The Devil's Game

by Poul Anderson

  Byron Shaddock: ten of hearts. “Rather a Charlie Brown card, eh?”

  Ellis Nordberg: five of hearts. No comment.

  Matt Flagler: deuce of clubs. “Hey, look! Last! … No? No? Just wait one minute…. Okay, Mr. Haverner, okay, sir, whatever you say.”

  Orestes Cruz: seven of clubs. “Well, well. Do you expect me to club you to death, white people? Relax. I’ll simply bury you,” with a smile that got scant response.

  Larry Rance: king of spades. “Oh-ho! Want to try for an ace, Gayle?”

  Gayle Thayer: jack of diamonds. “Where does this put me?”

  Sunderland Haverner was assisted to his feet. Pronouncing a courtly dismissal, he left the room. His guests were conducted to their own quarters and informed that dinner would be at eight.

  The house had been built well over a hundred years earlier. “Villiam Valker slept dere vunce,” the Islandmen said, unconscious in their echo of the claim so often made concerning a prior, more famous, and more fortunate revolutionary. The builder was an ancestral Captain York—himself descended from “Coptain Yark oz heist de English flag ower Isle o’ Tanoa, yis, sir”—who had done well in the copra trade. Eventually this person retired to his homeland, where labor was cheap and (given its siestas, individual attention by the master to events like birthdays or christenings, and similar time-honored perquisites) conscientious. He did not pick the more or less Georgian style of the house; it picked him without his knowing. This deeply does the Island hold its past. He did overdo the size, having acquired a mainland wife who dreamed of restoring the social glories of her own Castilian forebears.

  That was a vain wish. Later generations, increasingly impoverished, used ever smaller portions of the mansion. At last they abandoned it altogether. Good materials and. honest craftsmanship resisted sun, rain, hurricane, termite, fungi of mold and dry rot. When Sunderland Haverner bought the place, he found it needed little repair, and he had the taste to Older minimal remodeling.

  The grounds were another story. It took years to displace crab grass, Bermuda grass, saw grass, aloe, fever flower, palmetto, bamboo, viper- and tick-sheltering liana, huge treelike thistle, in favor of sweeping lawns shaded by oak and tropical cedar, with orderly blossoms along graveled paths. The enemy would always prowl the marches, watching for a chance to return. As if for homeopathic protection, somewhat north of the house was an enclosed botanical garden, featuring desert plants as well as natives.

  On the east-west axis of the house, a great L-shaped living room-cum-library overlooked land that curved down to a lagoon. That water, shark-netted for the benefit of swimmers, lapped on a wide white beach where stood a summerhouse. Immediately south of it was a spit of land on whose farther side clustered a pier, a boathouse, and a shed, of frame and shingle weathered silvery. Northeastward the strand narrowed and the terrain rose sharply, until it broke in the black grandeur of the Iron Cliffs, miles distant. Behind these, hills tumbled upward, unutterably green, to the naked Crag, beyond which in turn the Peak could be seen looming on clear days.

  East of the mansion, a row of neat cottages were homes for the staff. They were backed by a concrete-and-tile storehouse with attached garage. Not far north of it was the service building—from which, among other items, ran power lines, esthetically underground like their generator—and north of that the paved landing strip and hangar that could hold several executive airplanes. Narrow roads of crashed pipeshank connected all these. A larger one snaked off toward the North Port, biweekly goal of a truck that brought back supplies and, when the packet-boat came in, surface mail.

  But as for the Big House: it had white walls, a green tile roof, and pleasing red-brick chimneys. The aerials for television and radiotelephone had not been allowed to spoil it; their hideousness was at the airstrip, with cables to pass the signals here. Around the north and east sides stretched a covered and screened veranda, complete with porch swings; on the north side lay the patio.

  The living room occupied the entire eastern interior. Like everything else, it had a structure and decor basically Colonial. The library part thrust westward from its northern end and held an astonishing number and variety of books in different languages. Beyond came a luxurious bath, Haverner’s study, and his austere bedchamber. Across the hall, past the living room, were the dining room, the kitchen, a utility cubicle ancillary to the cellars, and—directly opposite Haverner’s—the chamber occupied by Anselmo Gomez.

