“No! You can’t leave me. I love you,” she cried, and grabbed the chain around my neck, wrenching it free. “You’ll stay with me. I need you to love me. I know you do.”
It was true. I knew it deep in my soul. I couldn’t leave. I needed to stay. I loved her, both on my own and because she wanted me to. Even though I knew why it was happening I couldn’t alter the way I suddenly felt. I took her in my arms and held her tightly, nuzzling her perfect neck. I was staying with her, I told myself, staying. I softly kissed my way up to her ear and whispered her trigger phrase.
“Pistachio Isis.”
She slumped against me, deeply entranced, and the emotional barrage vanished. I carried her to the bed and looked at her. I was tempted. I could have left her with a suggestion that she accept responsibility for what had happened, and maybe it would have worked. But if I’ve learned anything over the years it’s that in the long run you can’t really change another person’s mind. We do it ourselves or not at all. She was wealthy and beautiful and powerful, and exercising her conscience didn’t fit in with her lifestyle.
So I took the easy way out. I left my Baroness with the suggestion to sleep deeply and to think about the events of the past days when she awoke. Maybe she’ll surprise us both. Then I took the medallion from her fingers and slipped it into my pocket, gathered up my buffalo dog and headed for the spaceport and the next transport off Brunzibar. I spent the next few weeks convincing myself that my time with Calinda hadn’t been the real thing but was just a cavalier fling. And why not? She didn’t have a monopoly on denial.
The Matter At Hand
One of the problems I've had with writing the Amazing Conroy goes back to the first story. Conroy's a rogue, well-meaning, good-hearted, but happy to take advantage of a situation when it presents itself. He's a good guy who's been working in some pretty seedy venues, waiting for his big break. By the end of the story, he's had that break, and he's on his way to being a gazillionaire!
The problem of course is finding new conflict for the character, because making him filthy rich has removed all of the obstacles of his past life. I eventually solved this problem for good, but for that you need to read the novel Buffalito Destiny. In the meantime, one of my short term solutions was to give Conroy some other characters to play off of, and thus was born Left-John Mocker. I really like the Mocker, and not just because he works so well as Conroy's straight man, but because he's a fully realized character in his own right. Little of his backstory is revealed to the reader in this story, but because I had to work it all out for myself, he brings a certain verisimilitude to the tale that allows Conroy to reveal a bit of his own depth. I'll always be grateful to the big lug for that.
Never play cards with a telepath. Quarter-ante poker once a week with the boys is harmless, even fun. But the game takes on a very different feel when the stakes involve a half-billion credit contract and your opponent can read your mind.
A week ago I’d been sitting at the head of a boardroom table; a dozen lawyers down either side ignored me as they haggled and bickered over the fine points of a complex contract. The sound of it gave me a headache, but I didn’t dare leave. I sat there, my eyes half closed, and fed bits of delicate fractal pastry to Reggie, the pet buffalo dog on my lap. It was that classic Terran tableau, a man and his dog. Well, almost. Buffalo dogs aren’t dogs at all, but incredibly valuable alien lifeforms, far too expensive to have as pets. Reggie was the exception, possible only because I had a monopoly on the creatures throughout human space. That’s why the lawyers were there.
Half worked for me. The rest represented a Taurian archaeological consortium from Arcadian space. In between bits of pastry I tried to follow the three or four simultaneous exchanges of legalese bouncing from left to right faster, and in more dead earnest, than any championship tennis match. I understood maybe one word in ten. Maybe. My head throbbed, and I was already regretting my promise to Betsy that I’d sit in for her.
While I’d come a long way from my days as a stage hypnotist, I’m not really equipped to run things at my company. I usually leave that chore to Dr. Elizabeth Penrose, a woman with more talent in her big toe than I have in my whole family tree. Ordinarily she’d be the one sitting in on this kind of meeting, right in the thick of it, squeezing concessions and favorable terms out of the opposition until they begged her to stop. There’d be no begging this time. An outbreak of Skurlian influenza had left her stranded in a temporarily quarantined spaceport on the other side of the solar system. The meeting couldn’t be rescheduled. Instead, she’d sent me a curt note instructing me to go to the meeting but keep my mouth shut.
