The Game of X: A Novel of Upmanship Espionage

by Robert Sheckley

  We were in a large, gloomy parlor above the bicycle shop. Carlo and Beppo had searched me for weapons and had found none. Forster had dismissed them. I don’t know if he carried a gun or not; he didn’t look as though he needed one.

  I had recognized him immediately from the photograph in our files. The blunt, oversize, somewhat florid features, the easy smile, the frank, feral, widespread eyes, all were there. What I wasn’t prepared for was his size. Our description put him down at six feet two inches, 220 pounds. Now I gave him thirty pounds more, and at least another inch.

  He was one hell of a big man. According to our records, Forster was supposed to be a physical-culture nut. Also a champion pistol shooter and a fifth Dan black belt. Under the circumstances, I decided not to leap upon him and strangle the life out of him.

  “Mr. Nye,” he said, “I can’t tell you how I have looked forward to this meeting.”

  “Really?” I answered, quick as a flash.

  Forster nodded. “I never really believed that I would one day be sitting with the famous Agent X.”

  That gave me a nasty turn. My reputation seemed to have spread with astonishing speed. Colonel Baker was getting good service out of his phantom operative; which was fine for him, but not too promising for me.

  “Who,” I asked, “is agent X?”

  Forster shook his head and said, “Sorry, old man. Your cover is blown. You’ll just have to face up to it. It must be embarrassing for a man of your reputation, but those are the breaks.”

  It was more than embarrassing; it looked as if it might be downright fatal. But I decided to concede nothing.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.

  “Just tell me where I can find Karinovsky.”

  “I’d be happy to, if I knew anyone by that name.”

  “Then you refuse?”

  “I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”

  Forster pursed his lips and thought about that. From his accent, he seemed to be German or Austrian. He was trying to conduct this interview in a light, playful, but distinctly ominous tone; Italy must have affected him that way. Unfortunately, his Words came out blunt and heavy. The rapier really wasn’t his style; he was better suited for the truncheon. He had a Teutonic sense of humor, which some of us consider distinctly unhumorous. I thought he was ludicrous and extremely dangerous.

  “Nye,” he said quietly, “haven’t you carried it far enough? Surely you know that there are very few secrets of consequence in this world of ours. Ford usually knows what General Motors is doing, and Macy’s next move is no mystery to Gimbels. The situation is exactly the same in the various international secret services. After all, our profession does have some traditions. They are unwritten and implicit, but they are traditions all the same.”

  I listened with interest. All this was news to me.

  “Spies spy on each other,” Forster continued, “far more than they spy on governments or military installations. And when an agent is captured by the opposing side and identified beyond reasonable doubt, he is supposed to be a good sport about it, tell what he must tell, and leave the posture of grim-lipped silence to the professional patriots. Live and let live; history is long, but life is short. It is our tradition. It makes sense, doesn’t it, Mr. Nye?”

  “Perfect sense,” I said.

  Forster smiled his most winning smile. “I can understand your feelings. Your reputation is formidable; you wish to preserve it. But I hope that you do not suffer from hubris. All of us are human, all of us fail from time to time; even a man of your accomlishments is not immune. And when the time of defeat is upon you, it surely behooves you to deal with it reasonably, to preserve your life in order to fight another day. Don’t you think so, Mr. Nye?”

  It was the best sermon I had heard in years. He’d practically brought tears to my eyes.

  “I agree with you fully,” I said.

  “Then you will tell me where to find Karinovsky?”

  “I don’t know where he is.”

  “But you admit that you are Agent X?”

  “Sure. I’ll admit to being Agent X, Y or Z, just to please you. But I still don’t know where Karinovsky is.”

  “I am sorry, you must know,” Forster said. “After all, this is your operation.”

  “No, it’s not,” I said. A bad slip. But he already knew about Guesci.

  “Guesci cannot possibly be in charge,” Forster said. “The man is an obvious incompetent.”

  Now was a nice time to find out.

  “Guesci can be discounted,” Forster continued. “You are in charge, and you possess the relevant information.”

  “I don’t know where he is,” I said, for at least the fifteenth time.

