The Robert Sheckley Megapack

by Robert Sheckley

  He had ripped a three-foot hole in the roof by the time the Hunters appeared on the next building. Barrent pulled his leg free; then, seeing no alternative, he jumped into the hole.

  For a second he was in the air; then he landed feet-first on a table which collapsed under him, spilling him to the floor. He got up and saw that he was in a Hadji-class living room. An old woman sat in a rocking chair less than three feet away. Her jaw was slack with terror; she kept on rocking automatically.

  Barrent heard the Hunters crossing to the roof. He went through the kitchen and out the back door, under a tangle of clotheslines and through a small hedge. Someone fired at him from a second-story window. Looking up, he saw a young boy trying to aim a heavy heat beamer. His father had probably forbidden him to hunt in the streets.

  Barrent turned into a street, and sprinted until he reached an alley. It looked familiar. He realized that he was in the Mutant Quarter, not far from Myla’s house.

  He could hear the cries of the Hunters behind him. He reached Myla’s house, and found the door unlocked.

  * * * *

  They were all together—the one-eyed man, the bald old woman, and Myla. They showed no surprise at his entrance.

  “So they picked you in the Lottery,” the old man said. “Well, it’s what we expected.”

  Barrent asked, “Did Myla skren it in the water?”

  “There was no need to,” the old man said. “It was quite predictable, considering the sort of person you are. Bold but not ruthless. That’s your trouble, Barrent.”

  The old man had dropped the obligatory form of address for a Privileged Citizen; and that, under the circumstances, was predictable, too.

  “I’ve seen it happen year after year,” the old man said. “You’d be surprised how many promising young men like yourself end up in this room, out of breath, holding a needlebeam as though it weighed a ton with Hunters three minutes behind them. They expect us to help them, but mutants like to stay out of trouble.”

  “Shut up, Dem,” the old woman said.

  “I guess we have to help you,” Dem said. “Myla’s decided on it for reasons of her own.” He grinned sardonically. “Her mother and I told her she was wrong, but she insisted. And since she’s the only one of us who can skren, we must let her have her own way.”

  Myla said, “Even with us helping you, there’s very little chance that you’ll live through the Hunt.”

  “If I’m killed,” Barrent said, “how will your prediction come true? Remember, you saw me looking at my own corpse, and it was in shiny fragments.”

  “I remember,” Myla said. “But your death won’t affect the prediction. If it doesn’t happen to you in this lifetime, it will simply catch up to you in a different incarnation.”

  Barrent was not comforted. He asked, “What should I do?”

  The old man handed him an armful of rags. “Put these on, and I’ll go to work on your face. You, my friend, are going to become a mutant.”

  * * * *

  In a short time, Barrent was back on the street. He was dressed in rags. Beneath them he was holding his needlebeam, and in his free hand was a begging cup. The old man had worked lavishly with a pinkish-yellow plastic. Barrent’s face was now monstrously swollen at the forehead, and his nose was flat and spread out almost to the cheekbones. The shape of his face had been altered, and the livid hunt-marks were hidden.

  A detachment of Hunters raced past, barely giving him a glance. Barrent began to feel more hopeful. He had gained valuable time. The last light of Omega’s watery sun was disappearing below the horizon. Night would give him additional opportunities, and with any luck he could elude the Hunters until dawn. After that were the Games, of course; but Barrent wasn’t planning on taking part in them. If his disguise was good enough to protect him from an entire hunting city, there was no reason why he should be captured for the Games.

  Perhaps, after the holiday was over, he could appear again in Omegan society. Quite possibly if he managed to survive the Hunt and altogether escape the Games, he would be especially rewarded. Such a presumptuous and successful breaking of the law would have to be rewarded.…

  He saw another group of Hunters coming toward him. There were five in the group, and with them was Tem Rend, looking somber and proud in his new Assassin’s uniform.

  “You!” one of the Hunters shouted. “Have you seen a Quarry pass this way?”

  “No, Citizen,” Barrent said, bowing his head respectfully, his needlebeam ready under his rags.

