"Move one completed."

"You are skipping pretty far along."

"It is all a matter of emphasis."

"Truer and truer. Very well. You saved Luther. I will save Babbage. Excuse me."

An instantless instant later Dust had returned.

"Move two completed."

Blood studied the playing area with extreme concen- tration. Then, "AU right."

Blood entered Chewy's Theater on the evening in 1865 when the disgruntled actor had taken a shot at the President of the United States. Delicately altering the course of the bullet in midair, he made it reach its target

"Move two completed."

"I believe that you are bluffing," said Dust "You could not have worked out all the ramifications."

"Wait and see."

Dust regarded the area with intense scrutiny.

"All right, then. You killed a president. I am going to save one-or at least prolong his life somewhat. I want Woodrow Wilson to see that combine of nations founded.

Its failure will mean more than if it had never been-and it will faiL -Excuse me."

Dust entered the twentieth century and did some re- pair work within the long-jawed man.

"Move three completed."

"Then I, too, shall save one."

Blood entered the century at a farther point and as- sured the failure of Leon Nozdrev, the man who had as- sassinated Nikita Khrushchev.

"Move three completed."

"Ready, then?"

"Ready."

They reentered the sequence. The long whip cracked.

Radio noises hummed about them. Satellites orbitted the world. Highways webbed the continents. Dusty cities held their points of power throughout. Ships clove the seas. Jets slid through the atmosphere. Grass grew. Birds migrated. Fishes nibbled.

Blood chuckled.

258 .

"You have to admit it was very close," said Dust.

"As you were saying, there is a difference between a good player and an inspired player."

"You were lucky, too."

Blood chuckled again.

They regarded the world, its two and a half billions of people, their cities, their devices ...

After a time, the inhabitant of the forward point spoke:

"Best two out of three?"

"All right. I am Blood. I go first.**

"... And 1 am Dust. I follow you.**

NO AWARD.

Betty White of The Saturday Evening Post suddenly solicited a 3500-word story from me one day, so I did this one quickly and she bought it just as quickly. Then I asked her why she had wanted it. She told me that she had recently had her television set turned on and was occupied with something which did not permit her to change channels readily. A show called "Star Trek"

came on and she watched it through and enjoyed it She had not known much about science fiction, she said, and she resolved to stop by her paperback book store the following day, buy a science fiction book at random and read it. It happened to be one of mine. She read it and liked it and decided to ask me for a story. I have since theorized that if she entered the shop and ap- proached the far end of the science fiction rack my posi- tion in the alphabet might have had something to do with her choice. Whatever . ..

I entered the hall, made my way forward. I had come early, so as to get as close as possible. I do not usually push to be near the front of a crowd. Even on those other occasions when I had heard him, and other presidents before him, I had not tried for the best view.

This time, however, it seemed somehow important.

Luck! A seat that looked Just right. I eased myself down.

My foot seemed asleep. In fact, the entire leg. ... No matter. I could rest it now. Plenty of time ...

259.

Time? No. Darkness. Yes. Sleep ...

I glanced at my watch. Still some time. Some other people were smoking. Seemed like a good idea. As I reached for my cigarettes I remembered that I had quit, then discovered that I still carried them. No matter. Take one. Light it- (Trouble. Use the other hand.) I felt some- what tense. Not certain why. Inhale. Better. Good.

Who is that? Oh.

A short man in a gray suit entered from the right and tested the microphone. Momentary hush. Renewed crowd noise. The man looked satisfied and departed.

I sighed smoke and relaxed.

Resting. Yes. Asleep, asleep . . . Yes . . . You . . .

After a time, people entered from the sides and took 'seats on the stage. Yes, there was the governor. He would speak first, would say a few words of introduction.

That man far to my left, on the stage ... I had seen him in a number of pictures, always near the president, never identified. Short, getting paunchy, sandy hah- thinning;

dark, drifting eyes behind thick glasses ... I was certain that he was a member, possibly even the chief, of the elite group of telepathic bodyguards who always accom- pany the chief executive in public. The telepathic phe- nomenon had been pinned down only a few years ago, and since then the skill had been fully developed in but a handful of people. Those who possessed it, though, were ideal for this sort of work. It took all the danger out of public appearances when a number of such persons spotted about an audience were able to monitor the gen- eral temper of a crowd, to detect any aberrant, homici- dal thoughts and to relay this information to the Secret Service. It eliminated even the possibility of an attempt on the president's life, let alone a successful assassination.

Why, at this moment, one of them could even be scan- ning my own thoughts. ...

Nothing worth their time here, though. No reason to feel uneasy.