Victim Prime

by Robert Sheckley

  Harold and Jacinth had lunch at one of the charming little sidewalk cafés near the market, and then Harold offered to show her his new apartment. It was a one-room efficiency with the usual steel shuttering and built-in alarm systems. When they got there Harold found a letter in his mailbox. It had the Huntworld seal of crossed revolvers on a field of swords.

  “It’s your notification of Hunt!” Jacinth said. “Oh, how exciting!”

  Harold’s first Hunt had now officially begun. He opened the envelope. His first Victim was a man named Louvaine Daubray.

  Jacinth read the name, and her big green eyes opened wider. “Louvaine? You’re fighting Louvaine!”

  “That is a coincidence,” Harold said. “He’s one of the few people that I know here. Now I’m going to have to kill him. But of course, he and I didn’t hit it off too well anyhow.”

  Jacinth was thoughtful, and she left soon after that. It bothered her that out of all the possible combinations of Hunters in Huntworld, the Hunts computer should pick Louvaine for Harold’s first Victim. She’d heard that at any one time there were twenty-five thousand, or perhaps it was two hundred and fifty thousand, possible combinations of Hunters and Hunteds. When she took arithmetic next year she would have to figure out the odds against this particular meeting.

  29

  The doorbell chimed. Teresa went to answer it. “Someone to see you,” she called to Albani.

  “Who is it?” Albani asked.

  “Says his name’s Harold.”

  Albani had been reclined on the chaise longe, passing a dreamy afternoon with the Comic Book Encyclopedia of the World. He liked to combine education and entertainment. He bounded to his feet now, pulled his pale brown water-figured silk dressing gown more tightly around him, squared his shoulders, turned on his smile, and went to the door.

  “Harold! How good to see you. Come right in!” He gave Teresa the nod which meant go fetch the wine and poppy cakes, and led Harold to the sun-room. “Been enjoying yourself here?”

  “No complaints so far,” Harold said in his pleasant slow voice.

  “Let’s just hope it goes on that way,” Albani said, superstitiously crossing his fingers and eyes. “Here, sit down, take the comfortable chair. You’re really lucky to be here at this time of year. Saturnalia season is always such fun. A man would have to go a long way to find a better place to die than Huntworld during Saturnalia. Not that I mean you’re going to die, I just mean if it should happen. Have you gotten your Hunt notification yet?”

  Harold nodded and took the slip of paper out of his pocket. Albani read it. A frown crossed his handsome features. “Louvaine? You’re fighting Louvaine Daubray? How very extraordinary!”

  “Why’s that?”

  “It’s just unusual for someone who’s only been here a few days to have the computer pick one of the few people he knows for his first Hunt.”

  “Jacinth thought so too,” Harold said. “But what the hell, there it is. He signed up to kill or be killed, same as me. I won’t let the fact that I don’t like him stand in the way of my killing him. Frankly, I’d like to do it and get it over with as soon as possible. That’s why I’ve come to you, Mike. I want you to be my Spotter.”

  Teresa came back with the wine and poppy cakes. Albani said, “Harold here wants me to Spot for him.”

  “He couldn’t have picked a better man,” Teresa said loyally.

  “It’s true, even if I do say so myself,” Albani said. “He’s fighting Louvaine,” he told Teresa.

  “I’ve heard about that one,” Teresa said. “Sloppy killer, isn’t he?”

  “Very sloppy,” Albani said. “His most recent Hunt ended with his victim dying accidentally of a broken neck. You can’t get much sloppier than that.”

  “I’m new at this stuff,” Harold said. “But one thing I can tell you: I’m not sloppy.”

  “The question is,” Albani said, “are you lucky? Louvaine is sloppy but lucky. So far it’s proved an unbeatable combination.”

  Harold shrugged. “I think I’m lucky, too.”

  “We’ll see,” Albani said. He gave Teresa a look. Discreetly she left the room. The two men sipped the wine and nibbled the poppy cakes. Then Albani said, “I’ve got a pretty busy schedule, what with Saturnalia coming up and all. But yes, I think I can accommodate you.”

