Read Online The Game of X: A Novel of Upmanship Espionage by Robert Sheckley - Free Book Online Page A

faint lipstick smear on the edge of his mouth. Near him was a tall youth with a freckled face and an enlarged Adam’s apple. He was trying to maneuver himself into position beside the blonde girl. His progress was blocked by an immovable old lady in a raincoat.
    The vaporetto passed the Campo di Mars and swung wide into the Grand Canal. The crowd swayed. The blonde girl’s breasts pressed for a moment against my jacket. The lipsticked man nearly lost his balance, and the workman stood like a weathered rock. The youth with the Adam’s apple tried to edge around the old lady; he was blocked by her umbrella. The blonde girl edged away from me, and the red-faced tourist shuffled for footing.
    I felt a sharp pain in my left side.
    Someone whispered, “Where is he?”
    It was the tourist; his beefy red face was inches from my shoulder. His briefcase pressed into my side. He said, “Mr. Forster sent me to ask you.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. Something stabbed me again in the side. The vaporetto made a turn and the crowd swayed. I was able to glance down and see that my jacket was ripped. Blood was trickling down my trousers.
    “Just tell me where he is,” the man said. And again something stabbed at me, in the side just below the ribs.
    The boat turned sharply again, and this time I noticed the tourist’s briefcase. A drop of blood oozed out of a fold along its bottom right-hand corner. I stared at it stupidly. The fold of leather winked at me; a steely little glint of light flashed for a moment from a concealed knife-blade in the spine of the briefcase, then darted out of sight.
    “The blade is spring-loaded,” the tourist told me. “Its length is adjustable. I am now using approximately one half inch.”
    “You’re out of your mind,” I said.
    “Tell me where he is,” the man said. “Tell me, or I’ll carve your side into tournedos.”
    I looked around. Nobody in that crowd had noticed a thing. The blonde girl was trying to keep her left breast out of my jacket pocket. The old lady was still blocking the youth. The lipsticked man was reading an airform. The workman was stolidly holding his ground. The red-faced man was carving my side into tournedos.
    “I’ll call for help,” I told him.
    “Just as you please.”
    I saw him press the handle of the briefcase, and I pushed myself away from the flickering little blade, colliding with the blonde girl. She staggered back and looked at me with disgust. The move had done no good. The red-faced man had simply moved with me, filling up the space I had vacated.
    He moved his briefcase into position again, but a lurch of the boat threw him off-balance. He missed my side and carved a gash across the top of my belt.
    “Tell me,” he said.
    I tried to move away again, but the crowd wouldn’t yield. Was I going to stand here and be slashed to death by a red-faced man in a ridiculous jacket? In Venice, in a vaporetta, in the middle of a dense crowd? My side was soggy with blood. The man was pressing against me, sweating with concentration. I could feel his body stiffen as he got ready to strike again with his spring-blade briefcase. The crowd was oblivious to our little drama. They were staring over each other’s shoulders, or watching the progress of the Adam’s-appled youth, who had finally succeeded in sliding around the old lady’s umbrella.
    The briefcase moved and I jerked back. He grazed me lightly across the ribs. People glanced at me, then turned their attention back to the youth.
    Suddenly I was filled with a murderous and righteous rage. I reached down between the folds of tightly pressed clothing, located the man’s belt, positioned my hand and squeezed hard in the vicinity of his testicles.
    He screamed. People turned and stared at him. I turned also, frowning in bewilderment. The man was clutching his groin with both hands. “Anything wrong?” I asked him.
    During the excitement, the youth finally reached the side of