by Jack Vance
Shaking his fist and expostulating, the old man staggered off down the avenue. Moncrief drew a deep sigh and smiled affably at the company. “I take it that everyone is ready for the game? One moment, then.” He stepped behind the girls, collected their flamboys and placed them into sockets at the side of the stage. “Now then, all is in order! Girls, girls, on the alert! One, two, and hey presto; off we go!”
Flook, Pook and Snook turned their rings so as to conceal the stones, then jumped down from the drums, to clasp hands and whirl around in a circle, tossing their heads low, then high, like a trio of young maenads. They broke apart, turned, twisted, swung around each other, mingling in a confusion of lithe young bodies, then once again broke apart, and marched to form a line at the front of the platform, where they stood grinning in triumph. Which was Flook? Which was Pook? Which was Snook?
Moncrief stepped forward. He spoke dolefully, “Today I feel the pressure of bad luck; but I am driven by Destiny and cannot turn back. So who will wager ten sols on what amounts to giveaway money? You need only point out Flook, or Pook, or Snook with accuracy; what could be easier? Come then, lay down your wager. I suggest ten sols, or more if you are so disposed.”
Wingo muttered to Maloof: “At the far right stands Pook! Is this your opinion as well?”
Maloof shrugged. “I was not watching. I have no opinion.”
Schwatzendale told Wingo, “If you are sure, bet!”
Wingo hesitated, but, before he could move, a gentleman stepped forward and laid five sols on the platform in front of the girl in the center. “This is Pook! Pay me my money!”
The girl in the center displayed a ruby. “I am Flook.”
“Ha ha!” cried Moncrief, scooping up the five sols. “I fear, sir, that you were inattentive. To win, you must watch carefully!”
The girls climbed back upon the drums. Wingo proudly told Maloof: “I was right! The girl I named as Pook now stands on the middle drum.”
“That is good work!” said Maloof. “You have a keen eye.”
“True. My training as an art-photographer is responsible.”
Moncrief called for another game. “Hey, presto! Down and about! Let the patterns of Destiny play themselves out!”
The girls performed their evolutions as before: twisting and winding through a confusion of arms, legs, agile torsos, finally to array themselves in a line, where they stood panting and grinning.
Moncrief called: “Now then! Which of you will place his modest ten-sol wager?”
Wingo bravely marched forward. “I hereby bet one sol upon the identity of this person!” He carefully placed the money upon the platform. Moncrief peered down at the coin. “What is this? Your allowance for the week?”
“Not at all! Under the circumstances, it is all I care to risk.”
Moncrief gave a sigh of resignation. “Ah well, just as you like! Name the girl whom you have identified.”
Wingo tapped one of the girls on the knee. “I declare this person to be Pook!” He took her hand and looked at the emerald of her ring. “I am correct.”
“So it seems,” grumbled Moncrief. He paid Wingo a sol. “You should have gambled with more audacity.”
“Possibly so.”
“Well, no matter; we are wasting valuable time. Girls, back up on your drums, where you perch so prettily!”
A new game proceeded. Wingo decided to enrich himself at Moncrief’s expense and bet five sols. On this occasion the girl he identified as ‘Pook’ showed a sapphire ring and declared herself to be ‘Snook’. Wingo looked on glumly as his money was taken up.
Moncrief set a new game into motion. After the usual evolutions the girls formed a line and Moncrief called out for wagers.
Myron turned suddenly to Schwatzendale. “I have broken the code! The girl on the right is Pook!”
“Oh? How so?”
“She is grinning and I can see the glint of her right upper canine tooth!”
“Bah!” said Schwatzendale. “All are grinning and all are showing their teeth. That is not the answer!”
Myron scowled. “Well then, what of you? Can you pick out one from the other?”
Schwatzendale glanced at the girls. “I should think so.”
“Then why do you not play the game?”
Schwatzendale made an airy gesture. “Perhaps I will, in due course. Look yonder, over by the green dervishes: surely it is Joss Garwig and his family, including Tibbet, whom you seem to fancy.”
Myron shrugged. “To a certain extent.”
