high priority and a penalty
clause for delayed delivery.
People who wonder how Barcelona can think for himself with all of that
terrific mental racket going on do not know that Barcelona is one of those
very rare birds who can really concentrate to the whole exclusion of any
distraction short of a vigorous threat to his physical well-being.
And so his trick of sending Nora Taylor served a threefold purpose. It
indicated his contempt for me. It removed Nora from his zone of
interference so that she could really witness firsthand my mental squirmings
as I watched my own comeuppance bearing down on me. It also gave him
double the telepathic contact with me and my counter-plans—if any.
In the latter, you see, Barcelona's way of collecting outside information was
to order a temporary cease-fire of the mental noise barrage and then he'd
sally forth like a one-man mental commando raid to make a fast grab for
what he wanted. Since the best of telepaths cannot read a man's opinion of
prunes when he's thinking of peanuts, it is necessary for someone to be
thinking of the subject he wants when he makes his raid. Having two in the
know and interested doubled his chance for success.
There was also the possibility that Barcelona might consider his deliberate
"Leak" to Gimpy Gordon ineffective. Most sensible folks are disinclined to
treat Gimpy's delusions of grandeur seriously despite the truth of the cliché
that states that a one-to-one correspondence does indeed exist between the
perception of smoke and the existence of pyrotic activity. Nora Taylor
would add some certification to the rumor. One thing simply had to be:
Page 24
There must be no mistake about placing information in Lieutenant
Delancey's hands so as to create the other jaw of the pincers that I was
going to be forced to close upon myself.
I tried a gentle poke in the general direction of Barcelona and found that the
mental noise was too much to stand. I withdrew just a bit and closed down
the opening until the racket was no more than a mental rumor, and I waited.
I hunched that Barcelona would be curious to know how his contact-girl
was making out, and might be holding a cease-fire early in this phase of the
operation. I was right.
The noise diminished with the suddenness of turning off a mental switch,
and as it stopped I went in and practically popped Barcelona on the noodle
with:
"How-de-do, Joseph."
He recoiled at the unexpected thrust, but came back with: "Wally Wilson!
Got a minute?"
I looked at the calendar, counted off the days to Derby Day in my mind and
told him that I had that long—at the very least and probably much, much
longer.
"Thinks you!"
"Methinks," I replied.
"Wally boy," he returned, "you aren't playing this very smart."
"Suppose you tell me how you'd be playing it," I bounced back at him. "Tell
you how I have erred?"
He went vague on me. "If I were of a suspicious nature, I would begin to
wonder about certain connective events. For instance, let's hypothecate.
Let's say that a certain prominent bookmaker had been suspected of
planning to put a fix on a certain important horse race, but of course nothing
could be proved. Now from another source we suddenly discover strong
Delancey's hands so as to create the other jaw of the pincers that I was
going to be forced to close upon myself.
I tried a gentle poke in the general direction of Barcelona and found that the
mental noise was too much to stand. I withdrew just a bit and closed down
the opening until the racket was no more than a mental rumor, and I waited.
I hunched that Barcelona would be curious to know how his contact-girl
was making out, and might be holding a cease-fire early in this phase of the
operation. I was right.
The noise diminished with the suddenness of turning off a mental switch,
and as it stopped I went in and practically popped Barcelona on the noodle
with:
"How-de-do, Joseph."
He recoiled at the unexpected thrust, but came back with: "Wally Wilson!
Got a minute?"
I looked at the calendar, counted off the days to Derby Day in my mind and
told him that I had that long—at the very least and probably much, much
longer.
"Thinks you!"
"Methinks," I replied.
"Wally boy," he returned, "you aren't playing this very smart."
"Suppose you tell me how you'd be playing it," I bounced back at him. "Tell
you how I have erred?"
He went vague on me. "If I were of a suspicious nature, I would begin to
wonder about certain connective events. For instance, let's hypothecate.
Let's say that a certain prominent bookmaker had been suspected of
planning to put a fix on a certain important horse race, but of course nothing
could be proved. Now from another source we suddenly discover strong
Page 25
evidence to suggest that this bookmaker is not accepting wagers on the
horses he is backing, but conversely is busy laying wagers on the same nags
through the help of a rather inept go-between."
