"I'm Kelly," the boy said. He appeared to be younger than the girl, Pete thought. Perhaps six at the most. Both of them were sweet-looking kids. He was glad to 'have them in his area. "And my sister's name is Jessica. And we have an older sister named Mary Anne who isn't here; she's in San Francisco, in school."

Three children in one family! Impressed, Pete said, "What's your last name?"

"McClain," the girl said. With pride, she said, "My mother and father are the only people in all California with three children."

He could believe that. "I'd like to meet them," he said.

The girl Jessica pointed. "We live there in that house. It's funny you don't know my father, since you're the Bindman. It was my father who organized the street-sweeper and maintenance machines; he talked to the vugs about it and they agreed to send them in."

"You're not afraid of the vugs, are you?" Pete said.

"No." Both children shook their heads.

"We did fight a war with them," he reminded the two children.

"But that was a long time ago," the girl said.

"True," Pete said. "Well, I approve of your attitude." He wished that he shared it.

From the house down the street a slender woman appeared, walking toward them. "Mom!" the girl Jessica called excitedly. "Look, here's the Bindman."

The woman, dark-haired, attractive, wearing slacks and a brightly checkered cotton shirt, lithe and youthful-looking, approached. "Welcome to Marin County," she said to Pete.

"We don't see much of you, Mr. Garden." She held out her hand, and they shook.

"I congratulate you," Pete said.

"For having three children?" Mrs. McClain smiled. "As they say, it's luck. Not skill. How about a cup of coffee before you leave Marin County? After all, you may never be back again."

"I'll be back," Pete said.

"Indeed." The woman did not seem convinced; her handsome smile was tinged with irony. "You know, you're almost a legend to us non-Bs in this area, Mr. Garden. Gosh, we'll be able to liven conversations for weeks to come, telling about our meeting you."

For the life of him Pete could not tell if Mrs. McClain was being sardonic; despite her words, her tone was neutral. She baffled him and he felt confused. "I really will be back," he said. "I've lost Berkeley, where I—"

"Oh," Mrs. McClain said, nodding. Her effective, commanding smile increased. "I see. Bad luck at The Game. That's why you're visiting us."

"I'm on my way to New Mexico," Pete said, and got into his car. "Possibly I'll see you later on." He closed the car door. "Take off," he instructed the auto-auto.

As the car rose the two children waved. Mrs. McClain did not. Why such animosity? Pete wondered. Or had he only imagined it? Perhaps she resented the existence of the two separate groups, Band non-B; perhaps she felt it was unfair that so few people had a chance at the Game-board.

I wouldn't blame her, Pete realized. But she doesn't understand that any moment any one of us can suddenly become non-B. We have only to recall Joe Schilling... once the greatest Bindman in the Western World and now non-B, probably for the rest of his life. The division is not as fixed as all that.

After all, he himself had been non-B once. He had obtained title to real estate the only way legally possible: he had posted his name and then waited for a Bindman somewhere to die. He had followed the rules set up by the vugs, had guessed a particular day, month and year. And sure enough, his guess had been lucky; on May 4, 2143, a Bind-

man named William Rust Lawrence had died, killed in an auto accident in Arizona. And Pete had become his heir, inherited his holdings and entered his Game-playing group.

The vugs, gamblers to the core, liked such chancy systems for inheritance. And they abhorred cause and effect systems.

He wondered what Mrs. McClain's first name was. Certainly she was pretty, he thought. He had liked her despite her peculiar bitter attitude, like the way she looked, carried herself. He wished he knew more about the McClain family; perhaps they had once" been Bindmen and had been wiped out. That would explain it.

I could ask around, he thought. After all, if they have three children they're certainly quite well known. Joe Schilling hears everything. I can ask him.

"SURE," Joseph Schilling said, leading the way through the dusty utter disorder of his record shop to the living quarters behind. "I know Patricia McClain. How'd you happen to run into her?" He turned questioningly.

Pete said, "The McClains are living in my bind." He managed to thread a passage among the piles of records, packing cartons, letters, catalogues and posters from the past. "How do you ever find anything in this place?" he asked Joe Schilling.

"I have a system," Schilling said vaguely. "I'll tell you why Pat McClain's so bitter. She used to be a B, but she was barred from The Game." "Why?"

"Pat's a telepath." Joe Schilling cleared a place at the table in the kitchen and set out two handle-less teacups. "Ooh long tea?" he asked.

"Ah so," Pete said, nodding.

"I've got your Don Pasquale record," Schilling said as he poured tea from a black ceramic pot. "The Schipa aria. Da-

dum da-da da. A beautiful piece." Humming, he produced lemon and sugar from the cupboard over the dish-filled sink. Then, in a low voice, he said, "Look, I've got a customer out front." He winked at Pete and pointed, peering past the dusty, stained curtain which separated the living quarters from the store. Pete saw a tall, skinny youth was examining a tattered, ancient record catalogue. "A nut," Schilling said softly. "Eats yogurt and practices Yoga. And lots of vitamin E—for potency. I get all kinds."

The youth called in a stammering voice, "Say, do you h-have any Claudia Muzio records, Mr. Sc-schilling?"

"Just the Letter Scene from Traviata," Schilling said, making no move to rise from the table.

Pete said, "I found Mrs. McClain physically attractive."

"Oh yes. Very vivacious. But not for you. She's what Jung described as an introverted feeling type; they run deep. They're inclined toward idealism and melancholy. You need a shallow, bright blonde type of woman, someone to cheer you up. Someone to get you out of your suicidal depressions that you're always either falling into or out of." Schilling sipped his tea, a few drops spattering his reddish, thick beard. "Well? Say something. Or are you in a depression right now?"

"No," Pete said.

In the front of the store the tall, skinny youth called, "M-mr. Schilling, can I listen to this Gigli record of Una Furtiva Lagrima?"

"Sure," Schilling said. He hummed that, absently, scratching his cheek. "Pete," he said, "you know, rumors get to me. I hear you've lost Berkeley."

"Yes," Pete admitted. "And Matt Pendleton Associates—"

"That would be Lucky Jerome Luckman," Schilling said. "Oy vey, he's a hard man in The Game; I ought to know. Now he'll be sitting in with your group and pretty soon he'll own all of California."

"Can't anybody play against Luckman and beat him?"

"Sure." Joe Schilling nodded. "I can."

Pete stared at him. "You're serious? But he wiped you out; you're a classic case!"

"Just bad luck," Schilling said. "If I had had more title deeds to put up, if I had been able to stay in a little longer—" He smiled a bleak, crooked smile. "Bluff's a fascinating game. Like poker, it combines chance and skill equally; you can win by either, or lose by either. I lost by the former, on a single bad run—actually, on a single lucky guess by Luckman."

"Not skill on his part."

"Hell no! Luckman is to luck as I am to skill; we ought to be called Luckman and Skillman. If I ever get a stake and can start again..." Joe Schilling abruptly belched. "Sorry."