A Game of Authors

by Frank Herbert

  Garson turned away from him, went to his room. His bed had been made, the room swept. He reached under his pillow and found the gun neatly centered there. A smile touched his lips as he wondered how common a thing it was for the maid to replace a man’s revolver when she made the bed. He slipped the gun into his belt, returned to the car and Choco Medina.

  “Let’s go.”

  The cobbled street ended at the edge of town, became a dusty, rutted track bounded by rickety fences of twisted limbs. The road wound through fields of sugar cane and corn. Dust thrown up by the limousine ahead of them hung over the ruts.

  As the sun climbed, Garson began to feel the heat of the day.

  The road angled upward, turning and twisting, bounded now by cacti overgrown with bougainvillea, tall grey-barked trees with shiny green leaves.

  Still there was no sign of the limousine except the settling carpet of dust on the road. They came to a fork. The dust trail went left.

  “They are going to the upper gate,” said Medina. “I don’t like that.”

  “Why?”

  He steered the car into the left fork, said, “It is more secluded there.”

  The turns became tighter, steeper. They rounded a hairpin corner. Medina turned off the road between two stone pillars, braked to a jolting stop as the pinch-faced driver of the limousine stepped into their path, pointed a rifle at them.

  The limousine stood parked about one hundred yards ahead beneath one of the grey barked trees.

  “Some invitation!” muttered Medina.

  “That’s El Grillo, isn’t it?” asked Garson.

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe I can talk to him.” Garson moved to open his door.

  Medina gripped his arm. “Stay where you are!”

  El Grillo took his left hand from the rifle stock, pointed back toward the city.

  “Don’t get out of the car for any reason,” said Medina. “Just wait right here.” He opened his door, got out, walked up to El Grillo.

  The rifle remained pointed at the car.

  Medina murmured something to El Grillo. The little rifleman glanced back at the limousine, returned his attention to Garson, shook his head.

  Again Medina spoke.

  El Grillo grinned, looked up for the first time at Medina, shrugged. The rifleman wet his lips with his tongue, said, “Raul?” as though it were a question.

  Medina said something too low for Garson to hear.

  El Grillo nodded.

  Medina returned to the car, slid behind the wheel.

  “What the hell was all that?” demanded Garson.

  Medina ignored the question, backed the car through the gate, headed toward the city. They rounded the hairpin curve. Medina braked to a stop.

  Garson became conscious of the crickets rasping in the dry grass beside the road. They reminded him that the rifleman at the gate was known as “The Cricket.” He said, “Okay, Choco. What gives?”

  “Are you up to a little hike?”

  “To the hacienda?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about El Grillo?”

  “He’ll take you across the lake after dark for fifty pesos. That’s what I was talking about.”

  “Lake? What lake?”

  “You have to cross a lake to get to the hacienda.”

  Garson took a deep breath. The feeling that there was something deeply wrong with this situation filled him. “How far would I have to walk?”

  “About two or three miles.”

  “Why walk?”

  “The riders would hear a car. If you’re on foot, you can hide in the brush beside the road when a horseman comes past.”

  “Am I likely to meet a guard?”

  “No. El Grillo said he was the only one on this side right now. He’ll meet you where they park the car.”

  “What’ll you be doing?”

  “I can’t leave the car here.”

  Garson nodded. “All right. So that’s how I get in. How’ll I get out?”

  “You’re awfully cautious all of a sudden.”

  “I didn’t like the looks of that El Grillo.”

  “He has a price, Mr. Garson. Remember that.”

  Garson opened his door, got out. “Do I just follow that road we were on?”

  “Yes. You can’t miss it. Be careful that El Grillo or his Indian woman are the only ones to see you when you get to the barrio at the lake.” Medina looked suddenly thoughtful. His evil features drew down into a deep scowl. “There’s one other thing.”

  Again Garson was filled with a sense of danger. “Yes?”

  “Whatever you do, don’t give away my part in this.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “No matter what happens, don’t let on that I’m working for you.”

  “Okay, Choco.” Garson lifted his hand in salute.

  Medina put the car in gear, pulled away in a choking cloud of dust.

