There's no one that can beat me at Bluff, Luckman said to himself. And everybody knows that. Still, with a pre-cog... it was a sure thing. And he liked the idea of a sure thing because although he was an expert Bluff player he did not like to gamble. He had not played because he enjoyed it; he had played to win.

He had, for instance, run the great Game-player Joe Schilling right out of existence. Now Joe operated a little old phonograph record shop in New Mexico; his Game-playing days were over.

"Remember how I beat Joe Schilling?" he said to Sid. "That last play, it's still in my mind, every detail. Joe rolled a five with the dice and drew a card from the fifth deck. He looked at it a long time, much too long. I knew then that he was going to bluff. Finally he moved his piece eight squares ahead; that put him on a top-win square; you know, that one about inheriting one hundred and fifty thousand dollars from a dead uncle. That piece of his sat on that square and I looked at it—" He had, perhaps, a little Psionic talent of his own, because it had seemed to him that actually he could read Joe Schilling's mind. You drew a six, he had felt with absolute conviction. Your move eight squares ahead is a bluff.

Aloud, he said that, called Schilling's bluff. At that time,

Joe had been New York City Bindman and could beat anyone at The Game; it was rare for any player to call one of Joe's moves.

Raising his great shaggy, bearded head, Joe Schilling had eyed him. There was silence. All the players waited.

"You really want to see the card I drew?" Joe Schilling asked.

"Yes." He waited, unable to breathe; his lungs ached. If he were wrong, if the card really were an eight, then Joe Schilling had won again and his grip on New York City was even more secure.