  Forster studied me for a few moments. Then he said, “Mr. Nye, I appeal to your sense of sportsmanship. I beg you not to force me to use—coercion.”

  He was being sincere. My heart went out to him. I really wanted to spare him the pain of causing me pain.

  “I wish I could help you,” I said, “but I can’t. Will you take my word on that?”

  Forster studied me for a few moments. At last he said, “Yes, Mr. Nye. I will take your word. You may leave.”

  I stood up, feeling very confused. “You mean I can just go?”

  Forster nodded. “I have accepted your word. It is possible that, at the moment, you do not know where Karinovsky is. But you will have to find out. And when you do, we will have another talk.”

  “As easy as that?” I asked.

  “Yes. As long as you stay around Venice, I can find you any time I want. I can do what I please with you. Venice is my base, Nye, not yours. Remember that.”

  “I’ll try to bear it in mind.”

  I stood up and walked to the door. Behind me, Forster said, “I wonder, Nye, if you are as good as your dossier indicates. In all frankness, you don’t look particularly dangerous. A casual observer would judge you barely competent. And yet, your record in the Far East speaks for itself. Specialist in guerrilla warfare. Expert in small arms and explosives. Skilled saboteur and arsonist. Licensed to fly fighter aircraft. A former hydroplane operator and master diver. … Have I left anything out?”

  “You forgot my medals in lacrosse and jai alai,” I said. Inwardly I was cursing Colonel Baker’s overreaching imagination. He had poured too much gilt on the lily; in striving to create a paragon, he had only succeeded in producing a paradox.

  “It is a fantastic record,” Forster said, “but inevitably, a bit difficult to believe.”

  “Sometimes I find it hard to believe myself,” I told him. I opened the door.

  “I would really like to find out how formidable you are,” Forster said.

  “Maybe some day you will.”

  “I am looking forward to that day,” Forster said. “Goodbye, Mr. Nye.”

  I left the house and walked through the courtyard. The old man was still polishing his taxi. He nodded at me pleasantly as I walked past him. My back felt itchy. I kept on walking. No one shot me, and I suddenly found myself on the street.

  I was safe and sound. It suddenly seemed to me a very good idea to catch the first plane back to Paris. Secret-service work didn’t seem to be my line after all. I was thinking about this so hard that I didn’t even notice the motorcycle until it pulled up to the curb beside me.

  It was a big, high-powered Indian, and the man getting off it was clad in black leather. He was the same man who had ridden beside my taxi.

  6

  Most of his face was still hidden by immense fur-lined goggles. He had a thin black moustache and a thick lower lip. Sitting on the cycle, he had seemed enormous. Standing on the ground, he was about five feet six, barrel-chested and barrel-bellied.

  “Have you a match?” he asked me.

  “No,” I said. “Will a lighter do?”

  “Is it a Flaminaire?”

  “Sorry, it’s a Silver-Jet.”

  He nodded approvingly. “I am happy to meet you, Mr. Nye.” />
  “Same here, Mr. Guesci.” All that business about matches and lighters was our primary recognition code. As you can see, it was designed so that anyone overhearing us would believe we were carrying on a normal conversation. The secret service is full of clever tricks like that.

  “We can’t talk here,” Guesci said. “We will meet in Venice, in an hour.”

  I considered telling him that I was going straight back to Marco Polo Airport, and thence to Paris. But frankly, I was ashamed. (Man is the only animal whose fear of embarrassment can overcome his instinct for self-preservation.) And after all, nothing had actually happened to me. I decided to wait and see what plans Guesci had. I could cut and run any time I wanted to.

  “Where in Venice?” I asked.

  “I will tell you,” Guesci said. “You will cross this street and take the number six bus, not a taxi, and go with it over the causeway to the Piazzale Roma in Venice. Leaving the bus, you will proceed on foot to the Fondamenta della Croce, where you will take a number 1, 2, 4 or 6 vaporetto, but-not a gondola, to the stop San Silvestro, which is the first stop on your right after passing the Rialto Bridge. Do you know Venice at all?”

  “Yes.”