  Garson turned, headed back up the road. He felt the weight of the pistol in his belt, brought it out and checked it, stopped in frozen shock. There were no cartridges in it.

  Who took them? The maid? Were there shells in it when Medina gave it to me?

  He replaced the revolver in his belt, was suddenly thankful that he had made the arrangement with Gabriél Villazana to call the American Consulate.

  An acute sense of loneliness swept over Garson. He slapped at a mosquito on his neck, wondered: Now, what the devil have I gotten myself into?

  The air held a rich smell of earth: moldy, verdant. Gnats and flies buzzed around him. He slipped off his coat, loosened his tie, wished for his hat.

  The stone pillars loomed up beside the road. Garson approached them cautiously. No sign of El Grillo. He turned onto the private road, noted that it was little more than a cart track. The limousine was gone.

  A flight of yellow and green finches swept past ahead of him, dipped low over the road. Garson quickened his pace, seeking shade. The cart road narrowed, became a wide trail crowded by jungle growth—now shady, now baked in sun glare. A vulture flapped into the air as he approached, settled behind him, waddled off the road. Garson sniffed at the smell of carrion, slapped at the gnats buzzing around his moist neck. He stopped, listened for the limousine, for the sound of danger. Nothing but insect noises.

  Loneliness crowded in upon him. He stared into the underbrush.

  The vultures would pick a body clean in a day. No one would ever find it. Is Choco pushing me into a trap?

  Garson paused, looked back the way he had come, then again up the road.

  But then—Antone Luac—and my name on the story!

  He shifted his coat to his left arm to conceal the pistol at his belt, continued up the road, moving more slowly, oppressed by the heat, wishing for a breath of wind. Now and again he paused, listening. Only insect sounds.

  The road topped a rise, angled downward. It dipped into a heavily wooded area lush with a hothouse smell. He forded a small stream still muddy with the tracks of the limousine, glimpsed an expanse of water through the trees ahead.

  The lake?

  He rounded a corner, came full into a yucca-walled barrio with the lake beyond. The limousine was parked under an open shed. There was no sign of Anita Luac or El Grillo.

  Two hollow-flanked dogs came yapping out at him. A skinny Indian woman in a brown skirt and heavy red blouse ran out of a mud hut in the barrio, kicked the dogs aside, cursed at them.

  Garson walked up to her, said, “El Grillo?”

  She spoke in a burst of Spanish too fast for Garson to follow.

  Running footsteps sounded from Garson’s right. El Grillo trotted around a corner of the barrio, slowed to a walk when he saw Garson, nodded. “Buenas tardes, Señor.”

  Garson glanced up, noted that the sun was past the meridian. He said, “Buenas tardes.” He was struck by the gaunt look of El Grillo. The man wore a white shirt, rope-belted white trousers with ragged cuffs, open huaraches on heavily calloused feet. His face was shaded under
a wide-brimmed straw sombrero.

  The Indian woman spoke to El Grillo in a high whine.

  He cursed at her in Spanish, kicked one of the snuffling dogs, smiled at Garson, and spoke in English with only the slightest trace of an accent. “You made good time.”

  “I didn’t have any reason to loiter.” Garson looked at the lake, saw buildings on a point of land across the water. “Is that the hacienda?”

  El Grillo spoke without turning. “Sí, Señor.”

  Garson looked down at El Grillo. “You’re the uncle of Eduardo Gomez, aren’t you?”

  El Grillo blinked. Garson had the feeling that the man tensed.

  “There is no one by the name of Eduardo Gomez around here, Señor.” He shook his head. “There is no such person.”

  Garson recalled his premonition at the hotel.

  “I go with God.”

  He said, “What happened to Eduardo? Did somebody drop something on him?”

  “You ask too many questions, Señor Garson.” El Grillo turned to the Indian woman, spoke in a harsh voice. She went into the hut.

  “Is anybody likely to see me here?” asked Garson.

  “You must wait until dark,” said El Grillo. “The hacienda, as you can see, is on a little peninsula. There is a dangerous swamp behind it. We will go in a canoe.”

