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

known that. I made no comment on it now. Dr. Jansen, however, seemed used to one-sided conversations.
    “Intelligence is, of course, only one factor. Equally important is the patient’s degree of susceptibility. This, in turn, is a function of the imagination. I wonder if you know why these two qualities are of such prime importance?”
    “No, sir, I don’t know why,” 1 said.
    “Because one is not—simply—tortured. One also tortures oneself.” Dr. Jansen smiled, revealing tiny, even white teeth. I promised myself that some day I would practice painful dentistry on him.
    “Without this phenomenon,” Jansen said, “a true science of coercion would be impossible. Brute pain, mindless resistance, and senseless release—that would be the cycle without intelligence and suggestibility.”
    I told myself that it was a bluff; nobody was going to torture me, nothing was going to happen. But I couldn’t make myself believe it. The grinning dwarf with the chubby white hands was getting through to me.
    “Perhaps,” Jansen continued, “you wonder why I tell you all this?” He smiled subtly and stroked his beard. “It is in order to stimulate the feedback of suggestibility. You must know what to expect, you must brood on it. Your intelligence and your imagination must unleash the supreme torturer within your mind.”
    I nodded, not paying much attention to him. I was trying to figure out a way of getting out of here with a whole skin. I would even settle for a partial skin. Suppose I gave Forster an address for Karinovsky, any address? That would buy me some time, but not very much. And it might make things tougher.
    “My method,” Dr. Jansen was saying, “is based upon openness. I explain my theories, and I try to answer your questions. But of course, I can never answer them to your satisfaction.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because all of your questions can ultimately be reduced to one final and unanswerable problem. What you really want, Mr. Nye, is the solution to the old metaphysical problem: Why is there pain? And since I cannot answer that, the very question—following the laws of feedback—tends to potentiate anxiety and augment agony.”
    He was watching my face carefully while he spoke, probably observing my reactions. (Pupil distention, facial tic, dryness of lips, pronounced digital tremor.)
    “Do you have anything to say concerning Mr. Karinovsky?” he asked.
    “I don’t know where he is.”
    “Very well,” Jansen said. “We will begin.” Without haste, he took a pair of rubber gloves from his pocket and drew them on. He turned and looked thoughtfully at the instruments hanging from the wall, finally selecting a pair of pincers about five feet long. They were black, rusted and angular, massively and clumsily jointed. They looked like something you’d use to de-joint an ox. Jansen took the handles in both hands and opened and closed them experimentally. They creaked a little, but the jaws closed with a heavy snap.
    He advanced slowly toward me with his king-size pliers extended in front of him. I cowered down against the wall, still not quite believing in what was happening. The pincer jaws opened like the ugly square mouth of a snapping turtle. The mouth was gaping wide and moving toward my face, three inches away, then two, and I tried to get away from it by pressing my head through the wall. When that didn’t work I tried to shout, but my throat had shut down. I was so frightened I couldn’t even faint.
    Then I heard the sound of fists on the door. Someone was shouting, “I have him, I have Karinovsky! Beppo, give me a hand!”
    Beppo sprang to his feet and hurried to the door. He opened it, took two steps up the staircase and grunted. He turned and came back with a very annoyed expression on his face. It took me a moment to realize, that someone had put a knife into his chest, driving it in clear to the black plastic handle.
    Through the heavy doors I could hear the faint crackle of gunfire in