I grunted aloud which caused Nora Taylor to look up in surprise. I was
tempted to say it aloud but I did not. I thought:
"In simple terms, Joseph, you are miffed because I will not cover your
bets."
"I thought nothing of the sort."
"Let's hedge? I love you too, Joseph."
"Well, are you or aren't you?"
"Are I what? Going to top the frosting by financing your little scheme to put
the pinch on me?"
"Now, Wally—"
"Can it, Joseph. We're both big boys now and we both know what the score
is. You know and I know that the first time I or one of my boys takes a bet
on any one of the three turtles you like, the guy who laid the bet is going to
slip the word to one of your outside men. And you're going to leap to the
strange conclusion that if Wally Wilson is accepting bets against his own
fix, he must know something exceedingly interesting."
horses he is backing, but conversely is busy laying wagers on the same nags
through the help of a rather inept go-between."
I grunted aloud which caused Nora Taylor to look up in surprise. I was
tempted to say it aloud but I did not. I thought:
"In simple terms, Joseph, you are miffed because I will not cover your
bets."
"I thought nothing of the sort."
"Let's hedge? I love you too, Joseph."
"Well, are you or aren't you?"
"Are I what? Going to top the frosting by financing your little scheme to put
the pinch on me?"
"Now, Wally—"
"Can it, Joseph. We're both big boys now and we both know what the score
is. You know and I know that the first time I or one of my boys takes a bet
on any one of the three turtles you like, the guy who laid the bet is going to
slip the word to one of your outside men. And you're going to leap to the
strange conclusion that if Wally Wilson is accepting bets against his own
fix, he must know something exceedingly interesting."
Page 26
"Now, who's been saying anything about a fix, Wally?"
"The people," I thought bluntly, "who have most recently been associated
with your clever kind of operator."
"That isn't very nice, Wally."
If it had been a telephone conversation, I'd have slammed the telephone on
him. The mealymouthed louse and his hypocritical gab was making me mad
—and I knew that he was making me mad simply to make me lose control
of my blanket. I couldn't stop it, so I let my anger out by thinking:
"You think you are clever because you're slipping through sly little
loopholes, Joseph. I'm going to show you how neat it is to get everything I
want including your grudging admission of defeat by the process of making
use of the laws and rules that work in my favor."
"The people," I thought bluntly, "who have most recently been associated
with your clever kind of operator."
"That isn't very nice, Wally."
If it had been a telephone conversation, I'd have slammed the telephone on
him. The mealymouthed louse and his hypocritical gab was making me mad
—and I knew that he was making me mad simply to make me lose control
of my blanket. I couldn't stop it, so I let my anger out by thinking:
"You think you are clever because you're slipping through sly little
loopholes, Joseph. I'm going to show you how neat it is to get everything I
want including your grudging admission of defeat by the process of making
use of the laws and rules that work in my favor."
Page 27
"You're a wise guy," he hurled back at me.
"I'm real clever, Barcelona. And I'm big enough to face you, even though
Phil Howland, The Greek, and Chicago Charlie make like cold clams at the
mention of your name."
"Why, you punk—"
"Go away, Barcelona. Go away before I make up my mind to make you eat
it."
I turned to Nora Taylor and regarded her charms and attractions both
physical and mental with open and glowing admiration. It had the
precalculated result and it wouldn't have been a whit different if I'd filed a
declaration of intent and forced her to read it first.
It even satisfied my ambient curiosity about what a telepathed grinding of
the teeth in frustrated anger would transmit as. And when it managed to
occur to an unemployed thought-center of my brain that the lines of battle
were soft and sweetly curved indeed, Joseph Barcelona couldn't stand it any
more. He just gave a mental sigh and signaled for the noisemakers to shut
him off from contact.
Derby Day, the First Saturday in May, dawned warm and clear with a fast,
dry track forecast for post time. The doorbell woke me up and I dredged my
apartment to identify Nora fiddling in my two-bit kitchen with ham and
eggs. Outside it was Lieutenant Delancey practising kinematics by pressing
the button with a levitated pencil instead of shoving on the thing directly.
(I'd changed the combination on the mindwarden at Nora's suggestion.)
As I struggled out of bed, Nora flashed, "You get it, Wally," at me. She was
busy manipulating the ham slicer and the coffee percolator and floating
more eggs from the refrigerator. The invitation and the acceptance for and
of breakfast was still floating in the mental atmosphere heavy enough to
smell the coffee.
