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

Edmonds, by the way. I travel in business machines. At the last minute, some American firm outbid us for this particular contract.”
    “That’s interesting,” I said. “I’m in business machines, too.”
    Edmonds nodded. “Somehow, I thought that you were.”
    I stared at him. Business machines, a special contract, and a skeleton-grip Beretta. Could this be my British opposite number? The coincidence would be too great anywhere except in Venice, where the machinery of illusion delights in casting up the improbable, the unusual, and the unexpected. There is a price, of course; by tampering with probabilities, Venice induces a deterioration in the commonplace—to her disadvantage.
    Edmond’s hard, mocking face betrayed nothing. I said, “I’m sorry to hear that you lost the contract.”
    “It really doesn’t matter,” Edmonds said. “There’s plenty of work for us all. As it happens, I’ve been reassigned to Jamaica.”
    ’Is there much demand for business machines there?”
    “Enough, for the models I deal in.”
    “They must be unusual.”
    “Versatile, I’d call them.”
    “Then you’ll be leaving Venice soon?”
    “I fly out in three hours. That gives me just enough time for a flutter at the tables.”
    I must have looked puzzled. Edmonds explained, “I mean the gambling tables over at the Lido. Baccàrat and chemin-de-fer are the main attractions, of course, but I’m anxious to try the roulette. Not everyone knows it, but the house advantage has been lowered this season in an attempt to overtake Monte Carlo. It presents certain opportunities.”
    “Sounds interesting,” I said.
    “Care to join me? I’m going out there now.”
    “I really would like to,” I told him, “but I can’t.”
    “I quite understand,” Edmonds said. “Well, here we are. The Via di San Lazzaro, in all its fusty magniloquence.”
    I thanked hini, but Edmonds waved a deprecating hand. “Sorry I can’t stay around and show you the sights. Perhaps I could help you not to trip on any more piers. But time and tide …”
    With an airy wave of his hand, Edmonds was gone, taking with him a spirit of easy competence and reliability. I looked at my watch. It was nearly eight o’clock. I began walking slowly down the street, looking for house numbers.
     
     

 
    14
     
     
    A faint red glow flickered between two black buildings; then it was gone, missing and presumed drowned in the Laguna Morta. The night wind whispered threats to the chimneys. The waters of the canal chewed with a soft toothless mouth on decaying stone piles. The high-shouldered old houses huddled together for comfort. Renaissance figures walked on the sunken street, dressed in twilight blue and pretending they were alive. They didn’t fool me; I knew a danse macabre when I saw one.
    I came to the end of the Via di San Lazzaro where it turned into the Rio Terra Maddalena. I was looking for number 32, but the street ended with number 25. I looked, I searched, I stared. There was no 32. The back of my neck began to tingle.
    I retraced my route and tried to think. Unfortunately, my mind wasn’t interested in house numbers. It insisted upon showing me an illuminated slide show of a sniper high above the street leaning through a shuttered window, with my head trapped in his telescopic sights.
    I forced myself to think of pleasanter things. Of strangling Forster, for example, or disemboweling Colonel Baker. Of miraculously escaping from Venice and living out the rest of my life as a simple sheep herder in South Australia.
    Where was that damned address? Had I gotten it right? 32, Via di San Lazzaro. Or could Guesci have said Calle di San Lazzaro. Or Viale …
    That had to be it. I asked and got directions. The Viale di San Lazzaro was some distance away, in the Cannareggio ward. I hurried through dusk and charcoal fumes, crossed the Station Bridge, made various left and right turns, and reached the general vicinity. But then I was caught in a snarl of