Raeder dived in. The woman made a U-turn on the highway. A bullet smashed through the windshield. She stamped on the accelerator, almost running down the lone killer who stood in the way.
The car surged away before the truck was within firing range.
Raeder leaned back and shut his eyes tightly. The woman concentrated on her driving, watching for the truck in her rear-vision mirror.
“It’s happened again!” cried Mike Terry, his voice ecstatic. “Jim Raeder has been plucked again from the jaws of death, thanks to Good Samaritan Janice Morrow of four three three Lexington Avenue, New York City. Did you ever see anything like it, folks? The way Miss Morrow drove through a fusillade of bullets and plucked Jim Raeder from the mouth of doom! Later we’ll interview Miss Morrow and get her reactions. Now, while Jim Raeder speeds away—perhaps to safety, perhaps to further peril—we’ll have a short announcement from our sponsor. Don’t go away! Jim’s got four hours and ten minutes until he’s safe. Anything can happen!”
“OK,” the girl said. “We’re off the air now. Raeder, what in the hell is the matter with you?”
“Eh?” Raeder asked. The girl was in her early twenties. She looked efficient, attractive, untouchable. Raeder noticed that she had good features, a trim figure. And he noticed that she seemed angry.
“Miss,” he said, “I don’t know how to thank you for—”
“Talk straight,” Janice Morrow said. “I’m no Good Samaritan. I’m employed by the JBC network.”
“So the program had me rescued!”
“Cleverly reasoned,” she said.
“But why?”
“Look, this is an expensive show, Raeder. We have to turn in a good performance. If our rating slips, we’ll all be in the street selling candy apples. And you aren’t cooperating.”
“What? Why?”
“Because you’re terrible,” the girl said bitterly. “You’re a flop, a fiasco. Are you trying to commit suicide? Haven’t you learned anything about survival?”
“I’m doing the best I can.”
“The Thompsons could have had you a dozen times by now. We told them to take it easy, stretch it out. But it’s like shooting a clay pigeon six feet tall. The Thompsons are cooperating, but they can only fake so far. If I hadn’t come along, they’d have had to kill you—air-time or not.”
Raeder stared at her, wondering how such a pretty girl could talk that way. She glanced at him, then quickly looked back to the road.
“Don’t give me that look!” she said. “You chose to risk your life for money, buster. And plenty of money! You knew the score. Don’t act like some innocent little grocer who finds the nasty hoods are after him. That’s a different plot.”
“I know,” Raeder said.
“If you can’t live well, at least try to die well.”
“You don’t mean that,” Raeder said.
“Don’t be too sure. . . . You’ve got three hours and forty minutes until the end of the show. If you can stay alive, fine. The boodle’s yours. But if you can’t at least try to give them a run for the money.”
Raeder nodded, staring intently at her.
“In a few moments we’re back on the air. I develop engine trouble, let you off. The Thompsons go all out now. They kill you when and if they can, as soon as they can. Understand?”
“Yes,” Raeder said. “If I make it, can I see you some time?”
She bit her lip angrily. “Are you trying to kid me?”
“No. I’d like to see you again. May I?”
She looked at him curiously. “I don’t know. Forget it. We’re almost on. I think your best bet is the woods to the right. Ready?”
“Yes. Where can I get in touch with you? Afterward, I mean.”
“Oh, Raeder, you aren’t paying attention. Go through the woods until you find a washed-out ravine. It isn’t much, but it’ll give you some cover.”
“Where can I get in touch with you?” Raeder asked again.
“I’m in the Manhattan telephone book.” She stopped the car. “OK, Raeder, start running.”
He opened the door.
“Wait.” She leaned over and kissed him on the lips. “Good luck, you idiot. Call me if you make it.”
And then he was on foot, running into the woods.
He ran through birch and pine, past an occasional split-level house with staring faces at the big picture window. Some occupant of those houses must have called the gang, for they were close behind him when he reached the washed-out little ravine. Those quiet, mannerly, law-abiding people didn’t want him to escape, Raeder thought sadly. They wanted to see a killing. Or perhaps they wanted to see him narrowly escape a killing.