  The sound of a galloping horse came from beyond the barrio. El Grillo took Garson’s arm, hurried him into the hut past the Indian woman working at a charcoal fire. They entered a dark sleeping room. The place smelled heavily of perspiration, urine, charcoal smoke, rotting things. A narrow, glassless window opened on thick green leaves. Beneath it was an ancient iron bedstead covered by grimy serapes. Two reed chairs stood against the wall beside the bed.

  “You must wait quietly until dark, Señor,” said El Grillo. He went out the single door, draped a serape in place over it. Garson heard him speak to the Indian woman. Presently, there came the sound of El Grillo talking to a man outside. A horse clop-clopped away.

  The stink of the room clung to Garson’s nostrils. Flies buzzed around his head. He sat down on one of the reed chairs, brought the empty revolver from his belt, wrapped it in his coat and tossed both onto the bed.

  I’m trusting myself to people with hidden motives, he thought. El Grillo isn’t doing this just for fifty pesos. Choco Medina isn’t helping because I hired him to do it. He glanced at his coat on the bed, thought of the revolver. Who took the bullets out of that thing?

  Garson stared around the room, wondered if there could be bullets hidden here. He inspected the tops of the rafters, peered under the bed, found nothing.

  Late in the afternoon, the Indian woman came silently past the serape of the door, handed Garson a plate containing four tortillas wrapped around beans.

  He ate in sudden hunger, surprised at the savor of the food.

  Afterward, he returned to the chair, turned it so that he could watch the march of the shadow across the muddy ledge of the window. He tried to doze, but couldn’t. Several times he stood up, walked to the blanket at the door, hesitated, returned to the window, tried to peer out into the jungle. He decided against stretching out on the bed, reflecting that he would probably share it with too many things that crawled and bit.

  And throughout the afternoon, uncertainty nagged at him—a feeling of menace that rode on the insect sounds, the stirring of the Indian woman in the other room, the occasional noises of horsemen in the barrio.

  There are too many unanswered questions here, he thought.

  Only the promise of breaking the Antone Luac story gave him the courage to stick it out.

  El Grillo came at dusk.

  “The fifty pesos, Señor.”

  Garson gave him the money.

  El Grillo pocketed it. “Now, we go.”

  Garson took his folded coat from the bed, felt the weight of the revolver in it, followed El Grillo outside.

  Why am I hanging onto an empty gun? he wondered. But the knowledge of it reduced his sense of uncertainty.

  It was warm in the dusk outside, with a clinging dampness to the air. Flying insects seemed to be everywhere.

  The Indian woman appeared beside El Grillo, screamed at him. He aimed a kick at her. She dodged, continued to scream. Garson heard the name, Raul.

  “She is afraid Raul will see us and shoot,” said El Grillo. He chuckled. “Raul will not see.”

  “Who’s Raul?”

  El Grillo remained silent. A breeze stirred around them, carrying the heavy odor of jasmine.

  Then: “Raul is a man of much anger, Señor. When he is angry, he is dangerous.”

  El Grillo turned, a ghostly white figure in the gloom, led the way around the barrio and onto a narrow footpath. The trail let out onto the lake—a muddy shore, root clusters dimly visible in the fading light. Swarms of mosquitoes arose from the water. Garson could distinguish the dark shadow of a dock to the right along the shore, the flickering of an open fire among the trees.

  “You must be very quiet,” whispered El Grillo. “The guards at the dock must not hear.” He dropped down to a dark platform, pulled a dugout from the shadows.

  Garson scrambled down beside him, found himself on a log raft that gurgled faintly and tipped with his weight.

  “You must sit very gently,” said El Grillo. He rocked the canoe with a fingertip to demonstrate its delicate balance. “The lake is full of caribe. If we go into the water we will die.”

  “Caribe?”

  “Little fish, Señor. When the caribe dine, a man loses his identity.”

  Caribe? wondered Garson. He looked at the luminous afterglow on the lake, put the thought of dangerous fish from his mind. “Won’t we be sitting ducks out there?”

  “We will follow the shore. No one will see.” He steadied the dugout, motioned for Garson to enter.