  Guesci looked doubtful, but continued. “You will find yourself on the Fondamenta dei Vino. Walk back toward the Rialto Bridge, and at the intersection of the Fondamenta with the Calle dei Paradiso you will find the Cafe Paradiso. You will take a table in the sidewalk portion of this cafe and wait for me. Is that clear, or shall I repeat it?”

  “Never mind, I’ll find the cafe.”

  Guesci nodded, muttered, “Good luck,” and roared away on his motorcycle. I proceeded less spectacularly to the bus stop. Soon I was on the causeway, and Venice was rising from the waves ahead of me.

  I didn’t know what to think about Guesci, and this bothered me. It was very important for me to know what kind of a man he was. My life might very well depend on him.

  My first impression was not unfavorable. Guesci seemed to be a precise, cautious, humorless fellow, and a careful, even fussy planner. All in all a competent man, though dull.

  As it turned out, I could hardly have been more wrong.

  7

  I left the gray industrial city of Mestre a troubled man; a gray and industrial man, haunted by taxis, stalked by houses, trapped in trolley tracks. My color was soot, my emblem was the traffic light, my theme song was “Arrivederci, Roma,” hummed obsessively. But that was before I entered Venice.

  My hair became glossier as soon as the bus turned onto the Ponte della Libertà. A chronic acne was entirely cleared up by the time I had crossed the Canale Santa Chiara. When I stood at last in the Piazzale Roma, my metamorphosis was almost complete; but I was still within view of the Autorimessa, with its gasoline stench and its rows of carnivorous Volkswagen beetles. I walked away hastily, covering my trail with cobblestone alleys. I came to the Campazzo Tre Ponti, where five irrational bridges zigzagged across three obsolete canals. There my scales sloughed off and my skin began to breathe.

  That is what love can do.

  No one-would question me if I announced a great and mystic passion for Tahiti or Tibet. But Venice? Did you say Venice? Disneyland on the Adriatic? My dear fellow, how can you stand the frantic salesmanship, the indifferent food and insulting prices, the press of the tourist mob; and above all, how can you stand the insufferable quaintness of the place?

  Friends, I can stand it all easily. In fact, I insist upon it. One does not fall in love by exercise of reason and good taste; one simply falls, and invents ingenious reasons afterwards. One falls in love with one’s fatality, whether it be a woman or a city. And all fatalities can be traced to their casual beginnings in childhood.

  I had dreamed of canals as a child, nurtured in the green hills of New Jersey, far from Lake Hopatcong, farther still from the sea. In those days I was perhaps the most outstanding twelve-year-old civil engineer east of the Rockies. My first project was the beautification of my home town. My approach was simple and audacious: I flooded the damned place to a mean depth of ten feet.

  This eradicated the railroad station, Cooper’s Shoe-store, a Shell station, a Greek delicatessen, and several other prominent eyesores. The First Presbyterian Church, which lay in a slight declivity, vanished except for its spire. The junior high school was lost with all hands.

  After the deluge, we survivors lived quite happily in our submerged town. Many houses were still usable; you could paddle out of your sunken living room and into the watery street. Raising sail, you could proceed between straight rows of trees, their gaunt trunks vanished, looking like enormous flowers. …

  Years later, when I came to Venice, I saw my youthful dreams realized and transcended. The city was full of details that I had never imagined. Those endless stone lions, for example, were a notable improvement over our two Civil War cannons. I liked the great sagging palazzos more than our neo-Colonial houses; and those striped and slanting barber poles to which gondolas are moored were a huge improvement over our rows of parking meters. Furthermore, I realized in Venice that I had never really explored the enchanting possibilities of boats: fire-engine boats and milk barges, ambulance boats with sirens, garbage boats and vegetable boats, and black and gold funeral barges with mournful bearded angels standing in their sterns.…

  There was my fatality: a childhood dream of a watery transformation. And now, walking through the Salizzada di San Panteleone, I was elated. The canals of Venice surrounded me, the people of Venice jostled me, the churches of Venice watched over me. It seemed to me that Forster belonged to the ugly gray anonymity of Mestre; but Venice was surely mine.