The Garwigs turned away from the jumping dervishes and their heavy-voiced songs. They noticed the group from the Glicca and crossed the compound to Moncrief’s pavilion. There was an interchange of greetings; then, in response to Vermyra’s question, Wingo explained the nature of Moncrief’s game. Vermyra was fascinated. She turned to Garwig. “The girls are exactly alike; I can’t tell them apart! What of you?”
Garwig laughed confidently. “I’m sure I could find a clue if I chose to do so.” He addressed Maloof: “Have you had a go yet?”
“Not I. The odds are too long.”
“Sensible man! I hope that you are enjoying the fair?”
“Yes; it’s clean and orderly, and the only evidence of venality seems to be Moncrief.”
Garwig inclined his head, pleased that Maloof had validated his own views.
Vermyra cried out enthusiastically: “The floral displays are exquisite, and I very much enjoyed those clever little dervishes; they are truly quaint!”
Garwig said: “I was even more impressed with the stilt-dancers. I have never before seen such skill! They stride around on twelve-foot stilts, jumping, hopping, dancing, pirouetting on a single stilt! Their costumes are flamboyant: red and gold and purple, with long skirts and pantaloons draping far down their stilts, as if they were princes of Bjorkland! They danced the most complicated steps — polkas, saltarellos, and the like, with precision and utter grace. Sometimes they are led by a pair of Grand Masters on thirty-foot stilts; we watched them dancing the Formby Rounds.”
“It was really a splendid sight!” declared Vermyra.
Garwig said: “All in all, the festival has maintained commendable standards.”
“Except for that tawdry ‘Tunnel of Love’,” said Vermyra with a sniff. “I’m sure it’s not at all nice, with all sorts of tasteless things going on.”
“So it could be,” said Garwig with a laugh. “Maybe we should send Mirl to investigate.”
“Hmmf!” sniffed Vermyra. “Mirl has too much self-respect for a visit to such a place.”
“Send me instead!” said Tibbet. “I have no self-respect whatever.”
“Hush!” snapped Vermyra. “You should not talk like that, even in fun! One day someone whom you revere will hear you, and you will have lost your most precious possession.”
“My what?”
“By that, I mean your reputation!”
“I will give the matter some thought,” said Tibbet.
2
Moncrief requested the girls do their routine once again. A gentleman placed a small wager upon the identity of Flook. The ruby in her ring proved him correct.
Moncrief cried out in woe. “Luck is against me! I shall be a pauper if I play this game for long! Girls, let us continue! With full energy!”
Sportsman after sportsman marched up to the platform to lay down his money and identify one or another of the girls. Sometimes the contestants won; more often they were proved incorrect by the flash of Flook’s ruby, or Pook’s emerald, or Snook’s sapphire. Some accepted defeat with resignation; others deplored their bad luck, and glowered toward Moncrief, who remained equable. At times he tried to console the victim, stating his belief that their bad luck could not last forever and that they were welcome to try the game again. One such contestant, a civic official named Eban Doskoy, had lost the game three times in a row, but each loss only seemed to intensify his will to win. Doskoy, a short sturdy man of middle years, with a square pugnacious face
framed in short russet curls, could not accept defeat easily. Three times he laid down a wager of five sols and had identified Snook, only to be confronted with Flook’s ruby, then Pook’s emerald, then once again the ruby. After the third loss he slowly raised his head and fixed his steel blue eyes upon Moncrief. “There is something peculiar going on,” said Doskoy. “It eludes my intellectual grasp.”
Moncrief said politely, “My dear sir, all is open and above-board, as you can see for yourself!”
“So it appears. But — if only to speculate — suppose that you were able to augment your winnings by means of some mechanical device?”
Moncrief laughed. “I would be pleased to discover such a device — though, naturally, I would never use it to the detriment of my clients.”
“Well said! Still, I have noticed that when the wager is small, you occasionally lose, but seldom otherwise.”
Moncrief’s smile became fixed. “Coincidence only. I am here; the girls are there, you are where you now stand. We occupy the corners of a triangle, without intervening connection. Your suspicions are illusory.”
“But, what if you were able to circumvent such an arrangement by the use of a magnetic ray?”
“Then I would be a wealthy man. Since I am not wealthy, your ray is either imaginary, or I am honest. That is a syllogism, in its purest form.”
