Pete said, "I was never so serious in all my life."

"Where?"

"In the Sacramento Valley. I'd raise grapes for wine. I've already looked into it." He had, in fact, discussed it with the vug Commissioner, U. S. Cummings; the vug authority would undoubtedly support him with farm equipment and cuttings. It was the type of project which they approved of in principle.

"By God," Schilling said, "I think you do mean it."

"I'd charge you extra," Pete said, "because you're so rich from gouging record buyers all these years."

"Ich bin ein armer Mensch," Schilling protested. "I'm poor." - "Well, possibly we could trade. Wine for rare records."

"Seriously," Joe Schilling said, "if Luckman enters your group and you have to play against him, I'll come into The Game as your partner." He slapped Pete on the shoulder, encouragingly. "So don't worry. Between the two of us we can take him. Of course, I'd expect you not to drink while you're playing." He eyed Pete keenly. "I heard about that; you were bagged when you put up Berkeley and lost it. You could hardly reel out of the con-apt to your car when it was over."

With dignity, Pete started, "I drank after I lost. For consolation."

"However it may have been, my ukase still stands. No drinking on your part, if we become partners; you have to swear off, and that includes any pills. I don't want your wits dulled by tranquilizers, especially the phenothiazine class... I particularly distrust them, and I know you take them regularly."

Pete said nothing; it was so. He shrugged, wandered about the store, poking at a stack of records here and there. He felt discouraged.

"And I'll practice," Joe Schilling said. "I'll train, sincerely put myself in top shape." He poured himself a fresh cup of ooh long tea.