I shook my head. I didn't have to veil my mind because I knew that Gimpy
was about as talented a telepath as a tallow candle. Frankly between me
and thee, dear reader, I do not put anybody's bet on the cuff. I do a
fair-to-middling brisk trade in booking bets placed and discussed by
telepathy, but the ones I accept and pay off on--if they're lucky--are
those folks who've been sufficiently foresighted to lay it on the line
with a retainer against which their losses can be assessed.
On the other hand I could see in Gimpy's mind the simple logic that told
him that as a bookmaker I'd be disinclined to lend him money which he'd
use to place with me against a sure-thing long shot. If I were to "Lend"
him a century for an on-the-cuff bet on a 100:1 horse, especially one
that I knew was sure to come in, I might better simply hand him one
hundred times one hundred dollars as a gift. It would save a lot of
messy bookkeeping.
So the fact that I wouldn't cuff a bet for Gimpy gave him his own proof
that I was confirming the fix.
Then I buttered the process.
"Gimp, do you know another good bookmaker?"
"Sure. But you're the best."
"Know one that'll take a bet from you--one that you don't like?"
"Sure, Mr. Wilson."
"Then," I said hauling a thousand out of my wallet, "Put this on _our
horses_ for me."
He eyed the grand. "But won't Mr. Barcelona be unhappy? Won't that run
down the track odds?"
I laughed. "The whole world knows them dogs as also-rans," I said.
"Gimpy, they put long shots like those into races just to clip the
suckers who think there is a real hundred-to-one chance that a 100:1
horse will outrun favorites."
"Well, if you say so, Mr. Wilson."
"I say so."
"Thanks. I'll pay it back."
He would. I'd see to that.
Gimpy Gordon scuttled out of my bailiwick almost on a dead run. He was
positively radiating merriment and joy and excitement. The note in his
hand represented a sum greater than he had ever seen in one piece at any
time of his life, and the concept of the riches he would know when they
paid off on the Kentucky Derby was vague simply because Gimpy could not
grasp the magnitude of such magnificence. Oddly, for some unexpected
reason or from some unknown source hidden deep in his past, his mind
pronounced it "Darby."
* * * * *
I returned to my African jungle still bored with the lack of anything
constructive. I returned at about the point where Tarzan and Jane were
going through that silly, "Me Tarzan; You Jane" routine which was even
more irritating because the program director or someone had muffed the
perfume that the Lady Jane wore. Instead of the wholesome freshness of
the free, open air, Jane was wearing a heady, spicy scent engineered to
cut its way through the blocking barrier of stale cigar smoke,
whisky-laden secondhand air, and a waft of cooking aroma from the
kitchen of the standard cosmopolitan bistro.
Worse, it got worse instead of better. Where a clever effects-director
might have started with the heavy sophisticated scent and switched to
something lighter and airier as Jane was moved away from civilization,
this one had done it backwards for some absolutely ridiculous reason. It
finally got strong enough to distract me out of my characterization, and
I came back to reality to realize once more that reality had been strong
enough to cut into the concentration level of a halluscene. There was
strong woman-presence in my room, and as I looked around I found that
Tomboy Taylor had come in--just as Gimpy Gordon had--and was sitting in
the other halluscene chair. She was probably playing Lady Jane to my
Tarzan.
Tomboy Taylor had changed to a short-skirted, low-necked cocktail dress;
relaxed with her eyes closed in my halluscene chair she looked lovely.
She looked as vulnerable as a soft kitten. Remembering that it's the
soft vulnerable ones that claw you if you touch, I refrained.
I went to my little bar and refilled my highball glass because swinging
through the jungle makes one thirsty, and while I was pouring I took a
sly peek into Tomboy Taylor's mind.
She was not halluscening. She was watching me. And when I made contact
with her, she radiated a sort of overall aura of amusement-emotion,
covered up her conscious deliberation, and blocked any probing by
directing me mentally, "Make it two, Wally."
I built her one, handed it to her, and then said, "Folks these days sure
have forgotten how to use doorbells."
"If you don't want people coming in, Wally, you should restrict your
mindwarden a little. It's set to admit anybody who does not approach the
door with vigorous intent to commit grave physical harm. When the thing
radiates 'Come in and relax' is a girl supposed to stand outside
twiggling on the doorbell?"
I dropped the subject thinking that maybe I shouldn't have brought it up
in the first place. It's one that can't be answered by logic, whereas a
firm emotional statement of like or dislike stops all counter-argument
and I'd made the mistake of questioning my own judgment.
So I eyed her and said, "Tomboy, you did not come here to indulge in
small talk."
"No," she admitted. "I'm here to keep track of you, Wally."
"Oh?"
"Our great and good friend wants me to make notes on how clever you are
at arranging things."
"You mean Barcelona sent you."
"That's about it."