Near the double doors a few people were seeking out their wraps and wandering away, dull-faced, vacant-eyed, mouths slack with fatigue and boredom.
"It gets like this," Eleanor said. "The women wander off to the powder room. The men start arguing some point."
"What does Verrick do?"
"You're hearing it now."
Verrick's deep tones rolled out over everybody else's; he was dominating the argument. People nearby gradually stopped talking and began filtering over to listen. A tight knot of men formed, grim-faced and serious, as Verrick and Moore waved louder and hotter.
"Our problems are of our own making," Verrick asserted. "They're not real, like problems of supply and labor surplus."
"How do you figure?" Moore demanded.
"This whole system is artificial. This M-game was invented by a couple of mathematicians during the early phase of the Second World War."
"You mean discovered. They saw that social situations are analogues of strategy games, like poker. A system that works in a poker game will work in a social situation, like business or war."
"What's the difference between a game of chance and a strategy game?" Laura Davis asked, from where she and Al stood.
Annoyed, Moore answered, "Everything. In a game of chance no conscious deception is involved; in a poker game every player has a deliberate strategy of bluff, false leads, putting out misleading verbal reports and visual horse-play to confuse the other players as to his real position and intentions. He has a pattern of misrepresentation by which he traps them into acting foolishly."
"You mean like saying he has a good hand when he hasn't?"
Moore ignored her and turned back to Verrick. "You want to deny society operates like a strategy game? Minimax was a brilliant hypothesis. It gave us a rational scientific method to crack any strategy and transform the strategy game into a chance game, where the regular statistical methods of the exact sciences function."
"All the same," Verrick rumbled, "this damn bottle throws a man out for no reason and elevates an ass, a crackpot, picked at random, without regard to his ability or class."
"Sure," Moore exclaimed, wildly excited. "Our whole system is built on Minimax. The bottle forces everybody to play a Minimax game or be squashed; we're forced to give up deception and adopt a rational procedure."
"There's nothing rational in this random twitching," Verrick answered angrily. "How can random machinery be rational?"
"The random factor is a function of an overall rational pattern. In the face of random twitches, no one can have a strategy. It forces everybody to adopt a randomized method: best analysis of the statistical possibilities of certain events plus the pessimistic assumption that any plans will be found out in advance. Assuming you're found out in advance frees you of the danger of being discovered. If you act randomly your opponent can find out nothing about you because even you don't know what you're going to do."
"So we're all a bunch of superstitious fools," Verrick complained. "Everybody's trying to read signs and harbingers. Everybody's trying to explain two-headed calves and flocks of white crows. We're all dependent on random chance; we're losing control because we can't plan."
"How can you plan with teeps around? Teeps perfectly fulfill the pessimistic expectations of Minimax: they find out every strategy. They discover you as soon as you begin playing."
Verrick pointed to his great barrel chest. "There are no sissy-kissing charms hanging around my neck. No rose petals and ox dung and boiled owl spit. I play a game of skill, not chance and maybe not strategy, when you pin me down. I never did go by a lot of theoretical abstractions. I go by rule of thumb." He displayed his thumb. "I do what each situation demands. That's skill. I've got it."
"Skill is a function of chance. It's an intuitive best-use of chance situations. You're so god damn old you've been in enough situations to know in advance the pragmatic—"
"What about Pellig? That's strategy, isn't it?"
"Strategy involves deception and with Pellig nobody is going to be deceived."
"Absurd," Verrick growled. "You've been knocking yourself out keeping the Corps from knowing about Pellig."
"That was your idea." Moore flushed angrily. "I said then and I say now: let them all know because there's nothing they can do. If I had my way I'd announce it over tv tomorrow."
"You god damn fool," Verrick rasped. "You certainly wouldl"
"Pellig is unbeatable." Moore was furious at being humiliated in front of everybody. "We've combined the essence of Minimax. Taking the bottle twitch as my starting point, I've evolved a—"
"Shut up, Moore," Verrick muttered, turning his back. "You talk too much." He moved a few steps away; people hurriedly stepped aside for him. "This random stuff has got to go. You can't plan anything with it hanging over your head."
"That's why we have it!" Moore shouted after him.
"Then drop it. Get rid of it."
"Minimax isn't something you turn on and off. It's like gravity; it's a law, a pragmatic law."
Benteley had moved over to listen. "You believe in natural law?" he demanded. "An 8-8 like you?"
"Who's this fellow?" Moore snarled, glaring furiously at Benteley. "What's the idea of butting into our conversation?"
Verrick swelled another foot taller. "This is Ted Benteley. Class 8-8, same as you. We just now took him on."
Moore blanched. "8-8! We don't need any more 8-8's!" His face glowed an ugly yellow. "Benteley? You're someone Oiseau-Lyre tossed out. A derelict."
"That's right," Benteley said evenly, "And I came directly here."
"Why?"
"I'm interested in what you're doing."
"What I'm doing is none of your business!"
"All right," Verrick said hoarsely to Moore. "Shut up or get out of here. Benteley's working with you from now on, whether you like it or not."
"Nobody gets into the project but me!" Hatred, fear, and professional jealousy blazed on Moore's face. If he can't hang on at a third-rate Hill like Oiseau-Lyre, he isn't good enough to—"
"We'll see," Benteley said coolly. "I'm itching to get my hands on your notes and papers. I'll enjoy going over your work. It sounds like just what I want."
"I want a drink," Verrick muttered. "I've got too much to do, to stand here talking."
Moore shot Benteley a last glance of resentment and then hurried off after Verrick. Their voices trailed off as a door was slammed. The crowd of people shifted and began to
murmur wearily and break apart.
With a shade of bitterness Eleanor said, "Well, there goes our host. Quite a party, wasn't it?"
SIX
BENTELEY'S head had begun to ache. The constant din of voices mixed with the flash of bright clothing and the movement of bodies. The floor was littered with squashed cigarette butts and debris; the whole chamber had a disheveled cast, as if it were slowly settling on its side. His eyes hurt from the glare of the overhead lights that wavered and altered shape and value each moment. A man pushing by jabbed him hard in the ribs. Leaning against the wall, a cigarette dangling between her lips, a young woman was removing her sandals and gratefully rubbing her red-nailed toes.
"What do you want?" Eleanor asked him.
"I want to leave."
Eleanor led him expertly through the drifting groups of people toward one of the exits. Sipping her drink as she walked she said, "All this may seem pointless, but actually it serves a function. Verrick is able to—"
Herb Moore blocked their way. His face was flushed dark and unhealthy red. With him was the pale, silent Keith Pellig. "Here you are," Moore muttered thickly, teetering unsteadily, his glass sloshing over. He focused on Benteley and harshly announced, "You wanted to get in on it." He slammed Pellig on the back. "This is the greatest event in the world. This is the most important person alive. Feast your eyes, Benteley."