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                        THE 121 CLUB
 
 
     It was the coldest of the cold days in C T's sophomore
winter term, and cabin fever wasn't only settling in on him.
As frost patterns grew at the corners of almost every window
on campus but the newest ones, the ones of buildings with
automated heating systems, practically every student and
faculty member alike was starting to feel hemmed in.  "Why
didn't I go to a Sun Belt university,"  C T asked himself one
day when he sat in class looking across the wasteland of a
Diag whose trees were to wait for another three months to
bud.  "There are certain latitudes where people just
shouldn't live," he was convinced.  After that class he
passed a sign on a crowded bulletin board with a highly-
familiar emblem.  It was a classic twice-around cribbage
board.  The lettering below it was simple, and it read:
 
     PLAY CRIBBAGE, EH?
     121 Cribbage Club
     Saturday Nights
     Call Bjorn at 1039-248
 
     Cribbage!  C T hadn't thought anyone at the University
played cribbage!  What a place of opportunity, he thought.
He realized then that the traditional game of the Nordic
lands was part of what has maintained human populations even
as far north as the Arctic Circle.  This might be the cure
for his cabin fever.
 
     C T thought his game needed improving before anyone
named "Bjorn" would ever play him.  Fortunately, he had
access to a computer game that would sharpen his skills.  He
went to the University Extension Building and found his way
to the PC microstations, where he pulled the floppy disk from
his backpack.  After some experience in data processing
courses, he hadn't much trouble accessing the game, but
unfortunately, it was decidedly artificial.  Good cribbage
players don't take as much time as this micro-based opponent
did to count and lay away, that vital cribbage process that
is an admixture of defense and offense.  Still, the component
of luck in the game gave the machine a statistically variant
edge the first game.  The last hand was a real surprise.  C T
held a double run worth 12, an extremely good hand before the
supplementary cut, and he was in hole 112.  He needed nine
points to go out.  On the other hand, the computer was
sitting in hole 98.  Still, it was "his" first count, and
"he" got a 24 hand.  Somewhere in the machinations of his
probability theory, he knew that certain combinations and
outcomes like those leading to a 24 hand simply don't occur
by chance, but he wasn't willing to attribute any skill to
the PC.
 
     He played until 18:00, completely forgetting about
dining hall dinner.  He was so intimidated by the name
"Bjorn" in terms of his undoubted group of cribbage masters
that he needed some confidence.  He hardly considered his
past recollections of people from the north.  In fact, one of
the better-loved branches of his family came from there.  On
his mother's side, the blood ran cold from all the "sons" on
the ends of names.  It was only his father's side that was
Anglo-Saxon, giving the name Prime to him.  For a small
fraction of the day, he was engaged in preparation for a
contest against a small part of himself.
 
     The final game ended up 124 - 79, a handy "skunk."  This
was three in a row.  C T decided to go home and call about
the cribbage club later.  He pulled the zipper on his down
parka all the way to the top.  He'd read Jack London novels
and understood that this kind of cold was not to be taken
lightly.  At the same time, however, he knew that many, many
mechanical engineers had designed a livable climate for him
just a short distance away in the relative warmth of Lodge
Hall.
 
     The 121 Club met in the parlor area of Bjorn Arnhem's
shared house.  He and some friends from the even more frozen
northern part of the state lived there.  They had several
traditionally designed cribbage boards on tables under swag
lamps.  Games were going on when he arrived on Saturday
night.  Calls of "fifteen two four six," "go," and "thirty-
one for two," the parlance of the game that requires only
basic English to understand, filled the tastefully decorated
room.
 
     C T introduced himself.  "I'm here to play cribbage.
I'm Prime.  C T Prime."  He was a minority, certainly.
 
     "Sit right down,...C..T?.." Bjorn looked at him in a
warm, searching way.
 
     "That's right, just two letters.  Like the 'S' in Harry
S Truman."  What a lack of identity!
 
     "Tom is over in the kitchen opening a brew.  He'll want
to start a game with you.  Tom!  We got another player!"
 
     "That's great!  We've been odd all night.  Now we don't
have to play three hand.  I hate three hand."  A mellowed
yet strangely resonant voice echoed from the kitchen at the
back of the house.  Soon a student of average height but with
decidedly lighter hair color came out with his 350-ml beer
can.  He was also smoking a cigarette.
 
     "I haven't played cribbage for awhile...with people that
is...it's been mostly the computer."  Tom sat down across
from him at the long table where a board had all four pegs at
the start.
 
     "Well we're no computers.  Cut for deal."  It was C T's
deal.  The cards felt strange.  His first hand was average
for the game, and so was Tom's.  He liked low variance in
life, for one could be more certain about other things at the
same time; had the hands started with 24's or maybe even a 28
or the coveted maximum, a 29, he would wonder how many
terrible hands would make up the balance.  He played a
conservative hand but certainly saw good potential.  And he
never attempted to make an inside straight.
 
     After Tom won the first game by only three pegs, he lit
another cigarette, took a generous sip of his beer and
remarked, "That computer must be a pretty good player.
You're a natural for this club!"
 
     "You know, guys, this is as good as a vacation to
Grandma's house, and it's the winter!"
 
     "You have folks up north?"  Bjorn looked from his game
as he lay his two cards to the crib.
 
     "Yes, in Federation.  We used to go there every year to
see my Mom's folks."  C T was gaining a little ground, at
least.
 
     "Federation!  Of course, my Aunt Mary lives around
there.  It's nothing like when the tin and zinc mines were
running, though."
 
     "Well," C T said, "There must still be a lot left in the
ground but they have no reason to go for it.  Someday there
may be a need."  He picked up his hand.  A jack of hearts,
the five of clubs, the five of diamonds, and the five of
spades.  And the five of hearts.  Things wouldn't be entirely
variant tonight, he said to himself.

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