The Game of X: A Novel of Upmanship Espionage

by Robert Sheckley

  One of his men called out, “Excuse me, sir, it would be unwise to allow—”

  “Shut up!” Forster said. “What is between Nye and me is not your concern. Nothing changes. If I fight with Nye and lose, you know what to do, don’t you?”

  The man nodded unwillingly.

  Forster turned to me. “According to your dossier, you are quite an expert in antique armament. Is this true?”

  “Try me.”

  “You will be tried. I also believe that you implied that you could kill me with any weapon?”

  “Correct.”

  “Any weapon at all? You’re quite sure?”

  “Take your pick,” I said, and realized that I had been drawn into a tactical error. Forster meant to kill me, but he wanted to do so on his own terms. The fight was for the edification of his men and, ultimately, for his superiors. It was designed to make Forster look good. In my eagerness to stretch out my time, I had been maneuvered into a position where I had to agree willingly to any weapon that Forster chose.

  “I beg you to reconsider,” Forster said, grinning amiably. He was making the trap iron-clad. No one would ever accuse him of forcing his own choice.

  I decided to make it sound good. “I told you several times, Forster: any weapon. Do I have to put it in writing?”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Forster said “I just wanted to be sure I understood you. I think we can find an adequate selection of weapons in this room.”

  He gestured at the far wall. I got up from my chair and walked over to it. It was covered with cavalry sabres, broadswords, Pathan daggers, a nail-studded mace, a morning star, and other, less familiar items.

  “Would you find these interesting?” Forster asked. He was pointing to a crossed set of scimitars, Turkish or Arabian by their look, with deeply curved blades.

  “They’ll do,” I said.

  “But perhaps they are not interesting enough,” Forster said judiciously. “Let me see now—what do you think of the kris?”

  I decided that he was trying to test my reaction to various weapons in order to find one which I was unfamiliar with. He could have spared himself the trouble; my knowledge of swordplay was confined to an early reading of Sabatini and a remembrance of certain Errol Flynn movies.

  “The kris is fine by me,” I said.

  “An overrated weapon,” Forster said, moving down the wall. “These big, two-handed Crusader’s swords are interesting, though clumsy.”

  “But potent enough in skilled hands,” I said.

  “Quite so. Have you ever handled a mace?”

  “The principle seems clear enough.”

  “And what about this?”

  I looked and hesitated for a fraction of a second too long. “Fine,” I said quickly, trying to cover my mistake.

  But Forster had caught it. He said, “If you don’t object, these might afford us a measure of amusement.”

  He took down a short-handled double-headed axe with a leather thong through its handle. “Try the other one,” he said. “See if you like it.”

  It was a thoroughly nasty weapon. The twin heads curved back in an exaggerated crescent. I tested the blades, and found them honed to razor shaipness.

  “Viking, of course,” Forster said. “A true berserker’s weapon. Not as handy as the rapier, you might think; but you would be surprised. There is a technique to the use of the axe. The Viking axemen had little to fear from the swordsmen of their day. Take a shield, Nye; it’s part of the equipment.”

  Again I had to hesitate, to let Forster pick a shield first from the dozen or so on the wall. Then I chose a similar one. It was a round, bronze-studded target with an arm-loop and a hand-grip. It was surprisingly light; I saw that it was made of heavy leather stretched over a wood frame, and reinforced with bronze.

  “Shall we try ourselves with these?” Forster asked.

  “Just as you wish.”

  “I warn you, I am not entirely unfamiliar with this weapon.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said, truthfully.

  Forster turned to his men. “You will not interrupt this duel. If I lose, that is my own bad luck. If that should happen, you know what to do. Get rid of these three, and then get out of Italy.”

  He bowed to me. “I am at your service, Mr. Nye.”

  “All right,” I said. Then I smiled. It was another bluff, designed to make Forster think that he might have tricked himself into the wrong choice of weapons. But the time for bluffs and counterbluffs had passed. Forster came toward me, blank-faced, his shield tilted forward, his axe arm cocked. Now I was fighting for whatever fractional part of my life was left to me.

