The Game of X: A Novel of Upmanship Espionage

by Robert Sheckley

  The plane rolled, I corrected again, and the distant line of the horizon teetered back and forth. My airspeed had fallen to 60.

  I realized at last that I should have pushed the stick forward, not back. I did so now, dove, regained airspeed, and found my right wing slanting toward the sea.

  I corrected, and the right wing came up and the left wing snapped down. Guesci was shouting at me, and Karinovsky had been roused from the contemplation of his wound.

  We were in trouble. Each time I corrected, the plane rolled more deeply to the other side. I could feel a heavy vibration in the tail, and we had somehow dropped to 990 feet and were still falling. I couldn’t seem to straighten the plane out; she seemed determined to flip herself over or tear off a wing.

  Then Guesci made a lunge for the controls, and I fought him off, and Karinovsky was shouting at both of us. Guesci and I clawed and grunted at each other, and Guesci tried to bite my wrist, and I hit him on the nose with my forehead. That calmed him down.

  During this time, no one had been flying the plane. I turned quickly to the controls and found that we were no longer rolling. With my hand removed from the helm, the plane had quietly corrected herself. She was descending now, and making a wide turn to the right.

  I had learned an extremely valuable lesson: when in doubt, let the plane do it.

  I worked the stick carefully, trying to let the plane fly itself. I got us up to 4,000 feet, traveling slightly east of north at 95 miles an hour. The plane kept itself in level flight with very little help from me. When everything seemed in order, I turned to Guesci.

  “Don’t ever do that again,” I said, in a cold, hard voice.

  “I’m terribly sorry,” Guesci said. “I didn’t understand what you were doing.”

  Karinovsky said, “He was testing the responses of the aircraft. Any fool could see that.”

  “Of course, of course, I realize that now,” Guesci said.

  There is no greater marvel on earth than the will to believe. Even I was starting to believe.

  “Mr. Nye,” Guesci said, “I am truly sorry. … Will you have to do any more testing?”

  “That,” I said, “depends on conditions.”

  Guesci nodded. Karinovsky didn’t even bother to nod; it was obvious that one tested according to conditions.

  “How do conditions seem?” Guesci asked timidly.

  I thought for a while before answering. I had a splitting headache, and my clothes were drenched with perspiration. I had acquired a pronounced tic in the right eye, and there was a tremor to my hands reminiscent of the early stages of locomotor ataxia. But the main fact was that I was still flying the plane.

  “Conditions are not bad,” I told him. “In fact, at the moment, everything is very much in order.”

  How does the fool build his paradise?—out of the crumbling bricks of illusion and the watery cement of hope. Thus spake Zarathustra Nye.

  22

  We had flown to the northeast for nearly 15 minutes. The Adriatic was behind us, and the wide North Italian plain was below. I decided that it was time to find out where we were going. I asked Guesci if we had any maps.

  “Of course,” Guesci said. “I provided everything.” He reached under the seat and brought out a chart numbered ONC-F-2. It showed northern Italy and most of middle Europe, and it was filled with symbols for airports, DF stations, restricted areas, cities, towns, mountains, swamps, oceans, lakes, power lines, dams, bridges, tunnels, and many other interesting features. It bore absolutely no resemblance to the flat green and brown land beneath us.

  I decided to delegate responsibility. “Guesci,” I said, “find out where we are. Then find out where we should be, and how we get there.”

  “But I know nothing of aerial maps!” Guesci said.

  “Karinovsky will help you. After all, you can’t expect me to do everything.”

  They went to work on the map. I used the time trying to learn something about flying an airplane. I performed gentle banks to the right and left, dove, climbed, tried different throttle settings, and experimented with the trim. I began to feel a modest sensation of confidence.

  “Would, you mind flying a little lower?” Guesci asked. “I can’t seem to find any landmark.”

  I brought the plane down to 2,000 feet. After a while, Guesci sighed and said, “The countryside around here is featureless.”

  “You’re a great help,” I said.

