TRUMPSOFDOOM
THEAMBERCHRONICLES-BOOKSIX
RogerZelaznyCHAPTER1Itisapainintheasswaitingaroundforsomeonetotrytokillyou.ButitwasApril30,andof courseitwouldhappenasitalwaysdid.Ithadtakenmeawhiletocatchon,butnowIatleastknewwhenitwascoming.Inthepast,I’dbintoobusytodoanythingaboutit.Butmyjobwasfinishednow.I’donlystayedaroundforthis.IfeltthatIreallyoughttoclearthematterupbeforeIdeparted.Igotoutofbed,visitedthebathroom,showered,brushedmyteeth,etcetera.I’dgrownabeardagain,soIdidn’thavetoshave.Iwasnotjanglingwithstrangeapprehensions,asIhadbeenonthatApril30threeyearsagowhenI’dawakenedwithaheadacheandapremonition,thrownopenthewindows,andgonetothekitchentodiscoverallofthegasburnersturnedonandflameless.No.Itwasn’tevenliketheApril30twoyearsagointheotherapartmentwhenIawokebeforedawntoafaintsmellofsmoketolearnthattheplacewasonfire.Still,Istayedoutofdirectlineofthelightfixturesincasethebulbswerefilledwithsomethingflammable,andIflippedalloftheswitchesratherthanpushingthem.Nothinguntowardfollowedtheseactions.Usually,Isetupthecoffeemakerthenightbeforewithatimer.Thismorning,though,Ididn’.twantcoffeethathadbeenproducedoutofmysight.IsetafreshpotgoingandcheckedmypackingwhileIwaitedforittobrew.EverythingIvaluedinthisplaceresidedintwomedium-sizedcratesclothing, books,paintings,someinstruments,afewsouvenirss,andsoforth.Isealedthecases.Achangeof clothing,asweatshirt,agoodpaperback,andawadoftraveler’scheckswentintothebackpack.I’ddropmykeyoffatthemanager’sonthewayout,sohecouldletthemoversin.Thecrateswouldgointostorage.Nojoggingformethismorning.AsIsippedmycoffee,passingfromwindowtowindowandpausingbesideeachforsidelongsurveysofthestreetsbelowandthebuildingsacrosstheway(lastyear’sattempthadbeen-bysomeonewitharifle},Ithoughtbacktothefirsttimeithadhappened,sevenyearsago.Ihadsimply beenwalkingdownthestreetonabrightspringafternoonwhenanoncomingtruckhadswerved, jumpedthecurb,andnearlycombinedmewithportionsofabrickwall.Iwasabletodiveoutofthewayandroll.Thedriverneverregainedconsciousness.Ithadseemedoneofthosefreak occurrencesthatoccasionallyinvadethelivesofusall.Thefollowingyeartotheday,however,Iwaswalkinghomefrommyladyfriend’splacelateintheeveningwhenthreemenattackedme-onewithaknife,theothertwowithlengthsofpipe-withouteventhecourtesyoffirstaskingformywallet.Ilefttheremainsinthedoorwayofanearbyrecordstore,andwhileIthoughtaboutitonthewayhomeitdidnotstrikemeuntilthefollowingdaythatithadbeentheanniversaryofthetruckcrash.Eventhen,Idismisseditasanoddcoincidence.Thematterofthemailbombthathaddestroyedhalf ofanotherapartmentthefollowingyeardidcausemetobeginwonderingwhetherthestatisticalnatureofrealitymightnotbeunderastraininmyvicinityatthatseason.Andtheeventsof subsequentyearsservedtoturnthisintoaconviction.
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