  Upstairs, a bathroom opened on the landing at either end, and eight bedrooms lined the corridor. The southeast one was permanently used by the present Captain York. The rest often held guests. Although the principal offices of Haverner Enterprises were in New Orleans and Ciudad Vizcaya, with branches around the globe, he did do occasional business while on Tanoa, as well as the experiments he had begun in his later years. Those were pleasant lodgings, each spacious, breezy through a pair of windows, handsomely. decorated. Each held two chairs, an escritoire (pens and stationery in the drawer), a bureau, a closet complete with chamber pot (changed every morning regardless), a radio on a stand, and a double bed (cama matrimonial, as the Spanish demurely has it).

  At the east end, the corridor gave onto a frame balcony that ran the width of the house. From there one could see how surf smashed fire-white against a thousand blues and greens and purples on the line of reefs that sheltered the lagoon. A couple of miles further out lay the stark caye named Gehinnom.

  The baggage of the newcomers had been taken to their quarters. Captain York explained that room assignments were at random and the ladies and gentlemen were free to swap. Nobody did. On the north, from east to west, the order was: Larry, Ellis, Byron, Julia; on the south, beyond York: Matt, Orestes, Gayle. Nothing in the manner of the permanent resident indicated that he thought of himself as a chaperon. However good a Methodist, he would have had to acquire the art of turning a blind eye on some of Haverner’s visitors.

  The present group unpacked. Afterward they were not sociable. Larry and Orestes vanished on long separate walks around the territory. Byron explored the library till the sun was low, then went for a swim. He found Julia already in the water—she had spent the hot hours in her room, whether napping or planning she did not say—and they exchanged cautious amenities. Ellis rested awhile before he got Anselmo to give him a guided tour of the area. Gayle stayed upstairs, soothing her nerves with her radio and a thin joint of pot. Matt likewise remained indoors, but had a servant bring him soda, ice, and a fifth of bourbon.

  Having asked about companionship and been deferentially told that he must make his own arrangements, he knocked on Gayle’s door and suggested he come in. When she pleaded the conventional headache he muttered a mild obscenity and settled down to pass the time as best he might. The bourbon was far superior to the cheap aguardiente, which was all he had for a long time been able to afford.

  The atmosphere at dinner was constrained.

  Over the port (after a superb flan, which followed an unimpeachable prime rib, et cetera) Larry tried to brighten matters. “Here, let me take care of that, Julia,” he said. He had maneuvered to be seated by her. Paying no heed to the nutcracker that was part of each service, he started cracking walnuts in his hands, two by two. The noise was slight but conspicuous against an insect stridency and a remote booming of breakers, both of which drifted in from the breathless odorous warmth outside.

  “Why, thank you.” She smiled mechanically. Her chief attention had been directed at Byron, who sat on her right. After a minute or two: “Take some yourself.”

  “I, uh, I don’t care for nuts,” Larry said.

  “Including us, who must’ve been nuts to come here?” Gayle snickered. In haste: “No offense, Mr. Haverner.”

  “None taken,” their host replied rather wearily.

  “Of course not,” Orestes said, his own tone almost impersonal. “Don’t worry about that, people. You cannot insult Mr. Haverner. You see, he does not regard us as human. We are more like chickens, who produce eggs for him
till we’re cooked—and first, maybe, some entertainment, when he pours us full of gin to see how we stagger.”

  He smiled into several dismayed stares and Haverner’s imperturbability. “Anybody care for a game of cards after dinner?” Byron said across the hush.

  “Sure,” Larry answered. “Poker, that is. Nickel-dime. I can’t play for more.” He attempted a laugh. “Till I’ve won that million.”

  “Nickel-dime?” Matt’s voice was slurred and loud. “That’s not poker, that’s tiddlywinks.” He drained his goblet. “How ’bout some whiskey ’stead’a this Portugee horse piss?” Abruptly, almost dropping the glass: “Uh, uh, a joke, Mr. Haverner. It’s real good, this wine. Real good.”