It came to the same thing, really.
He entered the ravine, burrowed into the thick underbrush and lay still. The Thompsons appeared on both ridges, moving slowly, watching for any movement. Raeder held his breath as they came parallel to him.
He heard the quick explosion of a revolver. But the killer had only shot a squirrel. It squirmed for a moment, then lay still.
Lying in the underbrush, Raeder heard the studio helicopter overhead. He wondered if any cameras were focused on him. It was possible. And if someone were watching, perhaps some Good Samaritan would help.
So looking upward, toward the helicopter, Raeder arranged his face in a reverent expression, clasped his hands and prayed. He prayed silently, for the audience didn’t like religious ostentation. But his lips moved. That was every man’s privilege.
And a real prayer was on his lips. Once, a lipreader in the audience had detected a fugitive pretending to pray, but actually just reciting multiplication tables. No help for that man!
Raeder finished his prayer. Glancing at his watch, he saw that he had nearly two hours to go.
And he didn’t want to die! It wasn’t worth it, no matter how much they paid! He must have been crazy, absolutely insane to agree to such a thing....
But he knew that wasn’t true. And he remembered just how sane he had been.
One week ago he had been on The Prize of Peril stage, blinking in the spotlight, and Mike Terry had shaken his hand.
“Now Mr. Raeder,” Terry had said solemnly, “do you understand the rules of the game you are about to play?”
Raeder nodded.
“If you accept, Jim Raeder, you will be a hunted man for a week. Killers will follow you, Jim. Trained killers, men wanted by the law for other crimes, granted immunity for this single killing under the Voluntary Suicide Act. They will be trying to kill you, Jim. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” Raeder said. He also understood the two hundred thousand dollars he would receive if he could live out the week.
“I ask you again, Jim Raeder. We force no man to play for stakes of death.”
“I want to play,” Raeder said.
Mike Terry turned to the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen, I have here a copy of an exhaustive psychological test which an impartial psychological testing firm made on Jim Raeder at our request. Copies will be sent to anyone who desires them for twenty-five cents to cover the cost of mailing. The test shows that Jim Raeder is sane, well-balanced, and fully responsible in every way.” He turned to Raeder.
“Do you still want to enter the contest, Jim?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Very well!” cried Mike Terry. “Jim Raeder, meet your would-be killers!”
The Thompson gang moved on stage, booed by the audience.
“Look at them, folks,” said Mike Terry, with undisguised contempt. “Just look at them! Antisocial, thoroughly vicious, completely amoral. These men have no code but the criminal’s warped code, no honor but the honor of the cowardly hired killer. They are doomed men, doomed by our society which will not sanction their activities for long, fated to an early and unglamorous death.”
The audience shouted enthusiastically.
“What have you to say, Claude Thompson?” Terry asked.
Claude, the spokesman of the Thompsons, st
epped up to the microphone. He was a thin, clean-shaven man, conservatively dressed.
“I figure,” Claude Thompson said hoarsely, “I figure we’re no worse than anybody. I mean, like soldiers in a war, they kill. And look at the graft in government, and the unions. Everybody’s got their graft.”
That was Thompson’s tenuous code. But how quickly, with what precision, Mike Terry destroyed the killer’s rationalizations! Terry’s questions pierced straight to the filthy soul of the man.
At the end of the interview Claude Thompson was perspiring, mopping his face with a silk handkerchief and casting quick glances at his men.
Mike Terry put a hand on Raeder’s shoulder. “Here is the man who has agreed to become your victim—if you can catch him.”
“We’ll catch him,” Thompson said, his confidence returning.
“Don’t be too sure,” said Terry. “Jim Raeder has fought wild bulls—now he battles jackals. He’s an average man. He’s the people—who mean ultimate doom to you and your kind.”
“We’ll get him,” Thompson said.