I replied to both of them, "If he can't get in, let him go hungry."
"I'm real clever, Barcelona. And I'm big enough to face you, even though
Phil Howland, The Greek, and Chicago Charlie make like cold clams at the
mention of your name."
"Why, you punk—"
"Go away, Barcelona. Go away before I make up my mind to make you eat
it."
I turned to Nora Taylor and regarded her charms and attractions both
physical and mental with open and glowing admiration. It had the
precalculated result and it wouldn't have been a whit different if I'd filed a
declaration of intent and forced her to read it first.
It even satisfied my ambient curiosity about what a telepathed grinding of
the teeth in frustrated anger would transmit as. And when it managed to
occur to an unemployed thought-center of my brain that the lines of battle
were soft and sweetly curved indeed, Joseph Barcelona couldn't stand it any
more. He just gave a mental sigh and signaled for the noisemakers to shut
him off from contact.
Derby Day, the First Saturday in May, dawned warm and clear with a fast,
dry track forecast for post time. The doorbell woke me up and I dredged my
apartment to identify Nora fiddling in my two-bit kitchen with ham and
eggs. Outside it was Lieutenant Delancey practising kinematics by pressing
the button with a levitated pencil instead of shoving on the thing directly.
(I'd changed the combination on the mindwarden at Nora's suggestion.)
As I struggled out of bed, Nora flashed, "You get it, Wally," at me. She was
busy manipulating the ham slicer and the coffee percolator and floating
more eggs from the refrigerator. The invitation and the acceptance for and
of breakfast was still floating in the mental atmosphere heavy enough to
smell the coffee.
I replied to both of them, "If he can't get in, let him go hungry."
Page 28
Lieutenant Delancey manipulated the door after I'd reset the mindwarden
for him. He came in with a loud verbal greeting that Nora answered by a
call from the kitchen. I couldn't hear them because I was in the shower by
that time. However, I did ask, "What gives, lieutenant?"
"It's Derby Day."
"Yeah. So what?"
"Going to watch it from here?" he thought incredulously.
"Why not? Be a big jam down there."
"I've a box," he said.
"No ... how—?"
"Both the Derby Association and the Chicago Police Force have assigned
me to protect you from the evil doings of sinners," he said with a chuckle.
"And I suggested that the best way of keeping an official eye on you was to
visit you at the scene of the alleged intended crime and to serve that end
they provided me with a box where we can all be together."
I tossed, "And if we do not elect to go to Kentucky?"
He chuckled again. "Then I shall have to arrest you."
"For what?"
"There is an old law in the City Statute that declares something called
'Massive Cohabitation' to be illegal. You have been naughty, Wally."
Nora exploded. "We have not!" she cried.
Lieutenant Delancey laughed like a stage villain. "The law I mention," he
said after a bit of belly-laughing, "was passed long, long ago before
telepathy and perception were available to provide the truth. At that time the
law took the stand that any unmarried couple living together would take
advantage of their unchaperoned freedom, and if this state of cohabitation
went on for a considerable length of time—called 'Massive' but don't ask
me to justify the term—the probability of their taking pleasure in one
another's company approached a one hundred per cent positive probability.
for him. He came in with a loud verbal greeting that Nora answered by a
call from the kitchen. I couldn't hear them because I was in the shower by
that time. However, I did ask, "What gives, lieutenant?"
"It's Derby Day."
"Yeah. So what?"
"Going to watch it from here?" he thought incredulously.
"Why not? Be a big jam down there."
"I've a box," he said.
"No ... how—?"
"Both the Derby Association and the Chicago Police Force have assigned
me to protect you from the evil doings of sinners," he said with a chuckle.
"And I suggested that the best way of keeping an official eye on you was to
visit you at the scene of the alleged intended crime and to serve that end
they provided me with a box where we can all be together."
I tossed, "And if we do not elect to go to Kentucky?"
He chuckled again. "Then I shall have to arrest you."
"For what?"
"There is an old law in the City Statute that declares something called
'Massive Cohabitation' to be illegal. You have been naughty, Wally."
Nora exploded. "We have not!" she cried.