  “Don’t believe him,” a man said. “These damned mutants never tell us a thing.”

  “Come on, we’ll find him,” another man said. The group moved away, but Tem Rend stayed behind.

  “You sure you haven’t seen one of the Hunted go by here?” Rend asked.

  “Positive, Citizen,” Barrent said, wondering if Rend had recognized him. He didn’t want to kill him; in fact, he wasn’t sure he could, for Rend’s reflexes were uncannily fast. Right now, Rend’s needlebeam was hanging loosely from his hand, while Barrent’s was already aimed. That split-second advantage might cancel out Rend’s superior speed and accuracy. But if it came to conclusions, Barrent thought, it would probably be a tie; in which case, they would more than likely kill each other.

  “Well,” Rend said, “if you do see any of the Hunted, tell them not to disguise themselves as mutants.”

  “Why not?”

  “That trick never works for long,” Rend said evenly. “It gives a man about an hour’s grace. Then the informers spot him. Now if I were being hunted, I might use mutant’s disguise. But I wouldn’t just sit on a curbstone with it. I’d make a break out of Tetrahyde.”

  “You would?”

  “Most certainly. A few Hunteds every year escape into the mountains. The officials won’t talk about it, of course, and most citizens don’t know. But the Assassin’s Guild keeps complete records of every trick, device, and escape ever used. It’s part of our business.”

  “That’s very interesting,” Barrent said. He knew that Rend had seen through his disguise. Tem was being a good neighbor—though a bad assassin.

  “Of course,” Rend said, “it isn’t easy to get out of the city. And once a man’s out, that doesn’t mean he’s clear. There are Hunter patrols to watch out for, and even worse than that—”

  Rend stopped abruptly. A group of Hunters were coming toward them. Rend nodded pleasantly and walked off.

  After the Hunters had passed, Barrent got up and started walking. Rend had given him good advice. Of course some men would escape from the city. Life in Omega’s barren mountains would be extremely difficult; but any difficulty was better than death.

  If he were able to get by the city gate, he would have to watch for the hunting patrols. And Tem had mentioned something worse. Barrent wondered what that was. Special mountain-trained Hunters, perhaps? Omega’s unstable climate? Deadly flora and fauna? He wished Rend had been able to finish the sentence.

  By nightfall he had reached the South Gate. Bent painfully over, he hobbled toward the guard detachment that blocked his way out.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  There was no trouble with the guards. Whole families of mutants were streaming out of the city, seeking the protection of the mountains until the frenzy of the Hunt was over. Barrent attached himself to one of these groups, and soon he found himself a mile past Tetrahyde, in the low foothills that curled in a semicircle around the city.

  The mutants stopped here and made their camp. Barrent went on, and by midnight he was starting up the rocky, windswept slope of one of the higher mountains. He was hungry, but the cool, clear air was exhilarating. He began to believe that he really would live through the Hunt.

  He heard a noisy group of Hunters making a sweep around the mountain. He avoided them easily in the darkness, and continued climbing. Soon there was no sound except the steady rush of wind across the cliffs. It was perhaps two in the morning; only three more hours until dawn.

  In the s
mall hours of the morning it began to rain, lightly at first, then in a cold torrent. This was predictable weather for Omega. Predictable also were the towering thunderheads that formed over the mountains, the rolling thunder, and the vivid yellow flashes of lightning. Barrent found shelter in a shallow cave, and counted himself lucky that the temperature had not yet plunged.

  He sat in the cave, half-dozing, the remnants of his makeup running down his face, keeping a sleepy watch over the slope of the mountain below him. Then, in the brilliant illumination of a lightning flash, he saw something moving up the slope, heading directly toward his cave.

  He stood up, the needlebeam ready, and waited for another lightning flash. It came, and now he could see the cold, wet gleam of metal, a flashing of red and green lights, a pair of metal tentacles taking grips on the rocks and small shrubs of the mountainside.