  24

  We circled warily, shields outthrust and axe arms raised, with me taking up an inside position and Forster moving around me on springy legs. It occurred to me now, for the first time in several minutes, that I was really not Agent X, master of arms and stratagems, killer extraordinary and wizard of a thousand recourses. I was no more than William P. Nye, a pleasant, peaceable fellow who had somehow maneuvered himself into an axe duel with a large, angry, strongly built, quick-moving man who meant to kill me, and who would probably succeed.

  Forster feinted and swung a quick blow. I jumped away from it, ready for a counterstroke. I had no chance for it. Forster’s recovery was disconcertingly fast. The swing of the heavy axe hadn’t overbalanced him; he had brought the weapon back into position instantly, with an impressive display of wrist. Then he was driving forward again.

  I took two quick blows on my shield and swung side-arm, missed, and knew at once that I had put too much effort in the blow. I was unable to recover in time, and Forster’s axe was coming down on my exposed arm.

  I pushed forward as the blow fell, driving my right arm into Forster’s chest, forcing him to miss. Forster jumped back at once, recovered beautifully, feinted with his shield and drove again. I was feinted out of position, but managed to block with my axe. I felt the shock run down my arm as our weapons clashed in midair.

  I realized that I was losing this fight, just as I had expected to lose it. I was dismayed when I realized that. Agent X would certainly not expect to lose a fight.

  Forster was coming at me again, feinting with both shield and axe. He was grinning; where had the bastard learned how to fight with an axe? I swung at him, he blocked, took a quick cut at my head, and then came back in a lunging backhand below my shield. I reacted too late; his axe slashed me across the left thigh.

  The pain steadied me. I saw Karinovsky and Guesci sitting together on the couch, watching with grave faces. Forster’s three men were on the far side of the room, their guns lowered, watching the battle with enjoyment. Suddenly, I wanted to win this fight. No matter what happened afterwards, I wanted to win now.

  I lunged forward; catching Forster off-balance. I swung the axe like a man swatting flies, and Forster backed away, blocking a blow to the head, a blow to the waist, another blow to the head. Whenever I swung, Forster’s axe or shield was there. Then he slipped a blow like a boxer, and swung underhand at my exposed right armpit.

  No block was possible. I threw myself out of the way, and escaped with a long shallow wound down my ribs. We disengaged and began circling again.

  So far, I was not doing very well. Forster was carving me up a little at a time, and I seemed incapable of doing anything about it. It was bad enough that he could handle an axe; what was worse was that he knew now that I couldn’t.

  Forster circled, feinting and recovering, moving in and out on spring-steel legs. I turned with him, the breath rasping in my throat, my right arm sagging under five or six pounds of steel. I could feel the strain clear down my back, and my left thigh was beginning to stiffen.

  Forster chopped suddenly, scalloping a few inches from my shield. He pulled the axe head free and slashed backhanded, nearly taking off my left hand. I feinted and swung, and might have wounded him if there had been any strength left in my arm. I was learning; but not fast enough to do me much good. We excha
nged blows, and I took a graze across the side before I could disengage and back away.

  I still wanted to win this fight, but I knew that I wasn’t going to. Not like this. Forster was going to dismember me, and without any particular effort. It was the sort of defeat that Agent X would never have stood for. Agent X had only one motto: win. The means weren’t important, and fair and foul were interchangeable. The only thing was to win.

  My only problem was how to accomplish this desirable objective.

  It seemed to me that my chance lay with Forster. If he had simply wanted to kill me, he could have done so before now. But he didn’t want it to end like that; he wanted to do it slowly. I would have to make an opportunity out of Forster’s desire for an impressive performance.

  He rushed again and I backed away, my mind made up. Forster chopped at me like a man breaking down a door, and I continued to retreat, tripped, and fell backward.

  As I hit the floor, I tried to cover myself with the shield. My legs were exposed to a maiming blow, and Forster laughed and tapped me gently on the ankle.