Lieutenant Delancey laughed like a stage villain. "The law I mention," he
said after a bit of belly-laughing, "was passed long, long ago before
telepathy and perception were available to provide the truth. At that time the
law took the stand that any unmarried couple living together would take
advantage of their unchaperoned freedom, and if this state of cohabitation
went on for a considerable length of time—called 'Massive' but don't ask
me to justify the term—the probability of their taking pleasure in one
another's company approached a one hundred per cent positive probability.
Page 29
"Now this law was never amended by the Review Act. Hence the fact that
you have been chastely occupying separate chambers has nothing to do with
the letter of the law that says simply that it is not lawful for an unmarried
couple to live under the same unchaperoned roof."
I came out of the shower toweling myself and manipulating a selection of
clean clothing out of the closet in my bedroom.
"The law," I observed, "is administered by the Intent of the Law, and not by
the Letter, isn't it?"
"Oh, sure," he said. "But I'm not qualified to interpret the law. I'll arrest you
and bring you to trial and then it's up to some judge to rule upon your purity
and innocence of criminal intent, and freedom from moral taint or turpitude.
Maybe take weeks, you know."
"And what's the alternative?" I grunted.
"Flight," he said in a sinister tone as I came out of my bedroom putting the
last finishes on my necktie. "Flight away from the jurisdiction of the law
that proposes to warp the meaning of the law to accomplish its own ends."
"And you?"
"My duty," he grinned, "is to pursue you."
"In which case," observed Nora Taylor, "we might as well fly together and
save both time and money."
"That is why I have my personal sky-buggy all ready to go instead of
requisitioning an official vehicle," he said. He scooped a fork full of eggs
and said, "You're a fool, Wally. The lady can cook."
I chuckled. "And what would happen if I hauled off and married her?"
"You mean right here and now?"
"Yes."
"Sorry. I'd have to restrain you. You see, you couldn't get a legal license nor
go through any of the other legal activities, ergo there would be a prima
facie illegality about some part of the ceremony. Without being definite as
you have been chastely occupying separate chambers has nothing to do with
the letter of the law that says simply that it is not lawful for an unmarried
couple to live under the same unchaperoned roof."
I came out of the shower toweling myself and manipulating a selection of
clean clothing out of the closet in my bedroom.
"The law," I observed, "is administered by the Intent of the Law, and not by
the Letter, isn't it?"
"Oh, sure," he said. "But I'm not qualified to interpret the law. I'll arrest you
and bring you to trial and then it's up to some judge to rule upon your purity
and innocence of criminal intent, and freedom from moral taint or turpitude.
Maybe take weeks, you know."
"And what's the alternative?" I grunted.
"Flight," he said in a sinister tone as I came out of my bedroom putting the
last finishes on my necktie. "Flight away from the jurisdiction of the law
that proposes to warp the meaning of the law to accomplish its own ends."
"And you?"
"My duty," he grinned, "is to pursue you."
"In which case," observed Nora Taylor, "we might as well fly together and
save both time and money."
"That is why I have my personal sky-buggy all ready to go instead of
requisitioning an official vehicle," he said. He scooped a fork full of eggs
and said, "You're a fool, Wally. The lady can cook."
I chuckled. "And what would happen if I hauled off and married her?"
"You mean right here and now?"
"Yes."
"Sorry. I'd have to restrain you. You see, you couldn't get a legal license nor
go through any of the other legal activities, ergo there would be a prima
facie illegality about some part of the ceremony. Without being definite as
Page 30
to which phase, I would find it my duty to restrain you from indulging in
any act the consummation of which would be illegal."
Nora said in pseudo-petulant tone, "I've been damned with very faint
praise."
"How so?"
"Wally Wilson has just said that he'd rather marry me than go to the
Kentucky Derby with you."
Lieutenant Delancey said, "I urge you both to come along. You see, my box
is also being occupied by an old friend of yours. I managed to talk him into
joining us, and with reluctance he consented."
"I'm a mind reader," I said. "Our friend's name is Joseph Barcelona?"
"As they say on the space radio, 'Aye-firm, over and out!'"
Barcelona was there with two of his boys. Watching them were four
ununiformed officers. Nora and I and the lieutenant were joined later by
Gimpy Gordon, who might have been radiating childlike wonder and a
circus-air of excitement at actually being at the Derby. He might have been.