“Very well,” said Doskoy through a tight-lipped grimace. “Let us try another game, using proper precautions.”
“As you like,” said Moncrief with dignity.
Doskoy turned his back on Moncrief. He inserted money into an envelope, then wrote a name on a slip of paper, then tucked the paper into the envelope. He turned to Flook. “Your left hand, if you please.”
Flook shrugged, then extended her left hand. On the inside of the ring finger, just above the band of the ring, Doskoy drew a small circle. He went to Pook and did the same, inditing a small cross rather than a circle. On Snook’s finger he drew a square crossed by a diagonal. “Now then,” said Doskoy, “we shall proceed. In the envelope is my wager and the name of the girl I shall designate after you complete your cantabulations.” He placed the envelope on the platform, and stood back. “You may proceed.”
Moncrief spoke to Flook, Pook and Snook. “Girls, sadly enough, we have here a man who doubts our bona fides. We shall take no offense, but proceed as usual. Hey presto! Let it happen, with a will!”
Schwatzendale said to Maloof, “The gentleman is no fool. I admit that similar thoughts crossed my mind, until I saw their absurdity. Moncrief needs no tricks; he has the laws of chance at his beck and call.”
Joss Garwig asked, “What of you? Are you planning to bet?”
“Conceivably! The doors of opportunity are open; I shall take my long deferred revenge upon Moncrief the Mouse-rider.”
“Then you have solved the mystery?”
“So I believe.”
“What, then, is the secret?”
“Aha!” Schwatzendale showed one of his slantwise grins. “You must be observant! If I told you, Moncrief would know at once!”
The girls had formed their line. Moncrief said politely to Doskoy: “Sir, the conditions are as you have arranged them. Can you now make your identification?”
Doskoy stepped forward, tapped the knee of the girl in the center. “This is she whom I have named in the envelope.”
“Well then! Let us see!” Moncrief took up the envelope, withdrew first ten sols, then the strip of paper. He read the name aloud. “He has named Flook.” Moncrief looked toward the girl in the middle: “If you are Flook you wear a ruby ring and a circle. Is this the case?”
The girl said, “No! I am Pook! I wear an emerald and a cross. The gentleman has made an unfortunate mistake.”
Doskoy took up the girl’s hand, stared dumbfounded at the emerald and the cross. He pulled at his russet beard, then looked up at Moncrief. He muttered, “It is past my understanding. I will play no more.”
Moncrief spoke in fulsome tones: “Do not reproach yourself! I, for one, find your conduct both gallant and commendable; no more need be said.”
Doskoy grunted, swung away and strode off up the avenue.
Moncrief turned to the girls. “Back up on your drums, if you please! Other sportsmen have been inspired by Doskoy’s example and now await their turn! Who will be next?”
Schwatzendale argued with himself. Has the time arrived at last? Or should he prolong the suspense, in order that the drama might ripen? He inclined first one way, then the other, but in the end he was influenced by a dictum of the mad poet Navarth: “When opportunity comes fleeting past, seize it by the heels before it seizes you!”
Schwatzendale sidled forward. “The time has come when I must play the game!” he told Moncrief. “I have developed a mathematical equation, which specifies that I attempt five trials, increasing my wager at each trial. That is my intent, if you are agreeable?”
Moncrief bowed with smiling affability. “My dear sir, you may test your equation as you like. How will you wager?”
Schwatzendale advanced to the platform and placed down a sum of money. “I hereby wager exactly four sols and seventy-six dinkets.”
Moncrief frowned up toward the sky. “That is an odd number! I suspect that somewhere, symbolic significance might be at work.”
“So it might be,” said Schwatzendale. “I am ready.”
“Then, hey presto! Down, around and about; let the money flow like wine!”
The girls performed their routine permutations and lined themselves in a row.
“Now then:” cried Moncrief. “Let us test your equation! Show me a girl and call out her name!”
“I wonder,” mused Schwatzendale. “Which shall it be? Flook? Pook? Or Snook?” He looked over his slip of paper. “I will specify Flook. She is the girl in the middle!”
