IT HAD BEEN a bad night, and when he tried to drive home he had a terrible argument with his car.

"Mr. Garden, you are in no condition to drive. Please use the auto-auto mech and recline in the rear seat."

Pete Garden sat at the steering tiller and said as distinctly as he could manage, "Look, I can drive. One drink, in fact several make you more alert. So stop fooling around." He punched the starter button, but nothing happened. "Start, darn it!"

The auto-auto said, "You have not inserted the key."

"Okay," he said, feeling humiliated. Maybe the car was right. Resignedly, he inserted the key. The engine started up but the controls were still dead. The Rushmore Effect was still taking place inside the hood, he knew; it was a losing argument. "All right, I'll let you drive," he said with as much dignity as possible. "Since you're so eager. You'll probably louse it all up anyhow, like you always do when I'm—not feeling well."

He crawled into the back seat, threw himself down, as the car lifted from the pavement and skimmed through the night sky, its signal lights blinking. God, he felt bad. His head was killing him.

His thoughts turned, as always, back to The Game.

Why had it gone so badly? Silvanus Angst was responsible. That clown, his brother-in-law or rather former brother-in-law. That's right, Pete said to himself; I have to remember. I'm not married to Freya any more. Freya and I lost and so our marriage was dissolved and we're starting over again with Freya married to Clem Gaines and I'm not married to anybody yet because I haven't managed to roll a three, yet.

I'll roll a three tomorrow, he told himself. And when I do, they'll have to import a wife for me; I've used them all up in the group.