No one could cut through the constant, maddening mental blah-blah-blah
that was being churned out by Barcelona's noisemakers.
He greeted me curtly, eyed Nora hungrily. He said: "You look pretty
confident, Wilson."
"I can't lose," I said.
"No? Frankly I don't see how you can win."
I smiled. "Without mentioning any names, Joseph, I feel confident that the
final outcome of this racing contest will be just as you want it to be. I shall
ask that no credit be given me, although I shall be greatly admired by our
mutual friend Miss Nora Taylor who will think that I am truly wonderful for
making you happy. And it is more than likely that she may marry me once I
any act the consummation of which would be illegal."
Nora said in pseudo-petulant tone, "I've been damned with very faint
praise."
"How so?"
"Wally Wilson has just said that he'd rather marry me than go to the
Kentucky Derby with you."
Lieutenant Delancey said, "I urge you both to come along. You see, my box
is also being occupied by an old friend of yours. I managed to talk him into
joining us, and with reluctance he consented."
"I'm a mind reader," I said. "Our friend's name is Joseph Barcelona?"
"As they say on the space radio, 'Aye-firm, over and out!'"
Barcelona was there with two of his boys. Watching them were four
ununiformed officers. Nora and I and the lieutenant were joined later by
Gimpy Gordon, who might have been radiating childlike wonder and a
circus-air of excitement at actually being at the Derby. He might have been.
No one could cut through the constant, maddening mental blah-blah-blah
that was being churned out by Barcelona's noisemakers.
He greeted me curtly, eyed Nora hungrily. He said: "You look pretty
confident, Wilson."
"I can't lose," I said.
"No? Frankly I don't see how you can win."
I smiled. "Without mentioning any names, Joseph, I feel confident that the
final outcome of this racing contest will be just as you want it to be. I shall
ask that no credit be given me, although I shall be greatly admired by our
mutual friend Miss Nora Taylor who will think that I am truly wonderful for
making you happy. And it is more than likely that she may marry me once I
Page 31
have shown you, and she, and Lieutenant Delancey, that I am a law-abiding
citizen as well as a man who values friendship enough to do as his old pal
Joe Barcelona desires."
"It's going to be one of the neatest tricks of the week," he said.
"It will be done by the proper application of laws," I said modestly.
Behind us, Gimpy Gordon light-fingered a half dollar out of Delancey's
pocket and was attracting the attention of a hot dog peddler by waving his
program. Some folks nearby were eying Barcelona's noisemakers angrily
but making very little visible protest once they identified him. Nora was
reading her program and underlining some horses. The whole place began
to grow into a strange excited silence as the track board began to go up. It
was to be a nine-horse race, and at the top of the list were three—count
them—three odds-on favorites:
1. Murdoch's Hoard 1:2
2. Mewhu's Jet 3:5
3. Johnny Brack 5:7
4. Piper's Son 8:5
5. Daymare 3:1
6. Helen O'Loy 8:1
And then, of course, there were our three mud turtles which must have been
entered by someone who thought that the Kentucky Derby was a claiming
race and who hoped that the LePage's Glue people would make a bid for the
three mounds of thoroughbred horseflesh that dropped dead in the
backstretch:
7. Flying Heels 100:1
8. Moonbeam 250:1
9. Lady Grace 500:1
The rack hadn't hit the top of the slide before there was a sort of mass-
movement towards the mutuel windows. The ones who didn't go in person
tried to hurl betting-thoughts in the hope of getting there early and failing
this they arose and followed the crowd. Slowly the odds began to change;
the figures on our three platers began to rise. There was very little activity
citizen as well as a man who values friendship enough to do as his old pal
Joe Barcelona desires."
"It's going to be one of the neatest tricks of the week," he said.
"It will be done by the proper application of laws," I said modestly.