My initial excitement about learning a bit about how my business actually worked quickly faded when the lawyer babble began. Even Reggie had tired of all the blather. In desperation I’d started entertaining myself by trying out the new gizmo the guys down in Security had given me. I wore a thick gold ring set with tiny dials on my left pinkie, a surveillance jammer that could block all data transmissions in a ten-meter radius. About ten minutes into the meeting, when the lawyer prattle had saturated my boredom filters and Reggie had started to fidget, I turned it on. Several of the lawyers on both sides twitched and shot to their feet, glancing about furtively. I continued petting Reggie with an expression of total innocence honed from years performing in some pretty seedy establishments. I don’t think I fooled any of them. With nary a grumble they adapted, downgraded to legal pads and ink sticks, and resumed their intense negotiating.
Tiresome as it was, I knew why Betsy had wanted me to sit in. Dealing with Taurians is tricky; maybe it’s just human projection, but the bullish-looking aliens tend to be both stubborn and hot-tempered. It had taken months to get their lawyers this far, and with the end nearly in sight Betsy expected some last minute trick and wanted someone with authority there just in case. Regrettably, that someone was me.
The voices of the lawyers drifted in and out of my consciousness as they argued about leasing buffalo dogs. The thing you have to keep in mind is that buffalo dogs can eat anything. At first glance this might not seem a particularly marketable talent, let alone one that had made me a fortune in just a couple of years, but it was just what the Taurians needed. Their consortium was trying to excavate priceless artifacts buried beneath tons of toxic waste. The effluvia had proven too corrosive for conventional hardware and too deadly for traditional field operatives to extract. They’d already lost time and equipment and personnel trying.
My company offered them the perfect solution. In a few weeks time we had trained a trio of buffalitos to not only enjoy the taste of the noxious soup, but to eagerly lap up the mess, and delicately nibble their way down through more than ten meters of the stuff, and then lick the artifacts clean without harming them in the slightest. The relics reclaimed during the demonstration had dazzled the consortium and all that remained was for the lawyers to finalize the contracts. The Taurians wanted to lease one hundred trained buffalo dogs over a five year period. It should have been a simple matter after that, but the lawyers seemed to want at least as much time for their negotiations.
Suddenly, three little words cut through the miasma of lethargy that engulfed me. “Everything is satisfactory,” said the Taurian spokesperson for the consortium’s team. I blinked repeatedly, like a condemned prisoner in disbelief upon hearing he’s been pardoned. My heart sang, this exercise in boredom was finally coming to and end. Then, just as quickly, the song soured as the Taurian continued. “If you agree, then Seljor Thu wishes to add a single condition.”
I sat there, numb. The fractal pastry fell from my fingers. Reggie bleated in annoyance, his lips nipping at my fingertips. Seljor Thu ran the Arcadian consortium. He was my opposite number, but unlike me he knew what he was doing. I set Reggie on the carpet so he could get at his snack and leaned in, giving all of my attention to the lawyers.
“Seljor Thu is an accomplished player of cards. He wishes to play a single hand of Matter with your CEO.” The Taurian spokesman n
odded to me, and then returned his attention to my lawyers. “If he wins, instead of leasing the buffalo dogs to our consortium you will sell them outright for the same price. If he loses, the consortium will lease by the terms you have offered, but will also provide testimonials and documents of introduction to no fewer than fifteen alien concerns currently leasing buffalo dogs from your competitors, the Arconi.”
My lawyers’ stunned silence lasted several seconds, followed by an explosion of dismissive remarks and comments about irregularities, absurdities, and questionable alien senses of humor. When they quieted down again the consortium’s spokesperson quietly added, “Seljor Thu has instructed me to tell you this is, as you say, a ‘deal-breaker’.”