  Garson took a deep breath, stepped into the canoe, scrambled to the front and sat down in dampness, his jacket and the empty revolver in his lap.

  Caribe, he thought. Could he mean piranha? But they don’t have piranha in Mexico. Only in South America.

  The canoe tipped and righted as El Grillo took his position in the stern. The dugout moved out into the lake, turned left along the shore. Garson felt rather than heard the rhythm of the paddle.

  Presently, he saw the amber glow of lights ahead. They drew closer. The dugout nosed into a mudbank with bushes bending down overhead.

  El Grillo came forward, leaned over Garson’s shoulder.

  “There is a trail directly ahead of you, Señor. Follow that trail. It leads to a wall with a gate. The gate will not be locked. I will leave you now.”

  “How can I signal if I want you to come and get me?” asked Garson.

  El Grillo remained silent a moment, then: “Tie white cloth to those bushes above you there. I will come after dark.”

  “Will I find your nephew in there?” asked Garson.

  “I have no nephew, Señor.” The hand pressed his shoulder. “Now, go with God.”

  Garson felt a sudden aversion to that phrase. He tucked his bundled coat under his left arm, stood up, reached for the limbs overhead to steady himself. There appeared to be a log beside the canoe. Garson stepped to it, slipped. The limbs in his hand bent down. He found himself flat on his back in a foot of surprisingly cold water. With much splashing and floundering, he scrambled onto a mudbank, still clutching his coat, turned.

  There was no sign of the dugout. Then he saw a faint movement of white along the shore to his right. It disappeared.

  His clothes clung to him with a refreshing coolness. He turned, slipped and scrambled to higher ground, located the trail, paused there while he looked at the lights ahead. They appeared to be windows and some lanterns hung in trees. The weight of the gun and his wet coat pulled at his arm.

  Abruptly, Garson slipped the revolver from the coat, found a rotten log beside the trail, pushed the gun under the log, kicked leaves over the area to hide it.

  Then he strode toward the l
ights, his senses alert to every sound.

  A low wall loomed ahead, broken by an arched double gate. A gas lantern in a fog of insects hung from a limb just inside the gate. He could see another gas lantern in a screened enclosure beyond the gate.

  Almost as though they were lighting my path, thought Garson.

  Now, he could make out a high-backed rattan chair in the screened enclosure, a table beside the chair covered with papers.

  He stopped at the gate, looked inside the walled area. It was a garden, thick with palms, papaya, mimosa. He could smell jasmine. A brick walkway led from the gate to the screened enclosure, thence to the adobe wall of a house at the other side of the garden.

  Garson lifted the latch of the gate, stepped into the garden. Now, he could see a double door in the wall of the house. He stepped out along the walk, froze as a voice came from the high-backed chair in the screened area. It was a man’s voice, deep and with a touch of querulousness.

  “Is that you, Raul?”

  Garson cleared his throat, felt suddenly weak-kneed with the realization that he was at the moment of discovery.

  “What’s the matter with you, Raul?”

  The back of a grey head arose above the chair followed by wide shoulders in a white suit. A gnarled hand fumbled for a cane beside the chair, found it. The man turned.

  Garson had seen a hundred photographs of this face: the wide forehead, bulging brows, the thin nose and large dark eyes. Only the goatee was new. It gave him the look of a grey-haired Mephistopheles. There would be no mistake.

  This was Antone Luac.

  “Oh, so it’s you,” said Luac.

  Garson’s voice failed him. He had been prepared for almost any other reaction: for outrage, for bitterness—even for violence—but not for casual acceptance.

  “Well, say something,” said Luac. “Say, ‘Dr. Livingstone, I presume!’ or some other damn foolishness.”

  Garson stammered, “I . . . I, uh . . . I’m Hal Garson.”

  “Who else?” asked Luac. “Well, don’t just stand there! Come in out of the bugs.”

  Only then did Garson realize that many of the insects had deserted the lights to concentrate on his flesh. He saw the door to the screened enclosure on his left, slipped through it. By the time he faced Luac across the table, Garson had regained some of his composure.