Free A Game of Authors by Frank Herbert Page A

I might have tried to escape by swimming the lake.”
    She took a deep breath. He could see her assume the mask of poise. “Do you dislike our company so much, Mr. Garson?”
    “Call me Hal.”
    “When you’ve answered my question.”
    “Some of my companions are utterly charming,” he said. “Others remind me that Spanish is a language with a special verb meaning ‘to kill slowly.’”
    “Spanish has many interesting verbs—Hal,” she said.
    Garson found that the nearness of danger gave him a new insight. There had seemed to be an invitation in her reply, but he recognized the effort that went into her pretense—and he still saw the light of mockery in her dark eyes.
    “We must explore the Spanish verb forms some time,” he said.
    And he found himself regretting the pretense.
    But a part of his mind was occupied with questions about the green notebook he carried under his arm.
    What did Luac conceal here for me?
    Garson excused himself to freshen up for lunch, went to his room.
    The regular pages of the notebook were numbered. He found the inserted pages by riffling through the numbered corners until he came to three pages without numbers.
    The first page was a family record for Anita Luac.
    Her mother was referred to by maiden name: Anita Monser. The ancestry was traced into French Canada.
    Antone Luac’s record might have been copied out from a biographical encyclopedia. Garson recognized names and dates, out of his previous research.
    Anita Luac’s age worked out to twenty years. Her mother had been dead fifteen years.
    The second page proved to be covered with rows of story titles. Beneath each title was a name, date and address. There were four names, among them George Merrill, the name attached to the story in the notebook.
    Why addresses? Garson wondered. Is there actually a George Merrill? Is Luac having people front for him rather than use pseudonyms?
    The back of this page carried another list of titles under the heading: “Unpubl. Luac.”
    Anita Luac’s insurance policy?
    The third page carried a brief history of Hacienda Cual—previous owners back to the period following the conquest, the list of improvements instituted by Luac.
    On the bottom half of the page was a list of organizational names headed by “The Friends of The Poor,” and beneath that another list of names. The list included one Olaf Sigurts, 21 Avenida Guzmán, Mexico, D.F.
    Is that the mysterious Olaf?
    Garson closed the notebook, stared at the cover.
    What’s Luac trying to tell me?
    Choco Medina interrupted Garson’s musing by bringing in the suitcase forwarded from the Palacio.
    “This just arrived. Where’ll I put it?”
    “On the foot of the bed there.” Garson got to his feet, tossed the green notebook onto the nightstand. “Choco, is Separdo a Communist agent?”
    The reaction left Garson open-mouthed.
    Medina threw the suitcase at the foot of the bed, darted to the door, peered down the hallway, shut the door, ran to the front windows, looked right and left. He was breathing heavily when he returned to plant himself in front of Garson.
    “I don’t think anybody heard you.”
    “What the dev . . .”
    “I haven’t had a fright like that since the night we took Parral. That’s where I got this.” He indicated a thin scar beside his nose. “Now, look, Mr. Garson—please think before you blat . . .”
    “Is he?”
    “Ask Antone Luac. Only, in the name of God, please do it when you’re sure you’re alone with him.”
    “What would’ve happened if I’d been heard?”
    Medina lowered his voice. “The thing we’re trying to avoid: a signal would’ve been given. Raul’s boys would come swarming across the lake and . . .” He drew a hand across his throat.
    “You’ve answered my question, Choco.”
    Medina frowned. “I guess I have.”
    Garson looked out at the lake. So, in his own cute fashion, my ever-lovin’ agent had it figured. But what did he have figured? What’s going on