And right then and there I had one of those moments of total clarity where time seems to stand still. You know what I’m talking about, the kind of instant normally reserved for situations where something horrible is about to happen or when you suddenly realize you’re looking at the one true love of your life. The particulars were different, but the magnitude of the situation was the same; I was at a choice point. My company, my life, could be irreversibly transformed by what happened in the next instant, if I could only figure out the right thing to do.
I only knew one thing for certain: Taurians didn’t bluff.
It wasn’t about the money; being wealthy was still new enough to me that none of it seemed real anyway. Losing would hurt the company, possibly even cripple it. Even with litters of five or six buffalitos, replacing and training one hundred of them would be a tremendous strain on a young company’s resources. Hell, filling this five year contract was going to be a tremendous train on our resources. Which is why I felt certain that Betsy, smart pragmatic Betsy, would consider the risk too great and step away from the table. Thanks, but no deal.
But I wasn’t Betsy. I couldn’t stop thinking about the unparalleled opportunity. The contract with Seljor Thu established a precedent. His consortium had approached us with our first contract outside human space. There’d been feelers before, from other races, other conglomerates and corporations, but dealing with the first humans in the buffalo dog trade made them skittish. They all wanted what we offered, but none of them wanted to go first. The contract with the Taurians held the possibility of opening up markets limitations of human space. Seljor Thu knew that, and his offer to provide introductions to other alien corporations would launch Buffalogic, Inc. to stellar heights. Suddenly I was grateful Betsy’d missed her ship. She’d have walked away from such high stakes, but there was no way I was going to let the potential windfall slip through my fingers because of a card game.
I slapped both hands flat on the table, startling all the lawyers and causing them to look my way. “Make the deal,” I said. Then I scooped up Reggie and exited the room as quickly before I could second guess myself. Betsy was going to kill me, but it would all be over, one way or the other, long before she got back.
The game was called ‘Matter’ because of the four states of play, but the professional gamblers I knew liked to call it Telepath’s Poker. It was a complicated game, or more accurately four games in one. Imagine a traditional game of High-Low Poker in which you’re trying to make both the best high hand and the best low hand you can, using your cards and, if you dared, the cards in a dummy hand common to both players. Now imagine that instead of just high and low you’re trying for four good combinations, based on four different sets of rules, criteria, and objectives, arbitrarily named solid, liquid, gaseous, and plasma. To make things trickier, although you could express a preference among the four modes of your hand, the end result depended upon what your opponent declared for his hand, as well as the value of the common cards.
The game had one other kink. Beyond the rules of play there were no rules. None. It was one of the few games of chance in the galaxy open to telepaths and they flocked to it. Knowing your opponents’ hand and/or the mode of play wasn’t a lock, the complexities of the game and the luck of the draw kept it interesting, even among telepaths.
As often happens with such things, the game had become something of a fad, a badge of status, among certain captains of industry, particularly those with one form or another of telepathic gifts. I possessed no such gifts, but I had other resources available to me. Ten minutes after leaving the boardroom, Reggie and I were seated in the back of the company limo on our way to Newer Jersey. I had a favor to call in.
“You’re asking me to teach you how to cheat?” Left-John Mocker glared at me from across the back corner table of the Golden Turtle Palace. He loomed even while sitting, more like a bear than a full-blooded Comanche. His features looked carved in red sandstone, a large hawk-like nose, deep-set eyes beneath a thick broad forehead. His lips formed a tight, accusatory scowl.
I ignored the question and instead focused my attention on the bowl of fortune cookies halfway around the spinnable inner table. I reached out, gave the lazy-susan a half turn, and helped myself to a prophetic dessert.
YOU HAVE A NATURAL TALENT
FOR MAKING PEOPLE
DO WHAT YOU WANT.
