The Game of X: A Novel of Upmanship Espionage by Robert Sheckley Page A

had gone to Hunter; I had gone to NYU. She lived in a walkup on East Sixty-first near Third; I was a West Villager. Both of us had been in Miami in late February of 1961. She had gone to high school in Summit, New Jersey; I was from nearby South Orange.
    We talked, Mavis prepared instant coffee, and we talked some more; we exchanged many inconsequential items, out of which we constructed an invisible network of accord. I did not sweep her into my arms and feel the momentary resistance melt as her arms tightened around my neck and her proud stiff breasts pressed against my white shirt. Shucks, I didn’t even think of it. Besides, it would probably happen next time, or maybe the time after. (American men may try to sleep at once with those they like; but they tend to desist for a while with those whom they might love.)
    And so the night passed, the dawn birds sang in the charcoal-gray shadows, and morning light crept over the housetops. No sinister figures lurked in the sun-cleansed alleys. I borrowed Mavis’ telephone and tried Guesci’s apartment. I was surprised when he answered.
    Guesci had learned that his plan was compromised half an hour after I left, and he had gone to the Palazzo Ducale to call off the operation. He had found Karinovsky in time; but by then, I was in the torture chamber.
    He and Karinovsky had made their rescue raid in commando fashion. Guesci had killed Beppo while Karinovsky guarded the corridor. They had been forced to leave me to take care of Jansen while they fought their way out of the Palazzo. The result: a thigh wound for Guesci; a knife wound in the arm for Karinovsky.
    It was all very unfortunate,” Guesci said. “Especially for Karinovsky. There is an irreversible dynamism at work in these matters; a matter of tempo. The efficiency of the hunter increases in proportion to the decline of the hunted. We must get Karinovsky out of here tonight.”
    I didn’t subscribe to Guesci’s theory. I knew that Venice was simply too small for this cat-and-mouse game and that Forster had too many men out against us. But even beyond this handicap, I didn’t like the way we were rushing into bad moves. Haste makes waste. The way we were going, a hole in the shoulder today might be parlayed into a hole in the head tomorrow.
    “Perhaps we should sit tight for a day or two,” I said.
    “Absolutely impossible,” Guesci said. “Aside from everything else, this is the last night of the spring high tide.”
    That sounded as if it should mean something. It didn’t to me. “So what?” I said.
    “So we must get Karinovsky out tonight, since my plan depends on the tide.”
    “That much I understood. But why does it depend on the tide?”
    “There is no time to explain now,” Guesci said. “Karinovsky will give you the necessary details. You will meet him at number 32, Viale di Santazzaro, near the Piazetta dei Leoncini. Do you know where that is?”
    “I can find it. But I want to know—”
    “There is no time. You must be there at eight-thirty tonight. No sooner or later.”
    “What if I’m followed?”
    “The plan takes that possibility into account,” Guesci said.
    “I’m very glad to hear it,” I told him. “What does the plan suggest that I do about it?”
    “You must be very careful, of course. I can’t over-stress that. Forster’s reputation is at stake in this; perhaps even his personal safety, considering the nature of his employers. I strongly recommend that you avoid lonely places. Forster may not be desperate enough to assassinate you in public, although we cannot discount the possibility. Beyond that, I think that the choice of specific courses of action might be most profitably left to your personal judgment.”
    “Thanks, coach. And where’ll you be while I’m choosing my specific courses of action?”
    “Waiting for you on the mainland, near Mazzorbo. Karinovsky knows the place. I had planned to accompany you on the escape route, but my leg would only be a