Read Online A Game of Authors by Frank Herbert - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Frank Herbert
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leaned against the doorway.
Garson moved idly across to the book case, studied the green-backed ones. He saw the marked one immediately, pulled it out.
“Your father suggested that I might like to read some of his work.”
He flipped the notebook open to the title page: “The Duke of Pork.” Garson frowned, thought, I’ve seen that somewhere. Below the title was written: “By George Merrill.”
A pseudonym?
Then he recalled both author and title— published within the current year in . . . He could not remember the specific magazine.
Garson turned to Anita Luac. “Has all of this stuff been published?”
“Some of it. Many have never been submitted.”
“Oh? Why does he write them?”
She shrugged. “He’s a writer.”
“Of course, but . . .”
“He calls the unpublished ones my insurance policy. If I ever need money—after he’s gone . . .” Again she shrugged.
“You have only to submit this work by the famous Antone Luac.” Garson nodded. “How does he submit the things he writes under a pseudonym? I mean: How does he conceal his identity? Does he have a friend working for him in the States?”
“Perhaps you should ask my father.”
“I shall.” He tucked the notebook under his arm.
She moved toward the door. “Shall we look at the rest of the house now?”
“Lead on.”
They ended the tour at the dock that jutted into the lake beyond the front terrace. Garson stared thoughtfully across the water, noted from this new vantage point a large brick building down the lake to his left. Every door in the house had been opened for his inspection—almost as though he were buying property.
Just what am I supposed to buy here? he wondered.
Medina squatted by the lakeshore, rolled a cigarette, tipped his head back to protect his mustache as he touched match to tobacco.
Garson thought back to the room that had been pointed out as Raul Separdo’s. There had been a desk without paper, a single chair, a bed made without a wrinkle. The room had felt unoccupied, as though Separdo had carefully kept every imprint of himself from showing there. Garson had the feeling that even Separdo’s fingerprints were removed from that room daily. The effect was one of rigid concealment.
Concealment of what?
He focused on the building down the lake from them, pointed at it. “What’s that building there—the one in the trees?”
Anita Luac moved up beside Garson, threw a pebble into the water. “That is another thing you must ask my father.”
“Is that where they take the trucks?”
She stared at him silently.
Garson noted a total cessation of movement from Medina.
The tableau was broken by a call from behind them: “Nita!”
They turned. Raul Separdo walked toward them across the terrace, a cardboard box under one arm. His face appeared flushed, eyes glittering with an intentness that made Garson uncomfortable.
Separdo stopped in front of them, spoke to Anita Luac while keeping his attention on Garson: “Nita, your father wishes to see you.”
“Right now?”
“Immediately.”
She nodded to Garson. “If you’ll excuse me?”
“Of course.”
She crossed the terrace to the hacienda, went inside.
Separdo glanced down at Medina, who had not moved from his position beside the lake. “Why do you wait here, Choco?”
Medina flipped his cigarette butt into the lake, got to his feet, turned. “Because the Patron said to guard his guest.”
“You may go with Nita.”
“I’ll wait. She doesn’t need protection from her father.”
Separdo’s face darkened. The muscles at the corners of his mouth twitched. He turned to Garson. “Would you care to walk out to the end of the dock with me?”
Garson abruptly sensed menace like a thick fog in the air. He nodded toward the box under Separdo’s arm. “What do you have there?”
“A surprise.” The box emitted a scratching, bustling noise. “Come.” Separdo took Garson’s arm.
They walked to the end of the dock. The feeling of
Garson moved idly across to the book case, studied the green-backed ones. He saw the marked one immediately, pulled it out.
“Your father suggested that I might like to read some of his work.”
He flipped the notebook open to the title page: “The Duke of Pork.” Garson frowned, thought, I’ve seen that somewhere. Below the title was written: “By George Merrill.”
A pseudonym?
Then he recalled both author and title— published within the current year in . . . He could not remember the specific magazine.
Garson turned to Anita Luac. “Has all of this stuff been published?”
“Some of it. Many have never been submitted.”
“Oh? Why does he write them?”
She shrugged. “He’s a writer.”
“Of course, but . . .”
“He calls the unpublished ones my insurance policy. If I ever need money—after he’s gone . . .” Again she shrugged.
“You have only to submit this work by the famous Antone Luac.” Garson nodded. “How does he submit the things he writes under a pseudonym? I mean: How does he conceal his identity? Does he have a friend working for him in the States?”
“Perhaps you should ask my father.”
“I shall.” He tucked the notebook under his arm.
She moved toward the door. “Shall we look at the rest of the house now?”
“Lead on.”
They ended the tour at the dock that jutted into the lake beyond the front terrace. Garson stared thoughtfully across the water, noted from this new vantage point a large brick building down the lake to his left. Every door in the house had been opened for his inspection—almost as though he were buying property.
Just what am I supposed to buy here? he wondered.
Medina squatted by the lakeshore, rolled a cigarette, tipped his head back to protect his mustache as he touched match to tobacco.
Garson thought back to the room that had been pointed out as Raul Separdo’s. There had been a desk without paper, a single chair, a bed made without a wrinkle. The room had felt unoccupied, as though Separdo had carefully kept every imprint of himself from showing there. Garson had the feeling that even Separdo’s fingerprints were removed from that room daily. The effect was one of rigid concealment.
Concealment of what?
He focused on the building down the lake from them, pointed at it. “What’s that building there—the one in the trees?”
Anita Luac moved up beside Garson, threw a pebble into the water. “That is another thing you must ask my father.”
“Is that where they take the trucks?”
She stared at him silently.
Garson noted a total cessation of movement from Medina.
The tableau was broken by a call from behind them: “Nita!”
They turned. Raul Separdo walked toward them across the terrace, a cardboard box under one arm. His face appeared flushed, eyes glittering with an intentness that made Garson uncomfortable.
Separdo stopped in front of them, spoke to Anita Luac while keeping his attention on Garson: “Nita, your father wishes to see you.”
“Right now?”
“Immediately.”
She nodded to Garson. “If you’ll excuse me?”
“Of course.”
She crossed the terrace to the hacienda, went inside.
Separdo glanced down at Medina, who had not moved from his position beside the lake. “Why do you wait here, Choco?”
Medina flipped his cigarette butt into the lake, got to his feet, turned. “Because the Patron said to guard his guest.”
“You may go with Nita.”
“I’ll wait. She doesn’t need protection from her father.”
Separdo’s face darkened. The muscles at the corners of his mouth twitched. He turned to Garson. “Would you care to walk out to the end of the dock with me?”
Garson abruptly sensed menace like a thick fog in the air. He nodded toward the box under Separdo’s arm. “What do you have there?”
“A surprise.” The box emitted a scratching, bustling noise. “Come.” Separdo took Garson’s arm.
They walked to the end of the dock. The feeling of
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