The Grand Wheel

The invitation was so sudden that it sent a shock of anticipation through Scarne. ‘Yes, of course. I would be honoured,’ he murmured.

The sound of a string quartet, weaving a melancholy pattern of melody, was the first impression Scarne received as his guide opened the door to Marguerite Dom’s breakfast-room. The cadre member did not follow him in; Scarne heard the door close softly behind him. He was alone with one of the most powerful men – in some eyes the most powerful man – in human-held space.

The Wheel leader rose from a wrought-iron chair, one of two facing one another across a low table, to greet him. He wore a long soft jacket of green velvet; a foot-long cigarette holder dangled from one hand. ‘So pleased to meet you, Mr Scarne. Did you have a good journey? I do hope my couriers were courteous …’ He waved his hand, causing the music to stop, and pointed negligently to the table. ‘Shall we be seated?’

Obediently Scarne took the chair opposite the grand master.

Dom’s frame was spare, his height medium. His sparse black hair, slicked and combed back, failed to cover a balding pate. He had been born at a time when there had been a brief fashion for naming one’s children after members of the opposite sex – though usually with ancient-sounding names. Consequently Sol was replete with middle-aged male Marguerites, Pamelas and Elkas, and with female Arthurs, Yuris and Dwights. It so happened that Dom suited his first name perfectly. He was that ripe combination, the thoroughly masculine, camp, decadent male. His movements were almost feminine. When he spoke, an ingratiating and deceptively defensive smile was apt to come to his features, and the modulations of his voice were more exaggerated than those of the average man, giving the impression of a neurotic factor in his make-up.

Although he seemed a far cry from the tough, solid types who had built up the Wheel centuries ago, Scarne needed to contemplate his face for scant moments to realize that there was only one vital difference between him and those legendary creators of the syndicate. As a rule, those men had not been addicted to the practices which brought them their wealth. But Dom’s face, with its creases and strain lines, its deep intensive eyes, told Scarne that he belonged to a highly specific human type: the compulsive gambler. It was a strong face: his was not a weakness, or a compulsion to lose, as it was with many. It was a need to win.

A butler appeared and began serving coffee, steak and eggs. ‘I hear you have some unusual tendencies,’ Dom said lightly. ‘Glimpses into ultimate reality and so forth.’ His mouth creased into a tight smile, as though with nervousness or sarcasm.

‘Your cadre people assure me it was hallucinatory,’ Scarne said.

‘Oh, they always put everything down to delusion. But we know it’s not that simple, don’t we? After all, everything you saw is known scientifically. We know that matter is constructed of waves, and that these waves are waves of probability. We also know that below this quantum level there is another level, a level of pure randomness where no physical laws obtain. The material world floats on that, so to speak. But then it’s all in the Tarot, isn’t it?’ Dom flicked his hand; a card appeared in it, and he passed it to Scarne.

Scarne bent his head to study the card. It was number Ten, the Wheel of Fortune. The card was of traditional design; an upright wheel mounted in a frame which was supported by boats, or pontoons, floating on water.

‘Somewhat cursory symbolism, but apt,’ Dom was saying. ‘In substance, that represents the content of your first vision, does it not?’

Scarne felt slightly dizzy. Dom was right. The picture on the card seemed bland and ordinary – until one put one’s mind to work on it. The wheel stood for chance as it was manifested in the physical universe – in human life, for instance. But it floated on the waters of a greater randomness, the one he had perceived in his ‘black-out’ in the gaming-house.

‘Water symbolizes the foundation of the universe in several ancient mythologies,’ Dom continued. ‘Because it is fluid and formless, the ancients thought it a perfect symbol of randomness. In Hindu mythology, the world is supported by a series of animals standing on one another’s backs, all ultimately carried by a turtle swimming in an infinite sea. Sometimes the turtle is a fish, but again swimming in the sea of chaos. Charming, don’t you think?’

‘But not very scientific.’ Scarne laid down the card and attempted to tackle the food he had been given, feeling not at all hungry.

Dom chuckled. ‘But what is science studying, after all? Don’t be put off by the mathematical cadre. The gods are greater than science – but purely scientific types can never understand that, can they? All they can do is calculate.’

‘You believe in the gods, then?’

‘Not as persons, of course. Not as actual entities.’