  “I prefer bridge,” Ellis said, “and we have two foursomes.”

  “Real good,” Matt said. “Delicious.” His eyes flickered anxiously.

  “I only play whist,” Haverner said, “and not tonight in any event. I shall retire early.”

  “What kind of television can you get here?” Gayle wondered.

  “I don’t know wine,” Matt said. “Not like you, Mr. Haverner. I do know what’s good, though, and when it’s real good, like here, I kind of joke about it. Get me? I pretend like it’s lousy. The better it is, the worse I call it.” Seeing no response, he gave up and slumped back in his chair.

  Ellis watched.

  “Any thoughts about what game you’ll decide on, Larry?” Byron asked. “Game of Follow the Leader, I mean.” Julia’s gaze swung at once to the man on her left.

  He grinned. “Let’s not discuss that at mealtimes. Maybe not at all. Okay? You know, in Zen there’s no bow, no arrow, no archer; there’s just the shooting. I believe in letting the world happen.”

  Byron smiled back. “Or, as they likewise say in Zen, if you have a pile of dirty dishes to wash, you need not wash them twice.”

  Larry leaned toward him, which brought his arm against Julia’s, both more than half bare. She did not draw hers back. “Hey,” Larry said, “you’re into that yourself?”

  “Not really,” Byron admitted. “But I’ve read, talked to disciples and even masters.” He shrugged. “I’m not a committed type. Mainly, I’m an observer.”

  “Like Mr. Haverner?” Gayle suggested timidly.

  “Oh, no,” Byron said. “Mr. Haverner is a man of action. It’s no cliché to call him a mover and shaker.”

  “You shouldn’t need to suck up to him,” Matt said. “Tha’s whudd they’re doing, sir.”

  “In a way, that is true,” Orestes said. “We dance to his pipe. I also, yes, I also.”

  “You doubtless know a good bit more than I do about our host, Sr. Cruz,” Byron replied in amiable wise. “However, given my connections—a considerable sum of my family’s money is invested in these parts, and my father takes special interest in U.S. Central American policy—naturally I’ve heard about Sunderland Haverner. Today, among the books, I found out more. Not that our host keeps a brag shelf. But he does have many reference works dealing with the area. They’re bound to contain mention of him.” He nodded at the head of the table. “In short, sir, I imagine your reputation is great enough to make you immune to flattery or”—a glance back at Orestes—“vilification.”

  “I like to think so.” Haverner signaled. Two servants were immediately there to help him rise. He smiled at the assembly. “Don’t get up. No, I wouldn’t be embarrassed by anything you said about me, good or bad. You might be, though, in my company. I want you to feel free to interact. That’s the whole purpose of this project. Therefore, if you will excuse me, I bid you a very good night.”

  When he was gone, with a single exception the group visibly relaxed. The waitresses poured more wine and offered cigarettes and Havana cigars. Matt lit one of the latter. Larry, after seeing Julia wrinkle her nose, tucked his in his shirt pocket. She and Byron were the nonsmokers.

  The one who did not ease off at least a little was Orestes. For a few minutes after Haverner’s departure he sat amidst the small talk, his dark features and thin frame quivering with the effort to stay quiet. At last the words broke from him, an explosion that shocked everyone back into tension.

  “Freedom to interact? ¡Mierde! I bet he goes to listen in. Each corner of this house is … is bugged. It must be.”

  “The servants?” Glancing at the door through which the neat white-clad women had passed, Gayle shivered.

  Julia responded with a grimace. “I doubt that,” she said. “But think about electronic eavesdropping, friends. Like microminiaturized audio pickups, tiny battery-powered TV cameras, infrared snooperscopes for nighttime, everywhere around the place, inside, outside, hanging from trees, wedged between rocks, planted in shrubbery—”

  “No matter now,” said Ellis. “When we agreed to go through with this thing, we gave up our privacy for the duration. So we might as well talk openly.”

  “What about?” Matt mumbled.

  “Well,” Ellis said, “how about you gentlemen who know it, Mr. Shaddock, Mr. Cruz, how about you filling the rest of us in on Mr. Haverner’s background?”

