Free Solar Lottery by Philip K. Dick

out for no reason and elevates an ass, a crackpot, picked at random, without regard to his ability or class.”
    “Sure,” Moore exclaimed, wildly excited. “Our whole system is built on Minimax. The bottle forces everybody to play a Minimax game or be squashed; we’re forced to give up deception and adopt a rational procedure.”
    “There’s nothing rational in this random twitching,” Verrick answered angrily. “How can random machinery be rational?”
    “The random factor is a function of an overall rational pattern. In the face of random twitches, no one can have a strategy. It forces everybody to adopt a randomized method: best analysis of the statistical possibilities of certain events plus the pessimistic assumption that any plans will be found out in advance. Assuming you’re found out in advance frees you of the danger of being discovered. If you act randomly your opponent can find out nothing about you because even
you
don’t know what you’re going to do.”
    “So we’re all a bunch of superstitious fools,” Verrick complained. “Everybody’s trying to read signs and harbingers. Everybody’s trying to explain two-headed calves and flocks of white crows. We’re all dependent on random chance; we’re losing control because we can’t plan.”
    “How can you plan with teeps around? Teeps perfectly fulfill the pessimistic expectations of Minimax: they find outevery strategy. They discover you as soon as you begin playing.”
    Verrick pointed to his great barrel chest. “There are no sissy-kissing charms hanging around my neck. No rose petals and ox dung and boiled owl spit. I play a game of skill, not chance and maybe not strategy, when you pin me down. I never did go by a lot of theoretical abstractions. I go by rule of thumb.” He displayed his thumb. “I do what each situation demands. That’s skill. I’ve got it.”
    “Skill is a function of chance. It’s an intuitive best-use of chance situations. You’re so goddamn old you’ve been in enough situations to know in advance the pragmatic—”
    “What about Pellig? That’s strategy, isn’t it?”
    “Strategy involves deception and with Pellig nobody is going to be deceived.”
    “Absurd,” Verrick growled. “You’ve been knocking yourself out keeping the Corps from knowing about Pellig.”
    “That was your idea.” Moore flushed angrily. “I said then and I say now: let them all know because there’s nothing they can do. If I had my way I’d announce it over tv tomorrow.”
    “You goddamn fool,” Verrick rasped. “You certainly would!”
    “Pellig is unbeatable.” Moore was furious at being humiliated in front of everybody. “We’ve combined the essence of Minimax. Taking the bottle twitch as my starting point, I’ve evolved a—”
    “Shut up, Moore,” Verrick muttered, turning his back. “You talk too much.” He moved a few steps away; people hurriedly stepped aside from him. “This random stuff has got to go. You can’t plan anything with it hanging over your head.”
    “That’s why we have it!” Moore shouted after him.
    “Then drop it. Get rid of it.”
    “Minimax isn’t something you turn on and off. It’s like gravity; it’s a law, a pragmatic law.”
    Benteley had moved over to listen. “You believe in natural law?” he demanded. “An 8–8 like you?”
    “Who’s this fellow?” Moore snarled, glaring furiously at Benteley. “What’s the idea of butting into our conversation?”
    Verrick swelled another foot taller. “This is Ted Benteley. Class 8–8, same as you. We just now took him on.”
    Moore blanched. “8–8! We don’t need any more 8–8’s!” His face glowed an ugly yellow. “Benteley? You’re someone Oiseau-Lyre tossed out. A derelict.”
    “That’s right,” Benteley said evenly. “And I came directly here.”
    “Why?”
    “I’m interested in what you’re doing.”
    “What I’m doing is none of your business!”
    “All right,” Verrick said hoarsely to Moore.