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

race across the gray mud, discarding parts of its engine as it went. It ran out of beach and slid across a narrow road and into a grassy meadow. It was still bouncing and sliding at breakneck speed when it came to an unplowed field.
    Without hesitation it pointed itself at a clump of trees. A big cedar struck it on the side, sending it into a flat spin. The hydroplane began to lose heart. It covered another twenty yards. A stretch of rock tore out what was left of its bottom, and it scored its final triumph by knocking over a medium-sized willow. Then it faltered and came to a final and unequivocal stop.
     
     

 
    19
     
     
    “We made it,” I said, for want of anything better to say. Karinovsky did not reply. His eyes were closed, and his head was rolled back at an unnatural angle. I was struck by the terrible fear that all my brilliant aquabatics had been in vain. The operation had been a success, but the patient had died.
    I lifted Karinovsky’s head. Carefully, with a thumb and forefinger, I peeled back an eyelid.
    “Will you kindly get your thumb out of my eye?” Karinovsky said.
    “I thought you were dead.”
    “Even dead, I would not wish to be blinded,” Karinovsky said. He raised himself and gazed thoughtfully at the Lagoon, some fifty or so yards behind us. Then he looked at the solid ground on all sides of our hydroplane. “Nye,” he said, “I have suspected that you were a genius. But my words are pallid beside the splendor of your deed.”
    “It wasn’t anything much,” I told him. “Any psychotic could have done it.”
    “Perhaps. But you did it, my friend. You snatched us out of the closing jaws of the enemy. I hope now that you will reserve your modesty for those gullible enough to believe it.”
    “All right,” I said. “But I could have saved us a hell of a lot easier in a rowboat.”
    “To be sure, Guesci might have chosen a more suitable craft. But a rowboat would have offended his artistic soul.”
    “Anyhow, we’ve made it to the mainland.”
    “Yes. But we are not out of reach of the enemy just yet.”
    “I suppose not. That launch must have landed by now.”
    “Also, there are Forster’s land units to consider,” Karinovsky said. “We must leave this coast as quickly as possible.”
    I had a vision of an eternal chase, endlessly protracted. We had come free of the labyrinth of Venice only to enter the great maze of the world. We were toy figures, doomed to keep our fixed positions in this particular dance of destiny, our bodies strained into conventional postures of flight.
    “When will we be safe?” I asked.
    “Soon,” Karinovsky said, “when we have reached San Stefano di Cadore.”
    “Where in hell is that?”
    “In the north of the Veneto, near Austria’s Carinthian border, in the foothills of the Carnic Alps.”
    “Spare me geography,” I said. “How far away is it?”
    “A little less than a hundred kilometers.”
    “And how do we propose to get there?”
    “Guesci has arranged it.”
    “Like he arranged the hydroplane? Listen, I don’t—”
    “Wait. Someone is coming.”
    I could make out a dark figure running silently toward us from the far side of the field. I plunged into the hydroplane’s cockpit and found Karinovsky’s revolver. Crouching, I rested the barrel against my left forearm, leading the target slightly. There was no wind.
    Karinovsky put a hand on my wrist. “Don’t be so impetuous,” he said. “An attacker would not come so openly.”
    I held fire, but I kept the gun ready. After a boat-ride like this one I had just had, I wanted no trouble from anyone. I was prepared to go to considerable lengths to make my position clear.
    The figure reached the side of our smashed hydroplane. There was an odor of sweat and garlic. Two hands reached out and gripped my shoulders.
    “You were magnificent!” Guesci cried.
    Dressed in a dark suit, with a black silk scarf knotted carelessly around his neck, and black kidskin gloves on his hands,