  Guesci had been studying the map. Now he asked, “How long has it been since we left the Adriatic and crossed the coast?”

  “About 17 minutes, I’d guess.”

  “At what speed and direction?”

  “About 90 miles an hour, northeast. But that’s only an estimate.”

  Karinovsky waved his hand negligently. “Well call it a hundred miles an hour, since it makes the calculation easier. That means we have traveled approximately 25 miles. Continuing to the north, we shall soon intersect the Piave River. It is a landmark we are not likely to miss.”

  “What do we do when we find it?”

  “We then follow it. It will bring us to Belluno, and then we can follow the Piave valley all the way to San Stefano di Cadore.”

  “How will we know when we get there?”

  Guesci had the answer to that one. “There is a power station just before the town.”

  “Are you sure you can find it?”

  “Don’t worry,” Guesci said. “You take care of the piloting, and we will handle the navigating.”

  Somehow I didn’t like the sound of that; but of course, there was nothing to do but bash on.

  I continued to the north, and soon we spotted the Piave. I turned the plane and followed the course of the river to the northwest, past a double loop, and then a second one. We checked out our position on Valdobbiadene. The ground was beginning to rise now, and I had to keep the plane in a gentle climb.

  In a few minutes we came into the foothills of the Alps, about 2,000 feet above sea level. The river turned north, and then northeast. Guesci spotted the town of Feltre on our left, and Karinovsky located a windmill on the right. Everything checked out nicely. We were 9,000 feet above sea level by the time we reached Belluno. The Alps stretched in front of us like massed spear-points. It was getting cold in the cabin.

  The plane was harder to control now. Strong up-drafts buffeted the wings, and the engine labored in the thin air. Below us, the valley of the Piave was a distinct curving slash through the Dolomites. The upward trend of the land forced me to 10,000 feet.

  I heard Karinovsky gasp. Turning, I saw the peak of a mountain slide by a hundred yards to my right. It towered at least a quarter of a mile above our present elevation.

  “Any more around like that?” I asked.

  “Nothing else to worry about at this altitude,” Karinovsky said. “Unless we miss San Stefano.”

  The Piave valley continued to curve to the east, and Guesci spotted the last power station. Then we saw San Stefano to the right, at an elevation of 8,481 feet. I banked and began a gentle descent.

  Individual houses came into focus. There were steeply tilted little meadows, and a single-track railroad cut through one edge of the town.

  “There is our destination!” Guesci cried.

  I saw the lodge, U-shaped, set about a mile from the village. There was a stretch of open land in front of the U; from the air it looked about the size of a postage stamp. I couldn’t possibly land on anything so small, of course; but I didn’t see anything else that looked any better. I continued to let down, circling the field and hoping that it wouldn’t be so bad as it looked.

  I circled the field, trying to get myself near the edge of the field with the aircraft facing into the wind. I reduced speed and eased the stick forward. A cluster of trees flashed by, the lodge shot past, and then I was at the far end of the field, turning into the northeast wind.

  It had all happened too fast. Suddenly I was very near the ground, traveling at a terrifying speed, too low for safety but to
o high for a landing. According to what I had learned from Smilin’ Jack and his friends, I should apply power, regain altitude, and make my approach again. But I didn’t dare. My control of the plane was too tentative, and the ground looked too close. I gritted my teeth and shoved the stick forward, at the same time slamming the throttle shut.

  Fifteen feet or so above the ground the plane faltered, lost speed, and trembled on the verge of a dive. Half of the field had gone by. I pulled back hard on the stick. The plane dragged her nose into the air, shook indignantly, and came down hard on her tailwheel. Then the front wheels struck and the plane bounded high into the air. I kept the stick in my stomach and held on.

