Victim Prime

by Robert Sheckley

  He had to ask directions a couple of times, but at last he arrived at the small plaza with the fountain which Nora had described to him. He found the entrance to her building, marked by a stone arch. He went through, up two flights of stone stairs, and then it was the first door on the left. He rang the bell.

  The door opened, and there was Nora. “Well, come on in,” she said.

  14

  Nora was pretty much the same as two years ago when he’d seen her last, small and well-shaped with cute little features and smooth short blond hair like the girls in those hair ads. Her apartment was small but it was nice. She poured a beer for him.

  “Harold, however did you get here? You had that good job at the synthetic-meat plant. I never thought you’d leave that.”

  Harold had been the best marbleizer old Claymore had ever seen. It was a job that had to be done by hand, because all the machinery in the plant was worn out and breaking down and the automatic marbleizer never had worked right. And there was no way to get it fixed, because there was no machine shop closer than Albany. Harold used to stand in front of the assembly line all day and hand-marbleize the gelatin blocks, six inches by three by three, as they came by him on their flyspecked trays. Each block weighed exactly one kilo, and they were all rose-colored. After Harold got through with them they went on to the texturizers.

  “Well, I didn’t exactly leave that job,” Harold said. “It left me. There I was, top marbleizer in the factory, and what does old Claymore do but decide to quit marbleizing his synthetic steaks and see if anyone objected. It costs money to marbleize those gelatin meat blocks with real fat. Gives them some taste, though. So anyhow I got laid off. You know there’s no other work around Keene Valley.”

  Nora nodded. “I know it only too well. Before I left I was clerking twelve hours a day at Simmons’s in Lake Placid and barely making enough to keep alive on.”

  “Fred Simmons is dead,” Harold said. “Fell into one of the old quarries somehow. His sister runs the store now.”

  “I don’t wish anyone dead,” Nora said, “but he was one mean man. Harold, how did you happen to come here?”

  “The town fathers asked me to come down here and check up on you.”

  “Be serious!”

  “They need more money from outside,” Harold said. “They need help to keep going through the winter. I volunteered to come down here and see if I could make some money.”

  “Hunting?”

  “Unless bank robbing is easier.”

  “You can forget about that. Murder may be legal here, but robbing a bank is considerd a crime somewhat worse than treason.”

  “I was only kidding,” Harold said. “About robbing banks, I mean. I forgot to tell you that Sam Kanzile that used to go with the Berger girl got caught by one of those packs of wild dogs and pretty well tore apart.”

  “Always nice to hear the hometown gossip,” Nora said. “What do you do back there for fun nowadays?”

  “The nightlife is about the same as when you were there. Drinking coffee at Mrs. Simpson’s diner. Sometimes when I’m in a real reckless mood I climb up that old slag heap outside of town that the mine people left us. It seems a fit place for a man to sit, on top of a mountain of crap he and his neighbors built with their own hands.”

  “They say that slag’s radioactive.”

  “Hell, so’s the whole damned town. They say it’s bound to get you if something don’t beat it to it first.”

  “You really are a whole lot of fun,” Nora said. “That’s why I left Keene Valley. There never was any fun and people always talked depressing.”

  “Is death a depressing subject?” Harold asked. “Funny, I thought that was what Huntworld was all about.”

  “It is,” Nora said. “But death here is sorta nice, while death back home is just a plain drag. Want another beer?”

  “You know it, sweet lady.”

  She laughed and went off to the kitchen. Harold got up and walked around the room. There were framed photographs on one wall. There were pictures of Nora’s parents. There was a picture of Ausable Chasm and another photo of Lake Placid. There was a framed photo of somebody he didn’t know, a big rugged-looking man, middle-aged, balding, tan, smiling confidently into the camera

  “Who’s this?” he asked when she came back.

  “That’s Johnson,” Nora said.

  “Oh, of course,” Harold said. “Johnson. I guess I should have known that. Nora, who in the hell is Johnson?”

  Nora laughed. “He’s this guy I was living with. I met Johnson over in Miami and I came here with him. This is his apartment. Was, I mean.”

  “What line of work was he in?”

  “He was a Hunter. Pretty good Hunter. His last kill was sort of funny. He was a Victim that time, and the guy hunting him turned out to be an Indian. From India, I mean, not America. Can you beat that? They’re supposed to be so ultra-nonviolent, aren’t they? Little fat brown guy with a turban. A turban! Can you believe it? Johnson said if he’d known the guy was going to wear a turban he could have saved himself the cost of a Spotter.”

  “Nice sense of humor, Johnson,” Harold said.

  “He could be real funny. There are his trophies.”

  Harold walked over to the wall she indicated. There were four bronze plaques mounted on varnished mahogany. Each one was an official acknowledgment of a kill.

  “Where’s the famous Johnson now?” Harold asked.

  “Boot Hill, just outside of town. Some guy with glasses from Portland, Oregon, got him. You can never tell, can you?”

  “No, you never can. Listen, Nora, have you got anything to eat around here? I’ve got money, I can pay you for it.”

  “I’ll do better than that,” Nora said. “I know a real nice place to eat where the manager owes me a favor.”

