Zelazny, Roger - Amber 06 Trumps of Doom

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was not jangling with strange apprehensions, as I had been on that

April 30 three years ago when I'd awakened with a headache and a

premonition, thrown open the windows, and gone to the kitchen to

discover all of the gas burners turned on and flameless.

No. It wasn't even like the April 30 two years ago in the other

apartment when I awoke before dawn to a faint smell of smoke to

learn that the place was on fire.

Still, I stayed out of direct line of the light fixtures in case the

bulbs were filled with something flammable, and I flipped all of the

switches rather than pushing them. Nothing untoward followed

these actions.

Usually, I set up the coffee maker the night before with a timer.

This

morning, though, I didn't want coffee that had been produced

out of my sight. I

set a fresh pot going and checked my packing while I waited for it

to brew.

Everything I valued in this place resided in two medium-sized

crates--clothing,

books, paintings, some instruments, a few souvenirs, and so

forth. I sealed the

cases. A change of clothing, a sweatshirt, a good paperback, and

a wad of

traveler's checks went into the backpack. I'd drop my key off at

the manager's

on the way out, so he could let the movers in. The crates would

go into storage.

No jogging for me this morning.

As I sipped my coffee, passing from window to window and

pausing beside

each for sidelong surveys of the streets below and the buildings

across the way

the lives of us

all.

The following year to the day, however, I was walking home from

my lady

friend's place late in the evening when three men attacked me--

one with a knife,

the other two with lengths of pipe--without even the courtesy of

first asking

for my wallet.

I left the remains in the doorway of a nearby record store, and

while I

thought about it on the way home it did not strike me until the

following day

that it had been the anniversary of the truck crash. Even then, I

dismissed it

as an odd coincidence. The matter of the mail bomb that had de-

stroyed half of

another apartment the following year did cause me to begin

wondering whether the

statistical nature of reality might not be under a strain in my vi-

cinity at that

season. And the events of subsequent years served to turn this

into a

conviction.

Someone enjoyed trying to kill me once a year, it was as simple

as that.

The effort failing, there would be another year's pause before an

attempt was

made again. It seemed almost a game.

But this year I wanted to play, too. My main concern was that

he, she, or

up my bag and departed. Mr. Mulligan wasn't in, or was sleep-

ing, so I left my

key in his mailbox before heading up the street to take my

breakfast at a nearby

diner.

Traffic was light, and all of the vehicles well behaved. I walked

slowly,

listening and looking. It was a pleasant morning, promising a

beautiful day. I

hoped to settle things quickly, so I could enjoy it at my leisure.

I reached the diner unmolested. I took a seat beside the window.

Just as

the waiter came to take my order I saw a familiar figure swinging

along the

street--a former classmate and later fellow employee--Lucas

Raynard: six feet

tall, red-haired, handsome in spite, or perhaps because, of an

artistically

broken nose, with the voice and manner of the salesman he was.

I knocked on the window and he saw me, waved, turned and

entered.

"Merle, I was right," he said, coming up to the table, clasping my

shoulder

briefly, seating himself and taking the menu out of my hands.

"Missed you at

your place and guessed you might be here."

He lowered his eyes and began reading the menu.

"Why?" I asked.

"If you need more time to consider, I'll come back," the waiter

said.

"No," Luke answered and read off an enormous order. I added my

own. Then:

beside the doorway: "I can't say why," I finally stated. "Besides,

what makes

you think something's bothering me?"

"I remembered that paranoid thing you have about April 30, be-

cause of a

couple of accidents."

"More than a couple. I never told you about all of them."

"So you still believe it?"

"Yes."

He shrugged. The waiter came by and filled our coffee cups.

"Okay," he finally agreed. "Have you had it yet today?"

"No."

"Too bad. I hope it doesn't pall your thinking."

I took a sip of coffee.

"No problem," I told him.

"Good." He sighed and stretched. "Listen, I just got back to town

yesterday..."

"Have a good trip?"

"Set a new sales record."

"Great."

"Anyhow... I just learned when I checked in that you'd left."

"Yeah. I quit about a month ago."

"Miller's been trying to reach you. But with your phone discon-

nected he

couldn't call. He even stopped by a couple of times, but you were

out."

"Too bad."

"He wants you back."

"I'm finished there."

"Wait'll you hear the proposition, huh? Brady gets kicked up-

stairs and

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摘要：

wasnotjanglingwithstrangeapprehensions,asIhadbeenonthatApril30threeyearsagowhenI'dawakenedwithaheadacheandapremonition,thrownopenthewindows,andgonetothekitchentodiscoverallofthegasburnersturnedonandflameless.No.Itwasn'tevenliketheApril30twoyearsagointheotherapartmentwhenIawokebeforedawntoafaintsmell...

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Zelazny, Roger - Amber 06 Trumps of Doom

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