Free Trumps of Doom by Roger Zelazny

yesterday,” he explained, “and we found a mess of bullets.”
    He opened his hand to display several metallic objects.   As I moved toward him, he squatted and placed one of the cylinders on the sidewalk.   He reached out suddenly, picked up a nearby rock and swung it toward it.
    “Don’t!” I cried.
    The rock struck the shell and nothing happened.
    “You could get hurt that way-“ I began, but he interrupted.
    “Naw.   No way these suckers will explode.   You can’t even set that pink stuff on fire.   Got a match?”
    “Pink stuff ?” I said as he moved the rock to reveal a mashed shell casing and a small trailing of pink powder.
    “That,” he said, pointing.   “Funny, huh? I thought gunpowder was gray.”
    I knelt and touched the substance.   I rubbed it between my fingers.   I sniffed it.   I even tasted it.   I couldn’t tell what the hell it was.
    “Beats me,” I told him.   “Won’t even burn, you say?”
    “Nope.   We put some on a newspaper and set the paper on fire.   It’ll melt and run, that’s all.”
    “You got a couple of extras?”
    “Well .   .   .   yeah.”
    “I’ll give you a buck for them,” I said.
    He showed me his teeth and spaces again as his hand vanished into the side of his jeans.   I ran Frakir over some odd Shadow cash and withdrew a dollar from the pile.   He handed me two sootstreaked double 30’s as he accepted it.
    “Thanks,” he said.
    “My pleasure.   Anything else interesting in there?”
    “Nope.   All the rest is ashes.”
    I got into my car and drove.   I ran it through the first car wash I came to, since the wipers had only smeared the crap on the windshield.   As the rubbery tentacles slapped at me through a sea of foam, I checked to see whether I still had the matchbook Luke had given me.   I did.   Good.   I’d seen a pay phone Outside.
    “Hello.   New Line Motel,” a young, male voice answered.   “You had a Lucas Raynard registered there a couple of days ago,” I said.   “I want to know whether he left a message for me.   My name’s Merle Corey.”
    “Just a minute.” Pause.   Shuffle.   Then: “Yes, he did.”
    “What does it say?”
    “It’s in a sealed envelope.   I’d rather not”
    “Okay I’ll come by “
    I drove over.   I located the man matching the voice at the desk in the lobby.   I identified myself and claimed the envelope.   The clerk-a slight, blond fellow with a bristly mustache-stared for a moment, then: “Are you going to see Mr. Raynard?”
    “Yes.” He opened a drawer and withdrew a small brown , envelope, its sides distended.   Luke’s name and room number were written on it.
    “He didn’t leave a forwarding address,” he explained, opening the envelope, “and the, maid found this ring on the bathroom counter after he’d checked out.   Would you give it to him?”
    “Sure,” I said, and he passed it to me.
    I seated myself in a lounge area off to the left.   The ring was of pink gold and sported a blue stone.   I couldn’t recall ever having seen him wear it.   I slipped it on the ring finger of my left hand and it fit perfectly.   I decided to wear it until I could give it to him.
    I opened the letter, written on motel stationery, and read:
    Merle, Too bad about dinner.   I did wait around.   Hope everything’s okay.   I’m leaving in the morning for Albuquerque.   I’ll be there three days.   Then up to Santa Fe for three more.   Staying at the Hilton in both towns.   I did have some more things I wanted to talk about.   Please get in touch.
    Luke
    Hm.   I phoned my travel agent and discovered that I could be on an afternoon flight to Albuquerque if I hustled.   In that I wanted a face-to-face rather than a phone talk, I did that thing.   I stopped by the office, picked up my ticket, paid cash for it, drove to the airport and said good-bye to my car as I parked it.   I doubted I would ever see it again.   I hefted my backpack and walked to