Behind us, Gimpy Gordon light-fingered a half dollar out of Delancey's
pocket and was attracting the attention of a hot dog peddler by waving his
program. Some folks nearby were eying Barcelona's noisemakers angrily
but making very little visible protest once they identified him. Nora was
reading her program and underlining some horses. The whole place began
to grow into a strange excited silence as the track board began to go up. It
was to be a nine-horse race, and at the top of the list were three—count
them—three odds-on favorites:
1. Murdoch's Hoard 1:2
2. Mewhu's Jet 3:5
3. Johnny Brack 5:7
4. Piper's Son 8:5
5. Daymare 3:1
6. Helen O'Loy 8:1
And then, of course, there were our three mud turtles which must have been
entered by someone who thought that the Kentucky Derby was a claiming
race and who hoped that the LePage's Glue people would make a bid for the
three mounds of thoroughbred horseflesh that dropped dead in the
backstretch:
7. Flying Heels 100:1
8. Moonbeam 250:1
9. Lady Grace 500:1
The rack hadn't hit the top of the slide before there was a sort of mass-
movement towards the mutuel windows. The ones who didn't go in person
tried to hurl betting-thoughts in the hope of getting there early and failing
this they arose and followed the crowd. Slowly the odds began to change;
the figures on our three platers began to rise. There was very little activity
Page 32
on the other six horses. Slow-thinking Gimpy Gordon started to get up but I
put out a hand to stop him.
"But the odds are dropping," he complained.
"Gimpy," I said, "they pay on the final listing anyway. But would you like a
tip?"
"Sure," he said nervously.
"My tip is to keep your cash in your pocket. Put it on the nose of some
horse and it's likely to get blown away by a high wind."
The odds were changing rapidly. What with psionic information receivers,
trend predictors and estimated anticipators, the mutuel computers kept up
with the physical transfer of funds, figured out the latest odds, and flipped
the figures as fast as the machinery could work the dials. In no more than a
few minutes the odds on the three platers looked more like the odds on
horses that stood a chance of winning.
Barcelona looked at me. "What did you do, wise guy?"
"Who ... me? Why, I didn't do anything that you did not start—except that
maybe I was a little more generous."
"Spiel!" he snarled.
"Why, shucks, Joseph. All I did was to slip good old Gimpy Gordon a tip."
"How much?"
"Just a lousy little thousand dollar bill."
"A grand! For what, wise guy?"
"Why, just for telling me what horses you picked for the Derby."
Barcelona looked at the odds on his horses. Flying Heels had passed even
money and was heading for a one-to-two odds-on. The other platers were
put out a hand to stop him.
"But the odds are dropping," he complained.
"Gimpy," I said, "they pay on the final listing anyway. But would you like a
tip?"
"Sure," he said nervously.
"My tip is to keep your cash in your pocket. Put it on the nose of some
horse and it's likely to get blown away by a high wind."
The odds were changing rapidly. What with psionic information receivers,
trend predictors and estimated anticipators, the mutuel computers kept up
with the physical transfer of funds, figured out the latest odds, and flipped
the figures as fast as the machinery could work the dials. In no more than a
few minutes the odds on the three platers looked more like the odds on
horses that stood a chance of winning.
Barcelona looked at me. "What did you do, wise guy?"
"Who ... me? Why, I didn't do anything that you did not start—except that
maybe I was a little more generous."
"Spiel!" he snarled.
"Why, shucks, Joseph. All I did was to slip good old Gimpy Gordon a tip."
"How much?"
"Just a lousy little thousand dollar bill."
"A grand! For what, wise guy?"
"Why, just for telling me what horses you picked for the Derby."
Barcelona looked at the odds on his horses. Flying Heels had passed even
money and was heading for a one-to-two odds-on. The other platers were
Page 33
following accordingly.
"And what did you tell Gimpy, Wilson?"
"You tell him, Gimp," I said.
"Why, Wilson just said that we should ride along with you, Mr. Barcelona,
because you are such a nice guy that everybody works awfully hard to see
that you get what you want."
"There's more!" roared Barcelona.
"Only that I shouldn't mention it to anybody, and that I shouldn't place my
bet until the mutuel windows open because if I did it would louse up the
odds and make you unhappy." Gimpy looked at Barcelona's stormy face and
he grew frightened. "Honest, Mr. Barcelona, I didn't say a word to nobody.
Not a word." He turned to me and whined plaintively, "You tell him, Mr.
Wilson. I didn't say a word."
I soothed him. "We know you didn't, Gimpy."
Barcelona exploded. "Ye Gods!" he howled. "They used that gimmick on
me when I lost my first baby tooth. 'Don't put your tongue in the vacant
place,' they said, 'and don't think of the words Gold Tooth and it'll grow in
natural gold!'"