  It was a machine similar to the one Barrent had fought in the cellars of the Department of Justice. Now he knew what Rend had wanted to warn him about. And he could see why few of the Hunted escaped, even if they got beyond the city itself. This time, Max would not be operating at random to make a more equal contest out of it. And there would be no exposed fuse box.

  As Max came within range, Barrent fired. The blast bounced harmlessly off the machine’s armored hide. Barrent left the shelter of his cave and began to climb.

  The machine came steadily behind him, up the treacherous wet face of the mountain. Barrent tried to lose it on a plateau of jagged boulders, but Max couldn’t be shaken. Barrent realized that the machine must be following a scent of some kind; probably it was keyed to follow the indelible paint on Barrent’s face.

  On a steep face of the mountain, Barrent rolled boulders onto the machine, hoping he could start an avalanche. Max dodged most of the flying rocks, and let the rest bounce off him, with no visible effect.

  At last Barrent was backed into a narrow, steep-sided angle of cliff. He was unable to climb any higher. He waited. When the machine loomed over him, he held the needlebeam against its metal hide and held down the trigger.

  Max shuddered for a moment under the impact of the needlebeam’s full charge. Then it brushed the weapon away and wrapped a tentacle around Barrent’s neck. The metal coils tightened. Barrent felt himself losing consciousness. He had time to wonder whether the coils would strangle him or break his neck.

  Suddenly the pressure was gone. The machine had backed away a few feet. Past it, Barrent could see the first gray light of dawn.

  He had lived through the Hunt. The machine was not programmed to kill him after dawn. But it wouldn’t let him go. It kept him captive in the narrow angle of the cliff until the Hunters came.

  They brought Barrent back to Tetrahyde, where a wildly applauding crowd gave him a hero’s welcome. After a two-hour procession, Barrent and four other survivors were taken to the office of the Awards Committee. The Chairman made a short and moving speech about the skill and courage each had shown in surviving the Hunt. He gave each of them the rank of Hadji, and presented them with the tiny golden earrings which showed their status.

  At the end of the ceremony, the Chairman wished each of the new Hadjis an easy death in the Games.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Guards led Barrent from the office of the Awards Committee. He was brought past a row of dungeons under the Arena, and locked into a cell. The guards told him to be patient; the Games had already begun, and his turn would come soon.

  There were nine men crammed into a cell which had been built to hold three. Most of them sat or sprawled in complete and silent apathy, already resigned to their deaths. But one of them was definitely not resigned. He pushed his way to the front of the cell as Barrent entered.

  “Joe!”

  The little credit thief grinned at him. “A sad place to meet, Will.”

  “What happened to you?”

  “Politics,” Joe said. “It’s a dangerous business on Omega, especially during the time of the Games. I thought I was safe. But…” He shrugged his shoulders. “I was selected for the Games this morning.”

  “Is there any chance of getting out of it?”

  “There’s a chance,” Joe said. “I told your girl about you, so perhaps her friends can do something. As for me, I’m expecting a reprieve.”

  “Is that possible?” Barrent asked.

  “Anything is possible. It’s better not to hope for it, though.”

  “What are the Games like?” Barrent asked.

  “They’re the sort of thing you’d expect,” Joe said. “Man-to-man combats, battles against various types of Omegan flora and fauna, needlebeam and heatgun duels. It’s all copied from an old Earth festival, I’m told.”

  “And if anyone survives,” Barrent said, “they’re beyond the law.”

  “That’s right.”

  “But what does it mean to be beyond the law?”

  “I don’t know,” Joe said. “Nobody seems to know much about that. All I could find out is, survivors of the Games are taken by The Black One. It’s not supposed to be pleasant.”

  “I can understand that. Very little on Omega is pleasant.”

  “It isn’t a bad place,” Joe said. “You just haven’t the proper spirit of—”

  He was interrupted by the arrival of a detachment of guards. It was time for the occupants of Barrent’s cell to enter the Arena.

  “No reprieve,” Barrent said.

  “Well, that’s how it goes,” Joe said.

  They were marched out under heavy guard and lined up at the iron door that separated the cell block from the main Arena. Just before the captain of the guards opened the door, a fat, well-dressed man came hurrying down a side corridor waving a paper.