  We came down hard. The left landing strut collapsed, and the plane fell heavily on her fuselage and began turning to the left. The left wingtip dug into the ground and the propeller struck and came apart. I shoved frantically on the right pedal and applied the brakes. The plane continued spinning around her left wingtip, rising into the air and trying to turn over. For a moment it looked as if she would make it. Then the right front strut collapsed, and the plane slid along sullenly on her belly. She came to a stop at the far end of the field, about 20 feet from a low wooden fence with pine woods beyond. I reached out and turned off the ignition. Agent X had struck again.

  No one was hurt, but no one felt inclined to conversation. We surveyed the wreckage of the plane in silence, and then started walking to the lodge.

  Already I was experiencing a sense of letdown. When I passed that wide oak door, the life of Agent X would be at an end. All that would be left would be that dubious quantity—William P. Nye. It seemed terribly unfair, and suddenly I wanted to turn and run from this alpine lodge, run from Italy, escape from Europe. I wanted to save myself by losing myself, to keep alive somehow that preposterous image of Agent X.

  We were on the porch, and Guesci’s hand reached out to the heavy bronze doorknob. I gave up my dream of flight and rebirth, and invented a proverb to fit the occasion: he who produces an illusion is more likely than anyone else to be taken in by it. The thought gave me very little comfort.

  A young man with a crew cut opened the door and told us that we were expected. We entered, and walked down a short hall and into a large room with a picture window that overlooked the Alps.

  A man was standing at the far end of the room, in front of a large fireplace, his hands clasped behind his back. Low flames cast his shadow across the ceiling. He turned slowly, smiling.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, “I am very glad that you made it. I was beginning to worry about you.”

  The man was Forster. He stood and smiled, standing erect but relaxed. Behind us, the door closed.

  23

  Tableau: the three bears meet wolfman. Yes, it was a moment to savor, if you like the taste of ashes in your mouth. The worst of it was remembering how hard I had worked to bring us to this particular place and no other. I hadn’t even considered going somewhere else. It had never occurred to me that our destination might have been compromised. But here we were, and I felt that it was damned unfair. …

  So that is how they play this game, I thought, maudlin with self-pity. You ran and dodge and improvise and finally reach the desired sanctuary, only to find that the rules have been changed and the sanctuary has become the enemy stronghold and that you have actually lost.

  But of course, I had forgotten: this game had no rules.

  Meanwhile, back at the old reality, two men were covering us with revolvers while a third searched us. When that formality was over, Forster invited us into the room. We entered like zombies, took the chairs he pointed to, and even accepted drinks and cigarettes. Forster’s men faded back into the wings, and Forster stepped forward into a pink spotlight. We sat and stared at him; we were going to listen to whatever he had to say, and then we were going to let him shoot us. Moralewise, we were not a happy group.

  “First,” Forster said, “let me answer a question which you should be asking—what am I doing here instead of scrambling around in the Veneto marshes?”

  We didn’t say a word. Forster said, “I’ll answer my own question. Guesci, your arrangements weren’t quite so secret as you had thought. Your discreet inquiries concerning boats, aircraft, and the use of a lodge in San Stefano came to my attention. I left most of my men in Venice, to capture or kill you if possible, but failing that, to maintain pressure on you. There was no necessity for me to supervise so routine an operation. I came to San Stefano to await you, relying on your obstinacy to outweigh your intelligence. Naturally, I had to divert your people first. That was not too difficult. I sent them an emergency message from Guesci, changing the location of the meeting. Colonel Baker and his assistants are presently in Villa Santini, some 18 miles from here.”

  Forster waited for a reaction and got nothing. Our numbness annoyed him. He said, “I thought that a little chat with the three of you would be amusing; it turns out to be a bore. I suppose there is no reason to waste any more of my time.”

  Unhurriedly he drew a heavy Browning automatic from his jacket pocket. And just about that time, I came to the conclusion that I didn’t want to die. I mean really. I wanted to live; for another 30 or 40 years, if possible, but at least for another 30 or 40 minutes if that was all I could get. I wanted to live badly enough to overcome the blissful stupor I had fallen into, to return to the possibilities of failure and pain. In order to live I was willing to crawl and beg, to lie and steal, to turn communist or federalist, Aryan or Orthodox, Aztec or Spaniard, or anything else the situation required.