As he spoke the odds on Flying Heels changed from a staggering One-to-
Eight to an even more staggering One-to-Ten. That meant that anybody
holding less than a ten-dollar bet on such a winner would only get his own
money back because the track does not insult its clients by weighing them
down with coins in the form of small change. They keep the change and call
it "Breakage" for any amount over an even-dollar money.
Delancey said to Barcelona, "You have had it, Joseph."
Barcelona snarled, "Put the big arm on Wilson here. He's the fast man with
the big fix."
"Wilson didn't fix any race, Joseph. He just parlayed some of the laws of
human nature into a win for himself and a lose for you."
"And what did you tell Gimpy, Wilson?"
"You tell him, Gimp," I said.
"Why, Wilson just said that we should ride along with you, Mr. Barcelona,
because you are such a nice guy that everybody works awfully hard to see
that you get what you want."
"There's more!" roared Barcelona.
"Only that I shouldn't mention it to anybody, and that I shouldn't place my
bet until the mutuel windows open because if I did it would louse up the
odds and make you unhappy." Gimpy looked at Barcelona's stormy face and
he grew frightened. "Honest, Mr. Barcelona, I didn't say a word to nobody.
Not a word." He turned to me and whined plaintively, "You tell him, Mr.
Wilson. I didn't say a word."
I soothed him. "We know you didn't, Gimpy."
Barcelona exploded. "Ye Gods!" he howled. "They used that gimmick on
me when I lost my first baby tooth. 'Don't put your tongue in the vacant
place,' they said, 'and don't think of the words Gold Tooth and it'll grow in
natural gold!'"
As he spoke the odds on Flying Heels changed from a staggering One-to-
Eight to an even more staggering One-to-Ten. That meant that anybody
holding less than a ten-dollar bet on such a winner would only get his own
money back because the track does not insult its clients by weighing them
down with coins in the form of small change. They keep the change and call
it "Breakage" for any amount over an even-dollar money.
Delancey said to Barcelona, "You have had it, Joseph."
Barcelona snarled, "Put the big arm on Wilson here. He's the fast man with
the big fix."
"Wilson didn't fix any race, Joseph. He just parlayed some of the laws of
human nature into a win for himself and a lose for you."
Page 34
"Now see here—what's this guff about human nature?"
"Well, there's the human desire to ride with a winner, and the human frailty
that hopes to get something for nothing. To say nothing of the great human
desire to be 'On the Inside' track or 'In the Know' so that they can bet on the
'Sure Thing'. And so," said Delancey, "we've about twenty thousand human
beings full of human nature holding tickets on your three dogs, Joseph.
They bet their money because the 'Inside Dope' said that the big fix was in.
And I can tell you that what twenty thousand people are going to do to this
'Inside Dope' when their nags run last is going to make Torquemada ask
permission to return to life for a Second Inquisition, this time with
extrasensory tortures." He turned to me as Barcelona went pale. "Wally," he
asked, "want to bet that someone doesn't remember that old question of
whether it is possible to break every bone in a man's body without killing
him?"
"I'd be a fool to cover that one," I said. "But I'll play even money and on
either side of whether Joseph dies or lives through the process."
"Stop it!" screamed Barcelona. He grabbed me by the arm. "Wilson," he
pleaded, "Can you? Stop it, I mean? Can you fix it?"
"Sure," I said.
"Legally?"
"Yep. But it'll cost you."
"Just money?"
"Just money—and admitting that you lost, Joseph!"
"I lose," he said. "Go ahead!"
"O.K., Joseph. Now, let's be real honest. Those three longshore turtles
belong to you, don't they?"
"Yes."
"And right now you wouldn't even want to see them run, would you? In
fact, you really want that they shouldn't run."
"Well, there's the human desire to ride with a winner, and the human frailty
that hopes to get something for nothing. To say nothing of the great human
desire to be 'On the Inside' track or 'In the Know' so that they can bet on the
'Sure Thing'. And so," said Delancey, "we've about twenty thousand human
beings full of human nature holding tickets on your three dogs, Joseph.
They bet their money because the 'Inside Dope' said that the big fix was in.
