“Indeed they are, Wally. Which is why I’m here. No one but a fumbling
idiot would try anything as crude as speeding a dog over the line by
pyrotics or by jolting the animals with a bolt of electrical energy.”

“So–?”

“So considering the sad and sorry fact that human nature does not change
very much despite the vast possibility for improvement, we must
anticipate a fix that has been contrived and executed on a level that
takes full cognizance of the widespread presence of psi-function.”

“But again, why me?”

“Was not ‘Fireman’ O’Leary an ancestor of yours?”

“He was my maternal grandparent.”

“And so you do indeed come from a long line of horse operators, don’t
you?”

“I resent your invidious implications.”

“And wasn’t ‘Wireless’ Wilson the paternal ancestor from whom the family
name has come?”

“I fail to see … the allegation that my father’s father employed
telepathy to transmit track information faster than the wire services
has never been proved.”

He smiled knowingly. “Wally,” he said slowly, “if you feel that
allegations have somehow impugned the pure name of your family, you
could apply for a review of their several appearances in court. It’s
possible that ‘Fireman’ O’Leary did _not_ use his pyrotic talent to
enhance the running speed of some tired old dogs.”

“But–“

“So I think we understand one another, Wally. There is also reason to
believe that psionic talent tends to run in families. You’re a psi-man
and a good one.”

“If I hear of anything–“

“You’ll let me know,” he said flatly. “And if Flying Heels, Moonbeam,
_and-or_ Lady Grace even so much as succeed in staying on their feet for
the whole race, I’ll be back demanding to know how you–Wally
Wilson–managed to hold them up!”

After which the good Lieutenant Delancey left me to my thoughts–which
were most uncomfortable.

Barcelona had to be kept cheerful. But the dogs he’d picked could only
come in first unassisted if they happened to be leading the field that
started the _next_ race, and even then the post time would have to be
delayed to give them a longer head start. That meant that _if_ our three
platers came awake, _everybody_ would be looking for the fix.

Anybody who planned a caper would sure have to plan it well.

Barcelona hadn’t planned the fix, he merely stated a firm desire and
either Barcelona got what he wanted or I got what I didn’t want, and I
had to do it real good or Delancey would make it real hot for me.

I was not only being forced to enter a life of crime, I was also being
forced to perform cleverly.

It wasn’t fair for the law to gang up with the crooks against me.

And so with a mind feeling sort of like the famous sparrow who’d gotten
trapped for three hours in a badminton game at Forest Hills, I built a
strong highball, and poured it down while my halluscene set was warming
up. I needed the highball as well as the relaxation, because I knew that
the “Drama” being presented was the hundred and umpty-umpth remake of
“Tarzan of the Apes” and for ninety solid minutes I would be swinging
through trees without benefit of alcohol. Tarzan, you’ll remember, did
not learn to smoke and drink until the second book.

* * * * *

The halluscene did relax me and kept my mind from its worry even though
the drama was cast for kids and therefore contained a maximum of
tree-swinging and ape-gymnastics and a near dearth of Lady Jane’s
pleasant company. What was irritating was the traces of wrong aroma. If
one should not associate the African jungle with the aroma of a cheap
bar, one should be forgiven for objecting to Lady Jane with a strong
flavor of tobacco and cheap booze on her breath.

And so I awoke with this irritating conflict in my senses to discover
that I’d dropped out of my character as Tarzan and my surroundings of
the jungle, but I’d somehow brought the stench of cheap liquor and moist
cigarettes with me.

There was an occupant in the chair next to mine. He needed a bath and he
needed a shave but both would have been wasted if he couldn’t change
his clothing, too. His name was Gimpy Gordon.

I said, “Get out!”

He whined, “Mr. Wilson, you just gotta help me.”

“How?”

“Fer years,” he said, “I been living on peanuts. I been runnin’ errands
for hard coins. I been–“

“Swiping the take of a Red Cross box,” I snapped at him.

“Aw, Mr. Wilson,” he whined, “I simply gotta make a stake. I’m a-goin’
to send it back when I win.”

“Are you going to win?”

“Can’t I?”

For a moment I toyed with the idea of being honest with the Gimp.
Somehow, someone should tell the duffer that all horse players die
broke, or that if he could make a living I’d be out of business.

Gimpy Gordon was one of Life’s Unfortunates. If it were to rain gold
coins, Gimpy would be out wearing boxing gloves. His mental processes
meandered because of too much methyl. His unfortunate nickname did not
come from the old-fashioned reason that he walked with a limp, but from
the even more unfortunate reason that he _thought_ with a limp. In his
own unhealthy way he was–could we call it “Lucky” by any standard of
honesty? In this world full of highly developed psi talent, the Gimp
_could_ pick a pocket and get away with it because he often literally
could not remember where and how he’d acquired the wallet for longer
than a half minute. And it was a sort of general unwritten rule that any
citizen so utterly befogged as to permit his wealth to be lifted via
light fingers should lose it as a lesson!

But then it did indeed occur to me that maybe I could make use of the
Gimp.

I said, “What can I do, Gimpy?”

“Mr. Wilson,” he pleaded, “is it true that you’re workin’ for
Barcelona?”

“Now, you know I can’t answer that.”