Free Trumps of Doom by Roger Zelazny Page B

nothing particularly threatening on the   highway or near it.   I did not want to draw to myself the attention that any location practices would involve either.
    So I spoke a single word in Thari as I rubbed my wrist, and the warnings ceased.   Even though the rest of the ride was uneventful, it bothered me, though an occasional false warning was possible just because of the nature of nervous systems.   As I watched red shale and red and yellow earth streak by, bridged arroyos, viewed distant mountains and nearer slopes dotted with piÔon, I wondered.   S? Is S back there somewhere, somehow, watching, waiting? And if so, why? Couldn’t we just sit down and talk about it over a couple of beers? Maybe it was based on some sort of misunderstanding.
    I’d a feeling it was not a misunderstanding.   But I’d settle for just knowing what was going on, even if nothing were resolved.   I’d even pay for the beers.
    The light of the setting sun touched flashes of brightness from streaks of snow in the Sangre de Cristos as we pulled into town; shadows slid across gray-green slopes; most of the buildings in sight were stuccoed.   It felt about ten degrees cooler when I stepped down from the bus in front of the Hilton than it had when I’d boarded in Albuquerque.   But then, I’ d gained about two thousand feet in altitude and it was an hour and a quarter further along in the direction of evening.
    I registered and found my room.   I tried phoning Luke, but there was no answer.   I showered then and changed into my spare outfit.   Rang his room once more then, but still no answer.   I was getting hungry and I’d hoped to have dinner with him.
    I decided to find the bar and nurse a beer for a while, then try again.
    I hoped he didn’t have a heavy date.
    A Mr. Brazda, whom I approached in the lobby and asked for directions, turned out to be the manager.   He asked about my room, we exchanged a few pleasantries and he showed me the corridor leading off to the lounge.   I started in that direction, but didn’t quite make it.
    “Merle! What the hell are you doing here?” came a familiar voice.
    I turned and regarded Luke, who had, just entered the lobby.   Sweaty and smiling, he was wearing dusty fatigues and boots, a fatigue cap, and a few streaks of grime.   We shook hands and I said, “I wanted to talk to you.” Then: “What’d you do, enlist in something?”
    “No, I’ve been off hiking in the Pecos all day,” he answered.   “I always do that when I’m out this way.   It’s great.
    “I’ll have to try it sometime,” I said.   “Now it seems it’s my turn to buy dinner.”
    “You’re right,” he answered.   “Let me catch a shower and change clothes.
    I’ll meet you in the bar in fifteen, twenty minutes.   Okay?”
    “Right.   See you.”
    I headed up the corridor and located the place.   It was medium-sized, dim, cool and relatively crowded, divided into two widely connected rooms, with low, comfortable-looking chairs and small tables.
    A young couple was just abandoning a corner table off to my left, drinks in hand, to follow a waitress into the adjacent dining room.   I took the table.   A little later a cocktail waitress came by, and I ordered a beer.
    Sitting there, several minutes later, sipping, and letting my mind drift over the perversely plotted events of the past several days, I realized that one of the place’s passing figures had failed to pass.   It had come to a halt at my side-just far enough to the rear to register only as a dark peripheral presence.
    It spoke softly: “Excuse me.   May I ask you a question?”
    I turned my head, to behold a short, thin man of Spanish appearance, his hair and mustache flecked with gray.   He was sufficiently well dressed and groomed to seem a local business type.   I noted a chipped front tooth when he smiled so briefly-just a twitch-as to indicate nervousness.
    “My name’s Dan Martinez,” he said, not offering to shake