  “What’s this?” the captain of the guards asked.

  “A writ of recognizance,” the fat man said, handing his paper to the captain. “On the other side, you’ll find a cease-and-desist order.” He pulled more papers out of his pockets. “And here is a bankruptcy-transferral notice, a chattel mortgage, a writ of habeas corpus, and a salary attachment.”

  The captain pushed back his helmet and scratched his narrow forehead. “I can never understand what you lawyers are talking about. What does it mean?”

  “It releases him,” the fat man said, pointing to Joe.

  The captain took the papers, gave them a single puzzled glance, and handed them to an aide. “All right,” he said, “take him with you. But it wasn’t like this in the old days. Nothing stopped the orderly progression of the Games.”

  Grinning triumphantly, Joe stepped through the ranks of guards and joined the fat lawyer. He asked him, “Do you have any papers for Will Barrent?”

  “None,” the lawyer said. “His case is in different hands. I’m afraid it might not be completely processed until after the Games are over.”

  “But I’ll probably be dead then,” Barrent said.

  “That, I can assure you, won’t stop the papers from being properly served,” the fat lawyer said proudly. “Dead or alive, you will retain all your rights.”

  The captain of the guards said, “All right, let’s go.”

  “Luck,” Joe called out. And then the line of prisoners had passed through the iron door into the glaring light of the Arena.

  * * * *

  Barrent lived through the hand-to-hand duels in which a quarter of the prisoners were killed. After that, men armed with swords were matched against the deadlier Omegan fauna. The beasts they fought included the hintolyte and the hintosced—big-jawed, heavily armored monsters whose natural habitat was the desert region far to the south of Tetrahyde. Fifteen men later, these beasts were dead. Barrent was matched with a Saunus, a flying black reptile from the western mountains. For a while he was hard-pressed by this ugly, poison-toothed creature. But in time he figured out a solution. He stopped trying to jab the Saunus’s leathery hide and concentrated on severing its broad fan of tailfeathers. When he had succeeded, the Saunus’s flying balance was thrown badly off. The reptile crashed into t
he high wall that separated the combatants from the spectators, and it was relatively easy to administer the final stroke through the Saunus’s single huge eye. The vast and enthusiastic crowd in the stadium gave Barrent a lengthy round of applause.

  He moved back to the reserve pen and watched other men struggle against the trichomotreds, incredibly fast little creatures the size of rats, with the dispositions of rabid wolverines. It took five teams of prisoners. After a brief interlude of hand-to-hand duelling, the Arena was cleared again.

  Now the hard-shelled criatin amphibians lumbered in. Although sluggish in disposition, the criatins were completely protected beneath several inches of shell. Their narrow whiplash tails, which also served them as antennae, were invariably fatal to any man who approached them. Barrent had to fight one of these after it had dispatched four of his fellow prisoners.

  He had watched the earlier combats carefully, and had detected the one place where the criatin antennae could not reach. Barrent waited for his chance and jumped for the center of the criatin’s broad back.

  When the shell split into a gigantic mouth—for this was the criatin method of feeding—Barrent jammed his sword into the opening. The criatin expired with gratifying promptness, and the crowd signified its approval by showering the Arena with cushions.

  The victory left Barrent standing alone on the blood-stained sand. The rest of the prisoners were either dead or too badly maimed to fight. Barrent waited, wondering what beast the Games Committee had chosen next.

  A single tendril shot up through the sand, and then another. Within seconds, a short, thick tree was growing in the Arena, sending out more roots and tendrils, and pulling all flesh, living or dead, into five small feeding-mouths which circled the base of the trunk. This was the carrion tree, indigenous to the northeastern swamps and imported with great difficulty. It was said to be highly vulnerable to fire; but Barrent had no fire available.

  Using his sword two-handed, Barrent lopped off vines; others grew in their place. He worked with frantic speed to keep the vines from surrounding him. His arms were becoming tired, and the tree regenerated faster than he could cut it down. There seemed no way of destroying it.