Free Trumps of Doom by Roger Zelazny Page A

the terminal.
    The rest was smooth and easy.   As I watched the ground drop away beneath me, I knew that a phase of my existence had indeed ended.   Like so many things, it was not at all the way I had wanted it to be.   I’d thought to wind up the matter of S pretty quickly or else decide to forget about it, and then visit people I’d been meaning to see for some time and stop at a few places I’d long been curious about.   Then I would take off through Shadow for a final check on Ghostwheel, heading back to the brighter pole of my existence after that.   Now, my priorities had been shuffled-all because S and Julia’s death were somehow connected, and because it involved a power from elsewhere in Shadow that I did not understand.
    It was the latter consideration that troubled me most.   Was I digging my grave as well as jeopardizing friends and relatives because of my pride? I wanted to handle this myself, friendly skies, but the more I thought about it the more impressed I became with the adversary powers I had encountered and the paucity of my knowledge concerning S.   It wasn’t fair not to let the others know-not if they might be in danger, too.   I’d love to wrap the whole thing up by myself and give it to them for a present.   Maybe I would, too, but . . .
    Damn it.   I had to tell them.   If S got me and turned on them, they needed to know.   If it were a part of something larger, they needed to know.   As much as I disliked the idea, I would have to tell them.
    I leaned forward and my hand hovered above my backpack beneath the seat in front of me.   It wouldn’t hurt, I decided, to wait until after I’d spoken with Luke.   I was out of town and probably safe now.   There was the possibility of picking up a clue or two from Luke.   I’d rather have more to give them when I told my story.   I’d wait a little longer.
    I sighed.   I got a drink from the stewardess and sipped it.   Driving to Albuquerque in a normal fashion would have taken too long.   Short-cutting through Shadow would not work, because I’d never been there before and didn’t know how to find the place.   Too bad.   I’d like to have my car there.   Luke was probably in Santa Fe by now.
    I sipped and I looked for shapes in the clouds.   The things I found matched my mood, so I got out my paperback and read until we began our descent.   When I looked again ranks of mountains filled my prospect for a time.   A crackly voice assured me that the weather was pleasant.   I wondered about my father.
    I hiked in from my gate, passed a gift shop full of Indian jewelry, Mexican pots, and gaudy souvenirs, located a telephone, and called the local Hilton.   Luke had already checked out, I learned.   I phoned the Hilton in Santa Fe then.   He had checked in there but was not in his room when they rang it for me.   I made a reservation for myself and hung up.   A woman at an information counter told me that I could catch a Shuttlejack to Santa Fe in about half an hour and sent me in the proper direction to buy a ticket.   Santa Fe is one of the few state capitals without a major airport, I’d read somewhere.
    While we were heading north on I-25, somewhere among lengthening shadows in the vicinity of Sandia Peak, Frakir tightened slightly upon my wrist and released the pressure a moment later.   Again.   Then once again.   I glanced quickly about the small bus, seeking the danger against which I had just been warned.
    I was seated in the rear of the vehicle.   Up near the front was a middle-aged couple, speaking with Texas accents, wearing an ostentatious quantity of turquoise and silver jewelry; near the middle were three older women, talking about things back in New York; across the aisle from them was a young couple, very absorbed in each other; two young men with tennis racquets sat diagonally to the rear of them, talking about college; behind them was a nun, reading.   I looked out the window again and saw