  I was even willing to become Agent X; and that, curiously, was the most difficult thing of all.

  I said to Forster, “What happens now?”

  He grinned. “Now I shoot you.”

  “In the back of the head?”

  “Perhaps. Are you frightened, Mr. Nye?”

  “Of course. But more than that, I’m disappointed.”

  “That is quite understandable. In your position—”

  “You don’t understand,” I told him. “I’m disappointed in you.”

  “What are you talking about?” Forster asked.

  “Your cowardice,” Agent X replied.

  I could feel his men lean forward almost imperceptibly. Forster raised his automatic and thumbed back the hammer.

  “For that remark,” he said, “you get it in the face.”

  “It makes no difference,” I told him. “Your bullet won’t alter the fact that I’m a better man dead than you are alive.”

  Forster was silent for a moment. Then he said, “Mr. Nye, you are trying to provoke me into some course of action which would give you a fighting opportunity. You are doing it rather clumsily, but the intent is clear. It is useless, of course. Our time of personal rivalry is over. I have a job to perform, and a duty to do it in the most efficient manner.”

  I stretched my stone mouth into a grin. “I expected you to hide behind your job, Forster. It’s lucky you’ve got that gun. Otherwise I’d break you in two.”

  My bragging words were having an effect on him; not because they were true, but precisely because they weren’t true. He knew he could take me, and it irritated him that circumstances would not allow him to prove it.

  He said, “Your tactics do you credit, Mr. Nye. Still—what else could you say under present conditions?”

  Very true; but Forster was speaking now for the benefit of his men. He was trying to convince them. He should have shot me three minutes ago and saved his explanations for later.

  I said, “Your behavior might be understandable if you were some minor functionary. In that case, you wouldn’t even consider matching yourself against me; it would be too ridiculous. But I had considered you a man like myself.”

  I paused to light a theatrical cigarette. I said, “We have had the same sort of career. But with a difference. I have achieved a certain modest fame as a fighter; you have acquired the reputation of a fairly competent bureaucrat.”

  Forster was too furious to
speak. I was being most damnably unfair, of course; but I have always felt that dying was the unfairest thing of all.

  “You have many good qualities,” I told him. “You are clever, ruthless, and reasonably intelligent. Unfortunately, you lack the instinct for personal combat.”

  “You’ve said enough,” Forster said.

  “I’m sorry I had to tell you that. But surely it’s better to hear it from me than from your employers.”

  “By God, that’s enough!” Forster cried, raising his automatic.

  “I think you should put me out of the way at once,” I said quickly. “There are worse things I might tell you.”

  “You fantastic paranoid!” Forster shouted. “Do you really believe so much in your reputation?”

  I forced myself to lean back and fold my arms. My dead mouth spasmed into a deprecating smile. “Forster,” I said, “I could meet you with any weapons, at any time, under any circumstances, and kill you without undue effort. I could spot you a sword for a can opener and still take you apart without too much inconvenience. You should always let others do your fighting; otherwise some bad-tempered fellow is apt to kick your head off while you are fumbling with a safety catch.”

  One of Forster’s men didn’t quite conceal his smile. That was good; and what was better, Forster had noticed it.

  Guesci and Karinovsky were staring at me open-mouthed. I glanced at them, then turned back to Forster. “These cattle,” I said, indicating my companions, “don’t really matter at all. Guesci is the eternal amateur, and Karinovsky has very little importance in the overall picture. The contest was always between you and me. What do you think, Forster?”

  He stood and glared at me. Then his face relaxed and his eyebrows lifted. He said slowly, “I believe that you are bluffing.”

  “Am I?”

  “Yes, you are. Your words have a hollow ring—a desperate, cornered sound.”

  “You’ll never know for sure,” I said.

  “I will know,” Forster replied. He thumbed down the hammer of his Browning and put the gun in his pocket.