  Therefore I ignored Guesci’s instructions and made my own way to the Cafe Paradiso. I took a table, ordered a glass of wine, and gradually began to sober up. My spurious childhood dribbled away through the gray flagstones. By the time Guesci arrived, I had returned fully to the present.

  Guesci ordered a Lachryma Christi, drank my health, and asked, “What in God’s name happened at the airport? Why did you let those men deceive you?”

  I didn’t like his tone or his presumption; a man of my reputation should not be condemned so readily. “What makes you think,” I asked coldly, “that I was deceived?”

  “What do you mean?” Guesci asked.

  I had no idea what I meant; but I was in danger of losing Guesci’s confidence, which could endanger the entire operation.

  “I mean,” I said, “that I knew who they were. It was obvious enough.”

  “Then why did you let them capture you?”

  “Because I wanted them to,” I said, my lips quirking into a subtle smile.

  “But why?”

  Why indeed? I sipped my wine, and said; “I decided to make a personal estimate of Forster. The best way to do that was to go and see him.”

  “How absurd!” Guesci cried. “What made you think he would release you?”

  “It was in his best interests to let me go.”

  “What if Forster hadn’t agreed?”

  “In that case,” I murmured, “I would have been obliged—” Here I paused and lighted a cigarette, then looked up and smiled without mirth, “—yes, obliged to convince him, by one means or another.”

  It sounded almost plausible to me. I waited to see if Guesci would buy it. With a creased and thoughtful face, he did. He said, with a certain grudging respect, “The tales about you, Mr. Nye, are evidently true. Personally, I would not care to be in a room alone with Forster.”

  “The man cuts a good figure,” I conceded, “even if it is somewhat overinflated.”

  Guesci looked at me with a mixture of irritation and admiration. Then he grinned, shrugged with huge and comic resignation, and patted me on the shoulder. I think he suspected that I was lying; but it was the sort of large-scale, flamboyant lie that appealed to him. As he told me later, only pettiness annoyed him. He delighted in color and movement, and in the protean appearance of things. In this respect, he told me, he was a true Venetian.
Like many other subjects of the Serenissima, he believed in style over content, art over life, appearance over reality, and form over substance. He believed simultaneously in fate and free will. He viewed life as a sort of Renaissance melodrama, complete with unexpected appearances and disappearances, heartrending confrontations, preposterous coincidences, disguises and doubles, switched twins and mysteries of birth; all revolving around an obscure and melancholy point of honor. And, of course, he was perfectly right.

  Guesci had booked a room for me in the Excelsior, and we went there after finishing our drinks. Through the muslin curtains I could see the elusive reflection of dragons in the Grand Canal. Guesci lay back on a chaise longue, looking terribly old and wise, with his eyes half-closed like a temple cat, smoking a cigarette in the Bulgarian manner. He had shed his businesslike exterior, leaving it perhaps in the saddlebag of his motorcycle. What remained was a pleasant, high-flown fellow direct from the cinquecento.

  I asked him how I was supposed to get Karinovsky out of Venice. The answer inevitably involved Guesci in a flight of discursive philosophy.

  “To escape from Venice,” he told me, “is a profound and disturbing problem. In a very real sense, you could say that no one escapes from Venice, since our city is a simulacre—or worse, a simulacrum—of the world.”

  “In that case, let’s just escape from Forster,” I suggested.

  “I’m afraid that doesn’t help us,” Guesci pointed out sadly. “If Venice is the world, then Forster is that ancient antagonist whom we call Death. No, my friend, in absolute terms an escape of any kind is clearly impossible.”

  “Why not settle for relative terms?” I asked.

  “I suppose we will be forced to. But still, we encounter difficulties. The nature of the city operates against us. Venice owes its very existence to the art of illusion—which is one of the Black Arts. It is a city of mirrors; the canals reflect the buildings, the windows reflect the canals. Distances slide and twist, earth and water interpenetrate. Venice advertises its falsehoods and conceals its truths. In a city like this, events cannot be predicted as in Genoa or Milan. The relative and conditional are apt to turn into the absolute and irrevocable without notice.”