Flook showed her ruby ring. Moncrief cried out: “The equation is valid! You are right!” He paid off the wager. “And now?”
Schwatzendale consulted his notes. “The factor of ten is applied, and the wager becomes forty-seven sols and sixty dinkets.”
“That is another peculiar sum,” Moncrief mused. “Do you apply the factor of ten to each successive wager?”
“Correct,” said Schwatzendale. “Let the game proceed!”
“As you wish.” Moncrief signalled the girls. “Hoy! Hoop! Hoop! Huzza! Up, around and over!”
The girls formed a line. Schwatzendale said, “I nominate Pook, with the emerald ring, standing at the far left!”
Pook displayed the green gem. Moncrief gave a small grunt of vexation. “Right once again! How much was the wager?”
“Forty-seven sols and sixty dinkets.”
“Ah yes, just so.” Moncrief sighed. “I will pay forty-eight sols, since I am not a man for paltry trifles. You may keep the change.”
Schwatzendale shook his head. “I am bound by mathematical rigor! Here is forty dinkets, and now we shall play another game.”
Moncrief pulled at his chin. “And you will use the factor of ten?”
“Of course! I now wager four hundred and seventy-six sols and no dinkets!”
Moncrief’s shoulders sagged. He gave three sharp coughs and thumped his chest smartly: once, twice, three times. At the back of the platform Siglaf and Hunzel took up heavy mauls and struck a gong. “Ah, too bad!” cried Moncrief. “The afternoon session has come to an end! However, be of good cheer! For the keener sportsmen among you, we now offer a new cycle of games. I call your attention to the gaming tank beside the platform. It has now been uncovered and you will see that it contains a viscous substance resembling mud, to a depth of four feet. This tank is the special province of our brave Klutes, Siglaf and Hunzel, who will help with the new contests.”
Vermyra had become bored and restive. She spoke to Garwig: “Haven’t we been here long enough? It is definitely time that we were leaving!”
Garwig sighed and made a tentative suggestion: “The new contests might be amusing.”
&n
bsp; “Pish! In the presence of mud, I expect only the gratification of morbid sexual fantasies.”
“No doubt you are right,” sighed Garwig.
Vermyra gave a brisk nod. “Come then. Mirl? Tibbet? We are about to go.”
“Any time you are ready,” said Mirl.
Vermyra looked from right to left. “Where is Tibbet? This is truly vexing! We are on the point of leaving, and she is nowhere to be seen!”
Mirl looked blankly this way and that, then said: “Oh yes, I remember now! She and Myron went off together.”
Vermyra stared dumbfounded. “What! She said nothing of this to me! Where did they go?”
Mirl shrugged. “They mentioned the Tunnel of Love, but I can’t say that they were serious. Still, it’s a possibility! Myron said that they might take dinner out, and not to worry if they weren’t back till late.”
For a moment Vermyra could not speak for shock. Regaining her composure, she turned upon Garwig and gave him his instructions. He must instantly set off and track down the miscreants. Myron must be treated to a stern reprimand and Tibbet taken into parental custody.
Garwig agreed in principle, but pointed out practical difficulties. In the end, after evasiveness and logic both failed him, Garwig flatly refused to obey Vermyra’s commands. She cried out, “In that case, I will find them myself, no matter what the effort!”
“You must do as you think correct,” said Garwig.
Vermyra went out to stand in the avenue. She looked first right, then left. Most of the passersby seemed distinctly of the lower classes, some even a trifle vulgar. One of these, a swaggering black-bearded lout, paused as if intending to ask what she needed. Vermyra quickly rejoined Garwig.
Moncrief was speaking. “Please notice that a section of the platform borders on the tank. This is known as the playing area. At the far end a brace supports a gong. The goal of the player is to start from ‘Safe Station’ at the near end of the playing area and make his way to the far end, where he must strike the gong. He thereby wins his wager. But there is an obstacle! Halfway along the playing area stands one of our gallant Klutes; either Siglaf, or Hunzel. She will try to impede the contestant and protect the gong. She may not kick, strike, butt, bite, or strangle the contestant. His basic wager is ten sols. If he sounds the gong he wins a hundred sols. If he decamps from the playing area, he loses his wager.