Victim Prime

by Robert Sheckley

“Well,” Louvaine said, “one last gloat and then I really must finish you off even if it means sleeping tonight in the guest bedroom.”

  So that last remote chance was gone! Harold tensed, waiting for a moment’s inattention on Louvaine’s part to give him time to bring up his gun and get off a shot.

  And then the room was flooded with dazzling light and thunderous noise. Startled, Harold threw himself backward over the bed and down the other side. Louvaine fired, aiming high, as usual, and taking out the ceiling lights. Downstairs the Doberman was barking hysterically. The air stank of roast beef and cordite.

  The next thing Harold heard was a heavily over-amplified voice speaking through a bullhorn.

  “You men in there!” the voice from the bullhorn said. “This is an official announcement! Stop firing at once! This duel is hereby suspended.”

  “What’s going on?” Harold asked Louvaine.

  “I haven’t the slightest idea,” Louvaine said. “They never stop a duel in progress … unless ...”

  “Unless what?”

  The bedroom door opened. Gordon Philakis, m.c. of The Huntworld Show, came in, followed by lighting men and soundmen and a camera crew.

  “Hello there, folks,” Philakis said. “Here we are in the home of Louvaine Daubray, inventor of the reverse strip tease and a Hunter of great determination but little luck, at least until recently, eh, Louvaine? And the gentleman with him is Harold Erdman, a young Hunter out after his first kill, whom you may remember from yesterday’s interview. How are you doing, Harold?”

  “A little better now that you’re here,” Harold said. “But why are you here?”

  “Your friend Miss Nora Albright phoned in and recommended your spot for the highest of honors. When we heard some of the details”—he glanced meaningfully at Louvaine—“we decided to suspend our usual random selection. Therefore, gentlemen, fight no more—until tomorrow, when you will appear in the Coliseum for the Big Payoff!”

  Albani was pushing through the crowd. He put his arm around Harold’s shoulders and hugged him. “Worked out just like I thought it would,” he said.

  “You mean you planned all this?” Harold asked.

  “Let’s just say that I anticipated the flow of events, as a good Spotter should. The big thing is, you’ve made it! The Big Payoff! A ten-thousand-dollar bonus! Plus five grand for the Spotter!”

  “And that’s not all,” said Louvaine. He walked over and put his hand on Harold’s arm. His voice was husky with emotion.

  “You’re new here, Harold—I don’t think you know what the big Payoff means. It’s the highest honor a Hunter can aspire to: a chance to kill under the eyes of thousands, a chance to achieve immortality in the videotapes. It means fame, Harold, and that’s what I’ve wanted all my life. Thank you. See you tomorrow.”

  He hit Harold affectionately on the arm and then walked over to where Gordon Philakis was interviewing Antonio Feria, who claimed to have set up the whole thing himself.

  “Come on, let’s get out of here,” Albani said.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To get some dinner and a good night’s sleep. You’re in show business, Harold, and tomorrow’s opening day.”

  48

  The morning of the day of the Big Payoff arose serene and bright, not a cloud in the sky, a perfect day for murder. The crowds began arriving early at the Coliseum. Marching bands performed on the arena floor, each of them carrying the banner of its canton.

  Below the arena, accessible by trapdoors as well as by passages from outside the amphitheater, was an entire underworld of workshops, pits for the vehicles, changing rooms for the Fighters and other artists, property rooms where the weapons were stored. The repair crews were here, for both men and machines, and the men in black who would take the fallen Esmeraldan warriors to their final resting place on Boot Hill.

  By midday the stands were full. They were divided into sun and shade sections as in the Spanish bullfights. The box sections were sheltered by striped awnings on poles.

  It was a fine day, with the sun hot and high overhead and the girls dressed in their bright cotton finery. There was a smell in the air of meat frying in hot oil with a little garlic to keep it company. Vendors moved up and down the isles selling hot dogs, burritos, souvlaki, carnitas, drinks, drugs, programs, and T-shirts with pictures of the participants stenciled on the backs.

  Children ran up and down the aisles screaming with laughter. Dogs barked. It was the sort of atmosphere of good humor which so often accompanies a total absence of good taste.

  On one side of the arena there was a glass-walled control booth cantilevered out over the killing field. Television cameras were set up at strategic locations to film both the action on the field and the facial expressions of the commentators. Gordon Philakis, Mr. Huntworld himself, was at the microphone wearing a Kelly-green sports jacket with the crest of the Hunt Academy above the right breast.

  “Hi, folks, this is Gorden Philakis. What a day for mayhem! Right, sports fans? We’ve got a sellout crowd as usual for this sporting event in the Esmeraldan year. We’ll be bringing you all the action as it takes place, with slow-motion close-ups of the nasty parts. But first I’d like you to meet an old friend of ours, Colonel Rich Farrington, a man who knows a thing or two about killing.”

  “Thanks, Gorden, it’s good to be here.” Farrington was a tall, thin, gray-haired man, ramrod-straight, with a hawk nose and a thin, bloodless mouth.

  “You were head of the International Mercenaries Brigade, the most colorful band of killers in the history of the world, isn’t that right, Rich?”

  “I sure was, Gordon, and they were wonderful days. Not all of the last war was nuclear, you know. Despite its brevity and impersonality, there was time for several first-class battles involving people.”

  “You and your boys were in the Little Chaco Campaign, weren’t you, Rich?”

  “We sure were, Gordon, and I can tell you that South America is still an interesting place even if the jungles are gone. And my boys also covered the retreat across the Limpopo. That’s a river in Africa, Gordon. They were both truly spectacular fights. The machine-gun and mortar effects alone were worth the price of admission, so to speak.”