  “Now how did that happen to come about?” Harold asked.

  “Don’t ask silly questions, you big jerk. Everyone’s got to make a living as best they can. The food’s good.” Suddenly she ran over and hugged him. “Oh, Harold, it’s really good to see you.”

  15

  The restaurant was at the end of a twisty cobblestoned street and then down an alley, and then down three steps into a cellar. Inside the place had yodeling waiters in lederhosen and a three-piece gypsy band. It had a tiny circular dancing floor illuminated by shocking-pink baby spots. The atmosphere was thick with ambiance and cigar smoke and liberally laced with animated conversation in five different languages. The manager winked at Nora and gave them a table near the dance floor and sent over complimentary drinks.

  Harold was too hungry to talk much until he had wolfed down the first course, a marinated fish thing called seviche, damned good, too. He was able to slow down over the next course, a steak made of real meat, and get some information.

  “Listen, Nora, how much do they pay you to get into this Hunt?”

  “Two thousand dollars signing-up money once you qualify, either as Hunter or Victim. Three thousand more when you make your kill. That’s for your first.”

  “And after that?”

  “It goes up after that for each kill.”

  “Do you get to choose whether you’ll be a Hunter or a Victim?”

  “No. The computer decides. The bonuses are the same.”

  “And if somebody gets you?”

  “The government buries you in Boot Hill free of charge.”

  “Five thousand dollars is a lot of money,” Harold said.

  “Oh sure it is, and once dead you’re dead for a long time.”

  “Well, that’s true enough,” Harold said. “But a man might just get dead anyhow, even if he didn’t sign up to kill somebody, and still never get to see five thousand dollars.”

  “Don’t think it’s an easy way of making money,” Nora cautioned him. “They pay people a lot to join the Hunt here, because that’s what brings in the tourist money and keeps Huntworld rich. But there’s a pretty high death rate among first-time Hunters. All the advantag
e is with the regulars.”

  “Still, even the regulars had to start with their first kill, just like me.”

  “True enough,” Nora said.

  “I hear that people come here from all over the world to kill people they don’t even know. Is that right?”

  “Yes, it is. Weird, isn’t it? I read a theory on that in a magazine. It was about what they called the Huntworld Syndrome, whatever that is. Or maybe it was the Huntworld Mentality. They said it was a generalized unconscious death wish in response to population pressure.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” Harold said. “I thought the world was depopulated or underpopulated or whatever you call it.”

  “Well, it is, in terms of what the population was a hundred years ago. But there’s still too many people trying to share out what’s left. And every year there’s less. Everything’s breaking down, nobody’s building new stuff, nobody has any money, not even much get-up-and-go. Except for Hunters, I guess.” “Makes sense. Five thousand dollars is sure a lot of money. I guess I wouldn’t mind killing somebody for that. If he had gone into it of his own free will, just like me. I wouldn’t mind that.”

  “Suppose he killed you?” Nora asked.

  “Well, I guess that’s one of the risks that goes with the job.”

  “How can you call it a job?”

  “Because it is a job. Killing people. For five thousand a pop. Only sometimes they get you. I’d call that not too bad a deal.”

  They finished their dinner, and Harold walked Nora home. At the door Nora said, “Do you want to stay over here, Harold?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  “You can’t go on paying hotel prices. I’ve got a little room in the back you can have. I’ll give you a key and you can come and go as you please.”

  “I’d appreciate it,” Harold said. “I’ve paid up my hotel room for one night, and I guess I’ll stay there to keep an eye on my stuff and take another bath. But I’d like to move in tomorrow.”

  “Come in for a moment.” She gave him a key “Harold, I’m out a lot. You know how it is.”

  “Don’t worry about me, Nora. I’m not judging you, whatever it is you do. I shot a dog on the way down here and put a hole in a guy’s shoulder and pretty soon I’ll be doing worse than that. That’s just how it is.”

  “Don’t get into the Hunt too quick,” Nora said. “There’s a really high death rate with first-time Hunters.”

  “But you got to start somewhere.”

  “That’s sure the truth,” Nora said, with a certain grimness.

  16

  Mike Albani parked his white Lamborghini convertible, waved hello to a pretty neighbor with a three-year-old in a baby carriage, and went to his door. He looked both ways out of common caution; it was not unknown for the families of deceased victims to take their revenge upon Spotters even though such action was against both the civil and the moral code. Finding nothing suspicious in the vicinity, he quickly unlocked his door and slipped in.

  His wife, Teresa, was in the Florida room watching television. She had on Mars Colony Diary, a daily show broadcast direct from Mars Station, picked up by relay stations and sold to the cable networks. Teresa was fascinated by the details of daily life in exotic places. She had a lot of patience. She could sit for hours just watching tomatoes grow in the backyard. You can’t get much more patient than that.

  “So how did it go today?” Teresa asked.

  Albani slumped in his chair. All the flash and flair which he presented to the outside world had drained out of him.

  “I gave a guy a lift from the airport. He might decide to Hunt, and if he does he might take me on as his Spotter.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Teresa said. “What about the guy you’re spotting for now?”