And I can tell you that what twenty thousand people are going to do to this
'Inside Dope' when their nags run last is going to make Torquemada ask
permission to return to life for a Second Inquisition, this time with
extrasensory tortures." He turned to me as Barcelona went pale. "Wally," he
asked, "want to bet that someone doesn't remember that old question of
whether it is possible to break every bone in a man's body without killing
him?"
"I'd be a fool to cover that one," I said. "But I'll play even money and on
either side of whether Joseph dies or lives through the process."
"Stop it!" screamed Barcelona. He grabbed me by the arm. "Wilson," he
pleaded, "Can you? Stop it, I mean? Can you fix it?"
"Sure," I said.
"Legally?"
"Yep. But it'll cost you."
"Just money?"
"Just money—and admitting that you lost, Joseph!"
"I lose," he said. "Go ahead!"
"O.K., Joseph. Now, let's be real honest. Those three longshore turtles
belong to you, don't they?"
"Yes."
"And right now you wouldn't even want to see them run, would you? In
fact, you really want that they shouldn't run."
Page 35
"Yes."
"All right, Joseph. Call off your noisemakers and toss the Head Steward a
thought. Tell him you're scratching your entries."
"But that won't stop the people from losing their money."
"Natch. So next you broadcast a thought that because of this terrible,
grievous error you are refunding their money out of your own pocket since
the Track Association will not or is not obliged to."
He turned to his pair of rattleheads and snarled, "All right. Shut up!"
A mental silence fell that was like the peace of rest after a busy day. As
Barcelona was tossing his cancellation at the Steward and preparing to
make a full and plausible explanation to the gambling instinct of the
Kentucky Derby crowd, I considered the matter carefully:
"Let's see," I thought. "He wants 'em not to run and so he can't complain to
me if they do not. I didn't fix the race, so Lieutenant Delancey can't accuse
me of that. That makes everybody happy, and I win!"
A small hand stole into mine. "How about me, Wally?" Nora asked sweetly.
I looked down at a thionite dream come true by the glow in her eyes that
admired no one else but me. "You're mine," I reminded her, "until Flying
Heels, Moonbeam, and Lady Grace win One, Two, and Three at the
Kentucky Derby."
"Or," she said mischievously, "'Til death do us part!"
I was instructing her how to respond to a kiss as a lady should respond
when about two hundred thousand noisy, exuberant human natures yelled
and radiated and thought: "They're Off!"
But they didn't mean us. They were watching a bunch of long-faced
hayburners chasing one another around a dusty track.
"All right, Joseph. Call off your noisemakers and toss the Head Steward a
thought. Tell him you're scratching your entries."
"But that won't stop the people from losing their money."
"Natch. So next you broadcast a thought that because of this terrible,
grievous error you are refunding their money out of your own pocket since
the Track Association will not or is not obliged to."
He turned to his pair of rattleheads and snarled, "All right. Shut up!"
A mental silence fell that was like the peace of rest after a busy day. As
Barcelona was tossing his cancellation at the Steward and preparing to
make a full and plausible explanation to the gambling instinct of the
Kentucky Derby crowd, I considered the matter carefully:
"Let's see," I thought. "He wants 'em not to run and so he can't complain to
me if they do not. I didn't fix the race, so Lieutenant Delancey can't accuse
me of that. That makes everybody happy, and I win!"
A small hand stole into mine. "How about me, Wally?" Nora asked sweetly.
I looked down at a thionite dream come true by the glow in her eyes that
admired no one else but me. "You're mine," I reminded her, "until Flying
Heels, Moonbeam, and Lady Grace win One, Two, and Three at the
Kentucky Derby."
"Or," she said mischievously, "'Til death do us part!"
I was instructing her how to respond to a kiss as a lady should respond
when about two hundred thousand noisy, exuberant human natures yelled
and radiated and thought: "They're Off!"
But they didn't mean us. They were watching a bunch of long-faced
hayburners chasing one another around a dusty track.
Page 36
Human nature ain't changed a bit. It's just more complicated in an
extrasensory sort of way.
THE END
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from Astounding
Science Fiction December 1959. Extensive
research did not uncover any evidence that the
U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
Minor spelling and typographical errors have
been corrected without note.
extrasensory sort of way.
THE END
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from Astounding
Science Fiction December 1959. Extensive
research did not uncover any evidence that the
U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
Minor spelling and typographical errors have
been corrected without note.
Page 37
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