"You believe him? A vug?"

"He's a good vug. Didn't you grasp that point?" Stuart Marks tapped Pete urgently on the shoulder. "That was the whole point you were trying to make to us, wasn't it?"

"I don't know," Pete said. He really didn't, now. He was worn-out. Let me drink my drink in peace, the thought, and turned his back once more on the roomful of arguing men and women. He wished Joe Schilling would arrive.

"Let them in this once, I say. It's for our own protection; we're not playing against each other, we're all on the same side in this, playing against the vug-bugs. And they can read our minds so they automatically win unless we can come up with something new. And anything new would have to be derived from the two Psi-people, right? Because where else is it going to come from? Straight ozone?"

"We can't play against vugs. They'll just laugh at us. Look, they got six of us right here in this room to gang together and kill Jerome Luckman; if they can do that—"

"Not me. I wasn't one of the six."

"But it could have been. They just didn't happen to choose you."

"Anyhow, if you read the article in the homeopape you know the vugs mean business. They slaughtered Luckman and that detective Hawthorne and kidnapped Pete Garden and then—"

"But newspapers exaggerate."

"Aw, there's no use talking to you." Jack Blau stalked away; he appeared beside Pete and said, "When are they getting here? These two Psi-people."

Pete said, "Any time now."

Coming up, slipping her smooth, bare arm through his, Carol said, "What are you drinking, darling?"

"Canadian whiskey."

"Everyone's been congratulating me," Carol said. "About the baby. Except of course Freya. And I think even she would, except—"

"Except she can't stand the idea," Pete said.

"Do you actually think it's been the vugs—or at least a segment of them—who've been keeping our birthrate down?"

"Yes," Pete said.

"So if we win, our birthrate might go up."

He nodded.

"And our cities would have something in them besides a billion Rushmore circuits all saying, 'Yes sir, no sir.'" Carol squeezed his arm.

Pete said, "And if we don't win, there pretty soon won't be any births on our planet at all. And the race will die out."

"Oh." She nodded wanly.

"It's a big responsibility," Freya Garden Gaines said, from behind him. "To hear you tell it, anyhow."

Pet shrugged.

"And Joe was on Titan, too? You both were?"

"Joe and I and Laird Sharp," Pete said.

"Instantly."

"Yes."

"Quaint," Freya said.

Pete said, "Get away."

"I'm not going to vote to admit the two Psi-people," Freya said. "I can tell you that now, Pete."

"You're an idiot, Mrs. Gaines," Laid Sharp said; he had been standing nearby, listening. "I can tell you that, at least. Anyhow, I think you'll be outvoted."

"You're fighting against a tradition," Freya said. "People don't lightly and easily set aside one hundred years."

"Not even to save their species?" Laird Sharp asked her.

"No one's seen these Game-playing Titans except Joe Schilling and you," Freya said. "Even Pete doesn't claim to have seen them."

"They exist," Sharp said quietly. "And you'd better believe it. Because soon you're going to see them, too."

Carrying his glass, Pete walked through the apartment and outside, into the cool California evening air; he stood

by himself in the semi-darkness, his drink in his hand, waiting. He did not know for what. For Joe Schilling and Mary Anne to arrive? Perhaps that was it.

Or perhaps it was for something else, something even more meaningful to him than that. I'm waiting for The Game to begin, he said to himself. The last Game we Terrans may ever play.

He was waiting for the Titanian Game-players to arrive.

He thought, Patricia McClain is dead, but in a sense she never really existed; what I saw was a simulacrum, a fake. What I was in love with, if that's the proper word ... it wasn't there anyhow, so how can I really say I've lost it? You have to possess it first to lose it.

Anyhow we can't think about that, he decided. We've got other matters to worry about. Doctor Philipson said that the Game-players are moderates; it's an irony that what we ultimately have to defeat is not the fringe of extremists but the great center group itself. Maybe it's just as well; we're taking on the core of their civilization, vugs not like E. G. Philipson but more like E. B. Black. The reputable ones. The ones who play by the rules.

That's all we can count on, Pete realized, the fact that these players are law-abiding. If they weren't, if they were like Philipson and the McClains—

We would not be facing them across a Game-board. They would simply kill us, as they killed Luckman and Hawthorne, and that would be that.

A car descended, now, its headlights flashing; it came to rest at the curb, behind the other cars, and its lights switched off. The door opened and shut and a single figure, a man, came striding toward Pete.

Who was this? He strained to see, not recognizing him.

"Hi," the man said. "I dropped by. After I read the article in the homeopape. It looks interesting, here. No fnool, I say, buddy-friend. Correct?"

"Who are you?" Pete said.

The man said coolly, "You don't recognize me? I thought everyone knew who I am. Awop, awop woom. May I sit in on your group, tonight. Buddy, buddy, buddy; I know I'd enjoy it." He approached the porch, stood now beside Pete,

his movements confident and alert, hand extended. "I'm Nats Katz."

Bill Calumine said, "Of course you can sit in on our Game, Mr. Katz. It's an honor to have you here." He waved the members of Pretty Blue Fox into momentary silence. "This is the world-renowned disc jokey and recording star Nats Katz, whom we all watch on TV; he's asked to sit in on our meeting tonight. Does anybody mind?"

The group was watching, uncertain how to react.

What was it Mary Anne had said about Katz? Pete thought. Is Nats Katz the center of all this? he had asked her. And she had said yes. And, at the time, it had seemed true.

Pete said, "Wait."

Turning, Bill Calumine said, "Surely there's no valid reason to object to this man's presence here. I can't believe you'd seriously—"

"Wait until Mary Anne gets here," Pete said. "Let her decide about Katz."

"She's not even a part of the group," Freya Gaines said.

There was silence.

"If he comes in," Pete said, "I go out."

"Out where?" Calumine said.

Pete said nothing.

"A girl who isn't even part of our group—" Calumine began.

"What's your basis for opposing him?" Stuart Marks asked Pete. "Is it rational? Something you are able to express?" They were all watching him, now, wondering what his reason was.

Pete said, "We're in a much worse position than any of you realize. There's very little chance that we can win against our opponents."

"So?" Stuart Marks said. "What's that have to do—"

"I think," Pete said, "that Katz is on their side."

After a moment Nats Katz laughed. He was handsome, dark, with sensuous lips and strong, intelligent eyes. "That's a new one," he said. "I've been accused of just about everything, but hardly that. Awop woom! I was born in Chicago, Mr. Garden. I assure you; I'm a Terran. Woom, woom, woom!" His round, animated face radiated a potent cheer-

fulness. Katz did not seem offended, only surprised. "What will you see, my birth certificate? You know, buddy-friend Garden woom, I really am well-known here and there, no fnool. If I were a vug it probably would have come to light before now. Wouldn't you think? Correct?"

Pete sipped his drink; his hands, he found, were shaking. Have I lost contact with reality? he asked himself. Maybe so. Maybe I never fully recovered from my binge, my temporary psychotic interlude. Am I the person to judge about Katz?