  “Glad to hear that,” Harold said. “I figure you and I are going to make a good combination.”

  “If only you could know how much I hope that’s true,” Albani said. “Well, first things first. There’s the matter of my fee.”

  “That’s the only problem,” Harold said.

  “How can that be a problem? You’ve just gotten your bonus, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, but I’ve already spent it,” Harold said, “and I won’t get any more until I make my kill.”

  “Damnation,” Albani said. “This is no way to do business, though it’s typical enough.”

  “You’ll get the whole thing, plus a nice bonus on top of the bonus, as soon as I put down Louvaine.”

  “That’s decent of you,” Albani said. “But you mean ‘if,’ not ‘when.’”

  “I figure, with a man like you Spotting for me, it’s pretty much a sure thing,” Harold said.

  Albani knew when he was being flattered. He liked it. What he didn’t like was working without being paid first. But he needed the job. If Harold made a good kill it would help him a lot with his difficulties.

  “Well,” he said, “since you give me no choice, I accept.”

  “I’d hoped you would,” Harold said.

  Albani shook his hand, then called for Teresa. “Take away his wine,” he told her. “Give him a glass of water. You are in strict training now. We’ll choose some weapons for you, then go out to the practice range.”

  “Can’t I just go out and find Louvaine and get it over with?”

  “Soon,” Albani said. “But I like your spirit.”

  30

  Albani took Harold down to the training and practice center which the government of Esmeralda maintained free of charge for all Hunters and Victims. There were facilities for sports like basketball and volleyball, a swimming pool, and the usual array of exercising machinery. They walked past dueling strips where men fenced with saber and foil. Some were Fighting with slim daggers. Others worked out with various other kinds of bludgeons, clubs, axes, and similar instruments. In another section there were baths and massage rooms.

  “The gun rooms are over here,” Albani said.

  “I don’t want to seem naive,” Harold said, “but why are all those people practicing hand-to-hand combat? Is it for sport, or physical Fitness? I can’t imagine that stuff would be much good against a gun.”

  “That’s where you’d be wrong,” Albani said. “Some of our most famous Hunters never carry a gun. They hunt with bare hands, or with a knife.”

  “Against a man with a gun?”

  “Guns have their limitations,” Albani said. “If you don’t take your man out with the First shot, you could be in trouble. A wounded opponent is apt to be very dangerous, especially if he’s on Berserkium.”

  “What’s that?” Harold asked.

  “Berserkium is one of our special-purpose drugs. A lot of people take it before going out on a Hunt. You don’t even feel it unless you’re wounded or under great stress. Shock triggers it off, giving you an adrenaline supercharge. While Berserkium is active in your bloodstream you can create an unbelievable amount of destruction. It only lasts a few minutes and you’re completely wiped out afterward.”

  “Does Louvaine know this hand-to-hand stuff?” Harold asked.

  “He holds various degrees in kung fu, knife fighting, club fighting, sword fighting, and one or two other kinds of fighting. I think he’s done a bit of combat instructing, too.”

  “That’s great,” Harold said.

  Albani was carrying a small brown leather suitcase with brass reinforcers at the corners. “This is for you to use,” he said, “but aft
er the fight I want it back.” He opened the case. Inside, nested in red satin, was an SSK .45-70 with a fourteen-inch barrel.

  “Take it in your hand,” Albani said. “Feel the balance.”

  The heavy gun sat easily in Harold’s big fist. It was a deadly piece of precision machinery, with its blued-steel surfaces and its polished walnut insets. Harold lifted it and admired it, then put it down.

  “It’s a right handsome thing,” Harold said. “But I’m sticking with my Smith & Wesson.”

  Albani looked doubtful. “I don’t mean to disparage the gun. But I can see at a glance that it’s old and probably hasn’t been properly maintained. What if the firing pin breaks? It’s really better you go with the SSK.”