  “Do get up, Mr. Nye,” he said. “You make it too easy for me.” He backed away a few feet, just as I thought he would.

  I stood up slowly, slipping my wrist out of the leather thong. Then I stepped backwards and feinted a backhanded throw at Forster’s head. Forster raised his shield automatically, exposing his chest and belly. I swung forehand with everything left in me, releasing the axe at the peak of its swing.

  Forster guessed what I was trying to do. With perfect reflex action he swung his shield back into position. His magnificent recovery was marred only by the imperfection of my throw. I had released the axe at the right moment; but unfortunately, my thumb had caught for a moment in the leather thong, deflecting my aim.

  Forster, however, had moved to counteract my skill, not my clumsiness. He was quite unprepared when my hard-thrown axe ricocheted off the floor two feet in front of him, rose like a striking cobra and struck upward beneath his guard.

  He realized his danger at the last moment and chopped down quickly with his shield. I heard a heavy clang as the rim of the shield struck the axe, and I knew that I was finished.

  He stood and grinned at me. Then his shield arm dropped and I saw the axe buried in his chest to the haft. Forster hadn’t been quite fast enough to handle my deflection shot; he had managed to hit the handle, but the head was already in him.

  Still grinning, he collapsed to the floor. And the room erupted.

  25

  I had been considering only my own actions. It hadn’t occurred to me that Guesci and Karinovsky might be waiting for an opportunity to do something. But they had been ready. And when the axe had buried itself in Forster’s chest, they both went into action.

  Guesci ran to the weapon-covered wall, and Karinovsky moved in the opposite direction to the serving table beside the fireplace. They began to throw sabres, gin bottles, maces, jars of olives, assegais, cocktail shakers, and the like, catching Forster’s men by surprise, and from opposite directions.

  Karinovsky was shouting at me, “Get his gun!”

  I dived to Forster’s side and clawed wildly through his pockets. The guards were firing wildly at the three of us, and I came up with the big automatic and started shooting back. I was partially protected by Forster’s body, and I could hear bullets slamming into his back.

  “Get back here!” Karinovsky shouted. I looked, and saw him lift a heavy coffee table and throw it across the room. Guesci had ducked down behind the couch. I scrambled to my feet and dove over the couch, landing on my back, out of reach of the bullets.

  Then the three of us were behind the couch with one automatic. There were about nine bullets left in the 13-round magazine. Still, if Forster’s men had rushed us at once, it would all have been over. But they had gone to cover behind the massive furniture, and how they hesitated, talked it over and decided against a charge.

  We had achieved a stalemate. It was not so good as a victory, but it was much better than being killed. Forster’s men were 20 feet away from us, concealed behind various chairs and tables. The broad picture window was behind them. We had the couch for protection and the fireplace to our rear. The only way out of the room was by a door to our right. It was in the open, impossible for either side to use.

  “What do we do now?” Guesci asked.

  I knew the answer to that one. “We wait,” I said.

  “Could anyone hear the shots in the village?” Karinovsky asked.

  Guesci shrugged. “Possibly. But in the off-season, these ski towns have only a single policeman.”

  “One’s better than none,” I said. “Maybe he’ll help us out.”

  “And take a chance of being killed?” Guesci said. “Don’t even consider it. At the very most he will contact the regional authorities in Belluno, which is some 50 miles from here. They might conceivably send up a few policemen on the train.”

  We could hear Forster’s men whispering across the room. I said, “Our own people in Villa Santini might take a look.”

  “I’m sure they will,” Karinovsky said. “Eventually. But how long can we wait?”

  The whispering had stopped. We heard the creak of a heavy table being manhandled, and I looked quickly around the right side of the couch.

  “They’re moving up behind the furniture,” I said.

  Karinovsky nodded his approval. “Movable barricades are an old military device,” he told me. “They date back at least to the time of the Greek city-states, and probably earlier.”

  “What do we do about it?”

  “The standard defense is to pour burning oil and molten lead down upon the attackers.”