“And one thing more,” Terry said, very softly. “Jim Raeder does not stand alone. The folks of America are for him. Good Samaritans from all corners of our great nation stand ready to assist him. Unarmed, defenseless, Jim Raeder can count on the aid and goodheartedness of the people, whose representative he is. So don’t be too sure, Claude Thompson! The average men are for Jim Raeder—and there are a lot of average men!”
Raeder thought about it, lying motionless in the underbrush. Yes, the people had helped him. But they had helped the killers, too.
A tremor ran through him. He had chosen, he reminded himself. He alone was responsible. The psychological test had proved that.
And yet, how responsible were the psychologists who had given him the test? How responsible was Mike Terry for offering a poor man so much money? Society had woven the noose and put it around his neck, and he was hanging himself with it, and calling it free will.
Whose fault?
“Aha!” someone cried.
Raeder looked up and saw a portly man standing near him. The man wore a loud tweed jacket. He had binoculars around his neck, and a cane in his hand.
“Mister,” Raeder whispered, “please don’t tell—”
“Hi!” shouted the portly man, pointing at Raeder with his cane. “Here he is!”
A madman, thought Raeder. The damned fool must think he’s playing Hare and Hounds.
“Right over here!” the man screamed.
Cursing, Raeder sprang to his feet and began running. He came out of the ravine and saw a white building in the distance. He turned toward it. Behind him he could still hear the man.
“That way, over there. Look, you fools, can’t you see him yet?”
The killers were shooting again. Raeder ran, stumbling over uneven ground, past three children playing in a tree house.
“Here he is!” the children screamed. “Here he is!”
Raeder groaned and ran on. He reached the steps of the building, and saw that it was a church.
As he opened the door, a bullet struck him behind the right kneecap.
He fell, and crawled inside the church.
The television set in his pocket was saying, “What a finish, folks, what a finish! Raeder’s been hit! He’s been hit, folks, he’s crawling now, he’s in pain, but he hasn’t given up! Not Jim Raeder!”
Raeder lay in the aisle near the altar. He could hear a child’s eager voice saying, “He went in there, Mr. Thompson. Hurry, you can still catch him!”
Wasn’t a church considered a sanctuary, Raeder wondered.
Then the door was flung open, and Raeder realized that the custom was no longer observed. He gathered himself together and crawled past the altar, out the back door of the church.
He was in an old graveyard. He crawled past crosses and stars, past slabs of marble and granite, past stone tombs and rude wooden markers. A bullet exploded on a tombstone near his head, showering him with fragments. He crawled to the edge of an open grave.
They had deceived him, he thought. All of those nice average normal people. Hadn’t they said he was their representative? Hadn’t they sworn to protect their own? But no, they loathed him. Why hadn’t he seen it? Their hero was the cold, blank-eyed gunman, Thompson, Capone, Billy the Kid, Young Lochinvar, El Cid, Cuchulain, the man without human hopes or fears. They worshiped him, that dead, implacable robot gunman, and lusted to feel his foot in their face.
Raeder tried to move, and slid helplessly into the open grave.
He lay on his back, looking at the blue sky. Presently a black silhouette loomed above him, blotting out the sky. Metal twinkled. The silhouette slowly took aim.
And Raeder gave up all hope forever.
“WAIT, THOMPSON!” roared the amplified voice of Mike Terry.
The revolver wavered.
“It is one second past five o’clock! The week is up! JIM RAEDER HAS WON!”
There was a pandemonium of cheering from the studio audience.
The Thompson gang, gathered around the grave, looked sullen.
“He’s won, friends, he’s won!” Mike Terry cried. “Look, look on your screen! The police have arrived, they’re taking the Thompsons away from their victim—the victim they could not kill. And all this is thanks to you, Good Samaritans of America. Look folks, tender hands are lifting Jim Raeder from the open grave that was his final refuge. Good Samaritan Janice Morrow is there. Could this be the beginning of a romance? Jim seems to have fainted, friends, they’re giving him a stimulant. He’s won two hundred thousand dollars! Now we’ll have a few words from Jim Raeder!”
There was a short silence.