  “I don’t want to be stubborn,” Harold said, “but since I’m the one going to be pulling the trigger, I figure I get to choose what sort of a gun I pull it on.”

  “I can’t argue with that,” Albani said. “Let’s see how you do on the firing range.”

  In the gun room, Harold practiced dry firing first until he could do it smoothly enough to satisfy Albani. Then he and Albani went to the firing range. Harold proved to have a pretty good natural eye and a steady hand. His first shots were wide of target, but he steadied down quickly.

  “Your reactions are second to none,” Albani said. “You’re really not bad at all.”

  “What does Louvaine shoot like?” Harold asked.

  “Ah, well, when he’s in form he’s a very fine marksman. As you could be with a few months’ or even weeks’ work.”

  “But I won’t have that long, will I?”

  “You’ve got no time at all. Let’s talk with a friend of mine and get his advice.”

  He led Harold to a little office on one side of the gym. Within, a very small, very old Chinese man, with a thin, wispy mustache, and a hat with the brim turned up all around, giving him a resemblance to Charlie Chan in the old movies, was watching the gun-room action on a tiny TV screen.

  “Mr. Chang, this is my good friend and client Harold Erdman.”

  “Very pleased to meet you,” Chang said, in a strong English accent. “I have watched your protégé’s progress on my TV.”

  “Mr. Chang is a specialist’s specialist in murder and survival. If anyone can help you, he can.”

  “Let me be alone with Mr. Erdman,” Chang said. Albani bowed and left the office. When they were alone, Chang offered Harold a seat and poured him tea in a delicate porcelain cup. “What do you think of your chances?” Chang asked.

  “I’ll be all right,” Harold said.

  “What makes you think so?”

  “I don’t know,” Harold said. “I just do.”

  “Suppose I tell you to get out quick while you’re still alive?”

  “I’d tell you to tell that to my Victim.”

  “You like the intensity of the situation,” Chang suggested.

  Harold nodded. “Yes, I do. I’m a little nervous about it, but I’ll be all right when the time comes.”

  “There’s no time to train you in any of the martial arts,” Chang said. “There’s only time to teach you one thing. Listen carefully now. In moments of danger, advantage can be gained by doing the unexpected.”

  “I think I’ve heard that before,” Harold said.

  “The deepest truths are always obvious. It’s not what you know, it’s what you can use when the time comes that counts. This Louvaine is your Victim?”

  Harold nodded.

  “Then I suggest you get him as soon as possible.” He turned to the door. “Albani!”

  Mike Albani came back inside. “Yes, Mr. Chang?”

  “This boy is clumsy but he’s cool. The sooner he gets this first fight behind him, the better. Don’t toy with the Victim. Go out and get him as soon as possible. Now I have said enough. Good luck.”

  They left. Albani was thoughtful as they packed up their equipment and left the gym.

  “What next?” Harold asked.

  “Next I find out where Louvaine is. And then you get him.”

  “As simple as that?”

  “I sure to God hope so.”

  31

  “So how did he do, this new client of yours?” Teresa asked when Albani returned from the training center. She made it a point always to ask her husband about business when he came home at night, so that he could boast a little and not feel so stupid about the botch he was making of both their lives. Her mother had taught her this as part of the Old Wisdom.

  “He concentrates well,” Albani said. “And he’s very determined.”

  “But how does he shoot?”

  Albani began to look a little uncomfortable. “He’s got a good eye and he doesn’t flinch when he squeezes the trigger. But he hasn’t had much practice. In six months he could be the best shot in this city.”

  “Has he a quick draw?”

  “No, not yet. But given a little time—”

  “Mike,” Teresa said, growing faintly alarmed, “he doesn’t have any time. He’s fighting a duel right now.”

  Albani nodded and walked to the refrigerator and got himself a beer. He came back to the living room humming. Now Teresa knew there was something wrong, something he wasn’t telling her.

  She put down the stocking cap she had been knitting and said, “You’ve got yourself another loser for a client. That’s it, isn’t it, Michelangelo?”