I crumpled the fortune in my hand and looked up. Left-John hadn’t moved. “I’m not asking you to teach me how to cheat. I’m asking you to teach me how you play.”
“So you’re saying that I cheat?” The tone of his voice contained a warning. I ignored it.
“John, we’re not talking about Stud or Hold’em. This is Matter. Everyone who plays it cheats. And you’ve not only played it, you’re one of only seven ranked human players.”
That mollified him. He leaned back and his features moved from hostile-neutral to simply neutral. It made me wonder just how many poker faces the man had.
“What’s in it for me?” he asked and gave the inner table a spin, bringing the fortune cookies within reach. He selected one, broke it in half and unfolded the fortune as he chewed the fragments of the cookie.
Reggie lay curled up on a nearby booster seat. He had polished off a huge plate of Quizzical Shrimp Suspense that Left-John had thoughtfully had waiting for him, and then fallen asleep. Tiny whistling snores played in the background of the conversation.
“I’m prepared to pay a reasonable fee,” I started, but John cut me off with a sweep of one hand.
“I don’t want your money, Conroy. We go back a long way, and you should know me better than that. I’m a gambler. I don’t work for a living. Don’t insult me again by suggesting otherwise.”
I shrugged. “Sorry. Throwing money at problems is a new habit I’ve picked up. Betsy’s been trying to discourage me from it too. Okay, so, um, how about doing this for me because you owe me?”
He laughed at that, laughed with his whole body. It was like watching a grizzly bear laugh. Right before it knocked your head off with the swipe of one massive paw.
“You’re going to try and hold that little incident on Canopus over me?” He smiled as he said it, but I knew his smile could mean anything.
“That little incident cost you a broken arm and the affections of a very talented hat-check girl, as I recall. Not to mention my losing four performances and a month’s pay when I had to sneak you onto a freighter.”
Left-John had picked up another cookie. He crushed it at my reply and his face went cold again. “Are we back to money?”
“No,” I sighed.
“Good. Because you ended up with that girl after my freighter took off.”
He had me. I didn’t know how he’d found out what had happened after that freighter had left, but I’d been more than repaid at the time. I was down to my last reason. “How about you just do it, as a favor to an old friend?”
Left-John Mocker opened his fist, letting bits and pieces of cookie fall to the table. He gazed at the fortune and then looked up at me. “Did you rig the fortunes?” His tone made it clear, he was asking a question not making an accusation.
I shook my head. “You picked the restaurant,” I said. “I’ve never been here before.”
He grunted once, and
pushed the fortune from his first cookie to me.
YOU HAVE A TALENT
FEW MEN POSSESS. SHARE IT.
“One of the things you learn as a gambler,” he said, “is to shut up and listen when the universe is trying to tell you something.” He crumpled the other fortune in his hand and tossed it at me. I caught it and unfolded the slip of paper.
AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE
WILL SEEK YOU OUT.
AID HIM.
I couldn’t keep myself from smiling. “Timing is everything,” I said.
“Ain’t it the truth.”
Every night for the next week I met with Left-John Mocker at the Golden Turtle Palace. It turned out he was part owner. He’d won a quarter share in the place during a card game the year before, and made a point to eat there whenever he was on Earth. Over plates of Imperial Cashew Decadence, Drowning Man’s Beef, and Flaming Duck of Good Fortune I learned the basics of Matter. I’m a quick study, and my teacher grudgingly admitted that in time I might be able to hold my own against other human, non-telepathic players. The praise was small consolation for the twin facts that the game was mere days away and my opponent was an alien.
All week long I’d studiously ignored the daily clamor of Betsy’s interplanetary memos urging me to “abort abort abort.” Meanwhile, my staff had compiled information on Seljor Thu. Telepathic gifts of one kind or another show up in nearly one percent of all Taurians, but so far none of the information I’d received indicated if my opponent was just an executive game fancier or had the ability to pull the cards from my mind. I mentioned my concern to John, but he just shrugged it off.
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