Trumps of Doom by Roger Zelazny Read Free Book Online Page B

touched with her treacherous taint.” Too much alliteration, but it was the thought that counted.   It revived my earlier feeling of vulnerability and caused me to ransack faster.   I suddenly wanted only to get out, get far away and think.
    The room held no further surprises.   I departed it, gathered an armload of strewn newspapers, carried them to the john, tossed them into the bathtub, and set fire to them, opening the window on the way out.   I visited the sanctum then, fetched out the Tree of Life painting, brought it back and added it to the blaze.   I switched aff the bathroom light and closed the door as I left.   I’m one hell of an art critic.
    I headed for the stacks of miscellaneous papers on the bookshelves then and began a disappointing search among them.   I was halfway through my second heap when the telephone rang.
    The world seemed to freeze as my thoughts sprinted.   Of course.   Today was the day when I was supposed to find my way here and be killed.   Chances seemed decent that if it were going to happen it would -have happened by now.   So this could well be S, calling to learn whether my obituary had been posted.   I turned and located the phone, back on the shadowy wall near the bedroom.   I had known immediately that I was going to answer it.   Moving toward it, I was allowing two to three rings-twelve to eighteen seconds-in which to decide whether my response was to consist of a wisecrack, an insult and a threat, or whether I was going to try to fake it and see what I might learn.   As satisfying as the former could be, spoilsport prudence dictated the latter course and also suggested I confine myself to low monosyllables and pretend to be injured and out of breath.   I raised the receiver, ready to hear S’s voice at last and find out whether I knew him.
    “Yes?” I said.
    “Well? Is it done?” came the response.
    Damn pronoun.   It was a woman.   Wrong gender but a right sounding question.   One out of two isn’t bad, though.   I exhaled heavily, then: “Yeah.”
    “What’s the matter?”
    “I’m hurt,” I croaked.
    “Is it serious?”
    “Think so.   Got something-here-though.   Better come-see.”
    “What is it? Something of his?”
    “Yeah.   Can’t talk.   Getting dizzy.   Come.”
    I cradled the phone and smiled.   I thought it very well played.   I’d a feeling I’d taken her in completely.
    I crossed the living room to the same chair I had occupied earlier, drew up one of the small tables bearing a large ashtray, seated myself, and reached for my pipe: Time to rest, cultivate patience, think a bit.
    Moments later I felt a familiar, almost electrical tingling.   I was on my feet in an instant, snatching up the ashtray, butts flying like bullets about me, cursing my stupidity yet again as I looked frantically about the room.
    There! Before the red drapes, beside the piano.   Taking form .   .   .
    I waited for the full outline, then hurled the ashtray as hard as I could.
    An instant later she was there-tall, russet-haired, darkeyed, holding what looked like a .38 automatic.
    The ashtray hit her in the stomach and she doubled forward with a gasp.
    I was there before she could straighten.
    I jerked the gun out of her hand and threw it across the room.   Then I seized both her wrists, spun her around and seated her hard in the nearest chair.   In her left hand she still held a Trump.   I snatched it away.   It was a representation of this apartment, and it was done in the same style as the Tree and the cards in my pocket.
    “Who are you?” I snarled.
    “Jasra,” she spat back, “dead man!”
    She opened her mouth wide and her head fell forward.   I felt the moist touch of her lips upon the back of my left forearm, which still held her own right wrist against the chair’s arm.   Seconds later I felt an excruciating pain there.   It was not a bite, but rather felt as if a fiery nail had been driven into my flesh.
    I let go her wrist