  “That’s not it at all. Teresa, this boy’s a natural.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Everybody’s born to do something,” Albani said. “There are born painters and born auto mechanics. Born woodworkers and born swimmers. There are born Spotters, like me. That’s what I mean when I say he’s a natural.”

  “A natural Hunter?”

  “Better than that. Teresa, I’m pretty sure Harold is a natural-born killer.”

  Teresa looked puzzled. “But aren’t all Hunters killers?”

  “All Hunters kill, sure. But that doesn’t make them killers. Not real killers. A lot of them are like children, just playing a game, even though the bullets are real. Bang, bang, you’re dead. But Harold … well, Harold isn’t playing at all. Harold is a serious-minded young killer and he’s going to go far. I’m not the only one who thinks so. Chang watched him work out he saw the potential.”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear he has a chance, you being his Spotter and all.”

  “Everyone but Chang and me thinks Harold’s just a clown.”

  “I can imagine,” Teresa said.

  “The bookies are offering twenty to one against him. Have you ever heard such incredible odds?”

  Teresa looked alert. Something bad was coming, she could just tell.

  “The odds were so good,” Albani said, “and what with Chang feeling the same way and all, I put down a bet on Harold.”

  Teresa stood up, the stocking cap falling to the floor. “A bet? But Mike, we don’t have any money. Don’t tell me the bookies have started giving credit!”

  Albani’s face was a study in discomfiture. “No, of couse not. What I did, I took out a mortgage on the house.”

  “Mike, you didn’t! It’s all we’ve got!”

  “Look, what kind of a Spotter am I if I don’t bet on my own man? And anyhow, I had to fulfill my Gambling Obligation, or risk being in violation of the Financial Imprudence Act.”

  “Mike, you; shouldn’t have bet the house. If Harold loses it’ll mean slavery for us both. You know the government doesn’t tolerate people sleeping in the streets.”

  “But Harold’s going to win. I’m sure of it. I’ve never been surer of anything. That’s why I threw my final chip into the pot. So to speak.”

  “Mike, you’d better tell me what you did.”

  Albani heaved an explosive sigh. “The fact is, Teresa, I bet another ten thousand with Fat Freddy the bookie by giving him a chattel mortage on you. He’ll never collect it, of course. Harold—”

  Teresa stood up. “Am I hearing straight? Did you actually mortgage me i
n order to put a bet on that clumsy oaf bumpkin client of yours?”

  “Yes, that’s what I did,” Albani said. “If Harold doesn’t win, I’ll be enslaved and probably put to work in the pigshit factory. But you’ll be Fat Freddy’s new chattel, which is not so bad, given the choices available. Never say I don’t look out for you.”

  “Oh, Albani,” Teresa wailed.

  “Don’t worry, he’s going to win.”

  Teresa got hold of herself. She had decided in a flash what to do. She would spare Albani the indignity of laboring in the pigshit factory by killing him if Harold lost the bet. As for her, Fat Freddy was not so bad-looking if you ignored his face. And he had the reputation of being a good provider.

  “Well,” she said, “you know best. I just hope it works out.”

  “It’s practically in the bag,” Albani said. Not for the first time he congratulated himself on having been smart enough to pick an understanding wife. Any other woman would have scolded him for offering her up as a bet on an unknown and untested Hunter. Not Teresa.

  Teresa went to the kitchen to get dinner—Beefoids in spicy Pseudomato sauce, Albani’s favorite. How strange, she thought, that soon she might be cooking for Fat Freddy. According to one of her girlfriends, Fat Freddy hated Beefoids in any form. He was known to favor Mock Veal Roasters or Super Simul-Pork Roast. If Harold lost, she might never cook Beefoids again. Life was strange.

  32

  Nora was sitting in the window seat in her apartment, legs tucked under her, looking out the window. She looked real pretty with the light outlining her clear features and catching highlights from her crisp blond hair.

  “Harold,” she said after a while, “what was the name of that commune?”

  “What commune?”

  “The one you told me about. The one the Catskill Kid was going to.”