  “Why should we?” Orestes retorted.

  “O-oh,” Ellis told him, “I might have something to contribute. After I’d first been approached, I ordered some checkups of my own. Shall we three go off together and exchange information?”

  “No.” Drink barely tinged Byron’s tongue. “Outrageous it may be to both of you—Nordberg, Cruz—the idea of playing by sporting rules. But I intend to. Besides, in spite of being in competition, we do have common interests, like survival.” He paused to choose words. “Not that I believe Haverner wants to do us in, or will renege on his part of the bargain. But he is a strange man, and this is an uncanny situation, and the more truth we can get about him, the better for everybody.”

  “I’ve been down in these parts before,” Larry said. “I have a few stories and such to pass on, if you want.”

  “I don’t,” Julia added, “but I do have experience in … applied psychology. Maybe I can throw some light on the matter.”

  Ellis pondered. “Flagler? Mrs. Thayer?” They gaped at him, the first muzzily, the second fearfully. “Well, why not include you two?” he decided. “The fact that an opponent in a game has certain information is, itself, information a player can use. Okay. Let’s pool our knowledge and our guesses. If nothing else, we all need an estimate of how honest a game this is.”

  Byron and Larry each started to speak, stopped, gestured the other on. It was Matt who broke the silence. Staring ahead at no one, his tone a mixture of wonder and hunger, he crooned, “A million dollars cash. A million dollars cash.”

  SUNDERLAND HAVERNER

  Although he had never sought publicity, but rather always shunned it, much information about Sunderland Haverner was inevitably in the public domain. Persons with occasion to study his career believed they knew fairly well what he was. They were mistaken. They knew what he had been. No human being knew what he was—saving perhaps himself, and perhaps not—since that day long ago when his own face in the mirror had spoken to him.

  As for what he had been, that was the scion of an old New England family, less affluent than in earlier generations but still well respected and well connected. He was born just too late to be eligible for the draft while his country was engaged in the war to end wars, a fact which pained him until such feelings ceased to be expected. Soon after democracy became safe throughout the world, he entered the college that sons of the Haverners always entered. For four years he studied Latin, Greek, English, French, history, a gentlemanly amount of science. The latter included one course in psychology (Descartes, Leibniz, Locke, Charcot, Binet, embarrassed mention of that, you know, Freud fellow). Upon his graduation, with acceptable marks though no special honors, his family gave him the European tour that was also traditional.

  This exhausted the financial resources available for him. His father inquired among connections and got him a position with a large firm based in New Orleans and dealing in tropical fr
uit. It was a good enough position for a beginner— nowadays it would be called a “junior executive”—and he could expect that faithful service would in due course win him promotions until he was well-off by the time they gave him a gold watch and retired him. To be sure, New Orleans society did not exactly take yet another young Yankee to its bosom. However, there were establishments less exclusive and not too expensive. There was the companionship of one’s officemates. There was the occasional dinner invitation from a superior who wished to size up the employee, or show himself as genial beneath the businesslike exterior, or sometimes provide a break in the loneliness for a daughter of his guest’s age.

  Sunderland Haverner was preparing himself for such an evening when his own face spoke to him.

  First it smiled. Always observant, he nevertheless failed to notice change at once, so gradually did the thing happen. Then he saw that the image was not brushing its hair. As the smile in the glass began to show teeth, the brush clattered out of his fingers to the dresser top.

  “Oh, no,” broke from him.

  “Oh, yes,” whispered back.

  He stood for a time that felt very long and very short. Strange how aware he became of everything else. Glare of electric bulb on faded wallpaper, threadbare rug, armless chairs, narrow brass bedstead. Dusk in the window, street noises, air still sullen with the day’s heat and mugginess. From down the hall of the rooming house, Mr. Durant’s old Victrola giving forth “Let Me Call You Sweetheart” for the —hundredth?—time. Yet it all seemed infinitely far away.

  “You need not be afraid,” murmured his image, as if it used the whirr of his small fan to form words. “Not unless you choose to be. You have not gone insane.”

  “So you say,” he heard himself reply, which struck him as an insane thing to say.