  “We’ll have to try something else,” I said. “Guesci, get back to the other end of the couch. Get ready.”

  The barricades were about ten feet away. I leaned out and snapped a shot at the nearest table. At that range the nine-millimeter bullet penetrated completely, and the table stopped moving. Guns opened up on the far side of the couch, and I ducked back and flipped the automatic to Guesci.

  “One shot,” I whispered.

  He leaned out and fired. The barricade stopped on his side. He passed the gun back. An idea occurred to me. I called out, “Your side again, Guesci! Shoot, shoot!” Then I stood up.

  At this range, I could see the men lying prone behind the tables. I fired three times, heard a man shout in pain, and then I ducked down again behind the couch.

  The barricades had stopped moving. Forster’s men were holding another whispered conference. Karinovsky said, “They will rush us this time.”

  “Perhaps not,” Guesci said. “It would be extremely dangerous for them.”

  “Their alternative,” Karinovsky pointed out, “is to let the stalemate continue, which would result in their arrest. Faced with that alternative, they will rush us.”

  “I think you’re right,” I said to Karinovsky. “I think we had better act first.” I handed him the automatic. “Come on, Guesci.”

  I crawled backward, away from the couch and toward the fireplace. Guesci followed me, looking dubious about the whole thing. I took off my jacket and wrapped it around my hands, and waited until Guesci had done the same. Then I began pulling branches out of the fire. We pulled and tugged, scorching ourselves liberally. Karinovsky was exchanging shots with the men behind the barricade.

  Soon we had a dozen flaming torches in front of us.

  “All right,” I said. “Try to hit the drapes.” We crouched and began to throw. Karinovsky switched to rapid fire.

  The drapes were beginning to smoulder, and Forster’s men hastily pulled back their barricades. They tore the curtains from the window and started to stamp out the fire.

  I had been waiting for that. I took the fire tongs, sprang to my feet like a spearman leaping from ambush, and hurled it at the picture window. It smashed through the center, and we felt the cold mountain wind at once. The fire also felt it; the carpet began to hiss and crackle, and the smoulder
ing drapes were fanned into flame.

  We kept on throwing branches and logs, and Karinovsky winged one guard and kept the others distracted. The heavily varnished furniture caught fire, and the flames started to get out of control. Forster’s men were caught in an impossible situation. You can’t put out a fire in the middle of a gun battle, nor can you keep up your end of a gun battle in the middle of a fire.

  Two men broke for the door. Karinovsky winged the first and killed the second. That gave the last man time to dive through the window. Unfortunately for him, he didn’t dive high enough. He hung for a moment screaming, impaled on a row of glass daggers, with his hair beginning to burn. Karinovsky emptied the magazine into him.

  It was time to get out; a little past time, as a matter of fact. Karinovsky was used up. He got halfway to the door before he collapsed. I tried to lift him, and I couldn’t. My left hand refused to take any weight. It was only then that I discovered that at some point in the fighting I had been shot cleanly through the wrist.

  Guesci hoisted Karinovsky across his shoulders, and we started again for the door. The room was filled with smoke now, and we blundered into a wall. We felt our way along it, and I had the absurd certainty that we were going to stumble into a closet. I kept on telling Guesci to make sure he found the right door. We kept on walking, and it felt as if we circumnavigated that room three times.

  Then my left leg buckled, and I fell down and knew I could never make it to my feet. Guesci stopped, and I shouted at him, “Keep on going!” But he wouldn’t go any farther; he was kneeling, laying Karinovsky on the floor beside me.

  It was a damned cold fire. Also a wet one.

  I thought about that for a while. Then I opened my eyes and looked around. I was lying on wet grass. The lodge, 50 feet behind me, was burning merrily. I wanted to ask Guesci how we had gotten out, and whether Karinovsky was still alive. But I didn’t have the strength.

  A few seconds later, it seemed to me, we were surrounded by a crowd of villagers. There was a single, embarrassed-looking policeman, and several Americans. I recognized my old buddy, George. And my new buddy, Colonel Baker.