The Game-Players of Titan (1963)
“Joseph Schilling said, leading the way through the dusty utter disorder of his record shop to the living quarters behind. “I know Patricia McClain. How’d you happen to run into her?” He turned questioningly.
Pete said, “The McClains are living in my bind.” He managed to thread a passage among the piles of records, packing cartons, letters, catalogues and posters from the past. “How do you ever find anything in this place?” he asked Joe Schilling.
“I have a system,” Schilling said vaguely. “I’ll... tell you why Pat McClain’s so bitter. She used to be a B, but she was barred from The Game.”
“Why?”
“Pat’s a telepath.” Joe Schilling cleared a place at the table in the kitchen and set out two handle-less teacups. “Oolong tea?” he asked.
“Ah so,” Pete said, nodding.
“I’ve got your Don Pasquale record,” Schilling said as he poured tea from a black ceramic pot. “The Schipa aria. Da-dum da-da da. A beautiful piece.” Humming, he produced lemon and sugar from the cupboard over the dish-filled sink.MoreLess
Pete said, “The McClains are living in my bind.” He managed to thread a passage among the piles of records, packing cartons, letters, catalogues and posters from the past. “How do you ever find anything in this place?” he asked Joe Schilling.
“I have a system,” Schilling said vaguely. “I’ll... tell you why Pat McClain’s so bitter. She used to be a B, but she was barred from The Game.”
“Why?”
“Pat’s a telepath.” Joe Schilling cleared a place at the table in the kitchen and set out two handle-less teacups. “Oolong tea?” he asked.
“Ah so,” Pete said, nodding.
“I’ve got your Don Pasquale record,” Schilling said as he poured tea from a black ceramic pot. “The Schipa aria. Da-dum da-da da. A beautiful piece.” Humming, he produced lemon and sugar from the cupboard over the dish-filled sink.MoreLess
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