“That’s odd,” said Mike Terry. “Folks, I’m afraid we can’t hear from Jim just now. The doctors are examining him. Just one moment…”
There was a silence. Mike Terry wiped his forehead and smiled.
“It’s the strain, folks, the terrible strain. The doctor tells me. . . Well, folks, Jim Raeder is temporarily not himself. But it’s only temporary! JBC is hiring the best psychiatrists and psychoanalysts in the country. We’re going to do everything humanly possible for this gallant boy. And entirely at our own expense.”
Mike Terry glanced at the studio clock. “Well, it’s about time to sign off, folks. Watch for the announcement of our next great thrill show. And don’t worry, I’m sure that very soon we’ll have Jim Raeder back with us.”
Mike Terry smiled, and winked at the audience. “He’s bound to get well, friends. After all, we’re all pulling for him!”
“‘—All You Zombies—’” (1959)
ROBERT A. HEINLEIN
ROBERT A. HEINLEIN (1907–1988) was one of science fiction’s giants. His books include Starship Troopers, The Door into Summer, The Man Who Sold the Moon, The Puppet Masters, and Stranger in a Strange Land. He was the first writer honored with the Grand Master Award by the Science Fiction Writers of America. Volume two of William Patterson’s biography of Heinlein is due to be published soon.
“‘—All You Zombies—’” remains a classic on the theme of time travel and its paradoxes. This story has recently been adapted into a feature film entitled Predestination.
2217 Time Zone V (EST) 7 Nov 1970 NYC-“Pop’s Place”: I was polishing a brandy snifter when the Unmarried Mother came in. I noted the time—10:17 P.M. zone five, or eastern time, November 7th, 1970. Temporal agents always notice time & date; we must.
The Unmarried Mother was a man twenty-five years old, no taller than I am, childish features and a touchy temper. I didn’t like his looks—I never had—but he was a lad I was here to recruit, he was my boy. I gave him my best barkeep’s smile.
Maybe I’m too critical. He wasn’t swish; his nickname came from what he always said when some nosy type asked him his line: “I’m an unmarried mother.” If he felt less than murderous he would add: “—at four cents a word. I write confession stories.”
If he felt nasty, he would wait f
or somebody to make something of it. He had a lethal style of infighting, like a female cop—one reason I wanted him. Not the only one.
He had a load on and his face showed that he despised people more than usual. Silently I poured a double shot of Old Underwear and left the bottle. He drank it, poured another.
I wiped the bar top. “How’s the ‘Unmarried Mother’ racket?”
His fingers tightened on the glass and he seemed about to throw it at me; I felt for the sap under the bar. In temporal manipulation you try to figure everything, but there are so many factors that you never take needless risks.
I saw him relax that tiny amount they teach you to watch for in the Bureau’s training school. “Sorry,” I said. “Just asking, ‘How’s business?’ Make it ‘How’s the weather?’”
He looked sour. “Business is okay. I write ’em, they print ’em, I eat.”
I poured myself one, leaned toward him. “Matter of fact,” I said, “you write a nice stick—I’ve sampled a few. You have an amazingly sure touch with the woman’s angle.”
It was a slip I had to risk; he never admitted what pen-names he used. But he was boiled enough to pick up only the last: “‘Woman’s angle’!” he repeated with a snort. “Yeah, I know the woman’s angle. I should.”
“So?” I said doubtfully. “Sisters?”
“No. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Now, now,” I answered mildly, “bartenders and psychiatrists learn that nothing is stranger than truth. Why, son, if you heard the stories I do—well, you’d make yourself rich. Incredible.”
“You don’t know what ‘incredible’ means!”
“So? Nothing astonishes me. I’ve always heard worse.”
He snorted again. “Want to bet the rest of the bottle?”
“I’ll bet a full bottle.” I placed one on the bar.
“Well—” I signaled my other bartender to handle the trade. We were at the far end, a single-stool space that I kept private by loading the bar top by it with jars of pickled eggs and other clutter. A few were at the other end watching the fights and somebody was playing the juke box—private as a bed where we were.
The Very Best of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Volume 2 Page 10