  “Jeffries?” He brightened up a little. “He took a day off today. Says he can’t Hunt properly with a head cold. But I have a beautiful ambush set up for tomorrow. We’re going to get his Victim, don’t worry about that.”

  “Is he any good, this Jeffries?”

  “One successful Hunt as a Victim so far. But they say it was pure luck, got the guy with a ricochet.”

  Teresa sighed. “You can really pick them, can’t you?”

  “I didn’t pick Jeffries. He picked me. I have to Spot for these guys until I get the one who can make a good kill so we can get some bonus money. Don’t worry about it, OK?”

  Teresa shrugged. Albani poured himself a glass of wine. He was a deeply troubled man with everything going wrong and his life collapsing around him.

  Mike Albani was thirty-six years old, originally from Dorchester, Massachusetts. His father, Giancarlo, an immigrant from Castellammare in Italy, worked as a mechanic in Providence before moving to Dorchester. Giancarlo and Maria Albani had six children. Mike’s mother worked in a neighborhood laundry on Nepon set Avenue. Mike was one of six children. The others were now living in different parts of the United States—the three survivors, that is. Angelo was killed trying to rob a bank in Cheyenne, Wyoming, and Tito died in an auto wreck outside Sioux Falls.

  As a kid, Mike had shown talent as an organizer of petty crime. He was doing well for himself in Dorchester and the Boston Southside when one of his gang, Mad Dog Lonnigan, was caught robbing a Thom McAn shoe store in Brookline and turned state’s evidence in return for immunity from prosecution. Mike heard about this through his connections, just in time to get out of town. He arrived in Huntworld in 2081.

  After a succession of odd jobs he was taken on as an apprentice by Luigi Vanilli, a canny old Spotter from Sicily. When Vanilli was shot to death in a dispute with a neighbor over a pear tree that grew in the neighbor’s yard but overhung Vanilli’s property, Vanilli’s daughter, Teresa, inherited the client list, the white Lamborghini, and the house. Teresa and Mike already had an understanding, and were married soon after.

  Mike’s first year as a Spotter was marked by brilliant successes. His second kill especially was noted in the record book. And then he had the good luck to be employed by the brilliant killer Julio Sanchez from Costa Rica. Within two years of his arrival in Esmeralda, Albani had everything a man could hope for.

  But then Sanchez was killed—it happens even to the best of them sooner or later—and it was all downhill after that. The word around town was that Albani had lost his touch, the fantasy and flair that had made his setups so interesting. It was suggested that he had Spotter’s block. Nobody wants to work with an unlucky Spotter. It got so bad Albani had to hang around the airport trying to solicit trade from greenhorns.

  In Huntworld, the rise and fall of fortune is fast indeed. Albani was struggling to get back on top. His only client now was Jeffries, an eccentric Englishman who didn’t show much promise.

  Albani was badly in need of a success. Like Hunters and Victims, Spotters are paid per Hunt, both by their clients and by the state. But if his client gets killed, the Spotter is fined the amount of his bonus plus ten percent for court costs. Albani’s last three clients had been unsuccessful. Each failure brought Albani an increasingly heavy fine. Now he stood poised on a razor’s edge. If Jeffries made his kill, Albani would be able to stave off doom awhile longer. If Jeffries lost, Albani would be fined again, coming that much closer to being wiped out.

  Being wiped out in Huntworld meant being put through a formal rite of de-emancipation. At the conclusion he would be declared a slave, have all his assets taken by the state, and be assigned a state-chosen job probably on a level with shoveling shit on a hog farm.

  Teresa said suddenly, “Michelangelo, let’s go back to Dorchester.”

  Albani shook his head. “There’s still a warrant out for me.”

  “Well, what about somewhere else in America?”

  “Starvation on the installment plan? Forget it. I just need one good break. If only I could find another Sanchez.”

  “Sanchez was very good,” Teresa said. “You’re right, Sanchez had class, and you had class while you were with him. But he
got killed. And after him there was Antonelli.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  “Mike, what will we do?”

  “Jeffries will make his kill and I’ll be on my way back up. Or this new fellow, Harold, will employ me and we will ride to success on his murdering abilities.”

  “And if not?”

  “If all else fails, I will take the Suicide Facility and leave the benefits to you.”

  “Big talk,” Teresa said. “You always threaten suicide when you’re feeling depressed.”

  “I’ll do it this time,” Albani said, standing up. “I’ll do it right now. And then who will you have to complain to?”

  Teresa knew it was just a bluff—probably—but it scared her all the same. “No, Albani,” she said, her voice trembling, “don’t take the suicide option.”

  “All right,” Albani said, sitting down again. “I just wanted you to know that I’m thinking of you.”

  17

  Dear Allan,

  Well here I am in Huntworld and I almost got killed on my first day here. Aside from that, I haven’t seen much of the Hunting that this place is famous for. I guess I expected people to be running around the streets like in that old movie they made before the Hunt became legal—Tenth Victim, that’s the one. I do hear what I think is gunfire from time to time, but it’s hard to tell for sure. Maybe I just haven’t been in the right places at the right time.