  “I’ve watched film clips of those battles many times, Colonel, as have our viewers. The Limpopo campaign is a great family favorite. In fact, starting next season, The Huntworld Show is going to begin an hour-by-hour account of the entire war. You won’t want to miss that one, folks. It’ll be called The Wonderful World of Bloodshed.”

  “It was a good war,” Farrington said. “But I must tell you, you people right here in Huntworld in your own quiet way turn out some of the finest individual scenes of violence I’ve ever been privileged to witness. I’m no art critic, but I’d say that some of the stuff I’ve seen here has a definite surrealistic element. I’m no highbrow, God knows, but it seems to me that you people in Huntworld follow a more truly artistic vocation and turn out more products of genuine delight for more people everywhere than all these so-called artists in Europe and America mucking up canvas with meaningless colors or spoiling paper with incomprehensible words. Excuse me, Gordon, I guess I’m getting a little carried away.”

  “Hey, Colonel Rich, don’t apologize. You’re our kind of guy. A lot of us like stuff we can understand, too. Like killing! Nothing difficult about that! Colonel Rich, thanks for coming by.”

  “My pleasure, Gordon. I always come here to watch the Big Payoff and the start of the Saturnalia season. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  “Thanks again, Rich. And now I see that we’re about ready to begin. Coming up will be the Suicide Clowns, who were such a heartwarming success last year, and we’ll be playing the Pedestrian Game again, and Trafficulants, and the fast-moving Scythe Cycles, and finally, the Big Payoff. I hope you’ve all got your six-packs handy, because you don’t want to miss a moment once the action starts.”

  49

  Down in the stands in an expensive sec
tion of the shade, in a box sheltered by sidecurtains, Michelangelo Albani and his wife, Teresa, sat with Nora Albright. Albani was dressed in a lightweight raw-silk sports jacket the color of raw umber. He was also wearing a straw hat with black-and-white-checked ribbon, traditional for Spotters. Nora was wearing a white cotton afternoon frock, and a little red pillbox hat. Tucked up inside the hat was a black veil. She would take if down if Harold lost.

  It was difficult for Nora to reconcile the Harold she had known back in Keene Valley, New York, with this Harold in Huntworld today. Here he was, a boy from her own hometown, about to take part in Huntworld’s most prestigious event. And yet he was still the same old Harold, clumsy and self-confident, and very lucky.

  “Are you worried?” Teresa asked.

  Nora nodded. “I want him to win so badly. But I’m afraid for him. Mike, do you think he has a chance?”

  “A very good chance,” Albani said. “Your calling Gordon Philakis and telling him about Louvaine’s treachery with the Treachery Card was brilliant. It got us this event, the Big Payoff, the top fight of the year. And now Harold’s got the psychological edge, nothing’s going to stop him. Try to relax and enjoy the games.”

  “I’ll try” Nora said. She dabbled at her eye with a tiny handkerchief. “But I don’t know if I can.”

  “The Suicide Clowns are coming up,” Albani said. “You like the Suicide Clowns, don’t you?”

  Nora’s expression brightened. “Yes, they’re always fun.”

  “Relax and enjoy. Now I must go downstairs and prepare Harold for his contest. Don’t worry about him, my dear. He has luck, and that’s more valuable than skill any day.”

  50

  Down on the arena floor the Suicide Clowns had just come out, to heavy applause. There were always a lot of applications from all over the world for one of the coveted yearly positions as a Suicide Clown. Some people felt that if your death made somebody happy it wasn’t in vain after all.

  “Today,” Philakis said, “we’re lucky to have with us Mr. Tommy Edwards, director and production manager of Huntworld’s Suicide Clown School. He and I going to provide a commentary to the clowns’ antics. Hi, Tommy.”

  “Hi, Gordon. Well, I see that the action is just about to begin.”

  “That’s right, Tommy. Stagehands are out on the arena floor erecting a two-story structure. It’s a replica of an old-fashioned bank. This looks like a good number coming up. What do you call this, Tommy?”

  “This is called ‘The Bank Robbery.’ It’s based on an old Keystone Cops skit.”

  “All right,” Philakis said, “the bank is filled with customers and tellers, all in clown costumes. It looks like a normal busy day in a small-town American bank of a hundred or so years ago. Now the Keystone bank robbers drive out in two flashy open convertibles. The Keystone bank robbers are dressed in funny costumes, and they have comically painted faces. They enter the bank waving their weapons. They rob the bank. One teller tries to resist. A robber shoots him. The teller expires, blowing kisses to the audience. That’s pretty cute, Tommy.”

  “Thanks, Gordon. Now the robbers take their loot, conveniently packaged in small canvas sacks with dollar signs stenciled on their sides, run out of the bank, and pile into their cars. From one of the arena doorways another old-fashioned convertible comes racing through. It is a police car filled with the Huntworld Keystone Cops. The bank robbers drive away in a hail of bullets. Several innocent bystanders are killed. They are also Suicide Clowns, of course.”

  “The cars are chasing each other around the arena,” Philakis went on. “They’re dodging obstacles which the stagehands set up, exchanging shots, throwing hand grenades at each other. People are getting killed in both vehicles. The robbers end up back at the bank. They run inside, barricade themselves in the upper stories. More Suicide Clown police come on. It’s a siege. The police bring up heavy machine guns and mortars. Suicide Clowns are blown away right and left, sailing through the air in comical poses. The audience really loves it. We’ll study the tapes later, but I can tell you right now that this is a scene of carnage I’ve rarely seen excelled in previous years. What do you think, Tommy?”

  “I agree, Gordon. You know, it’s amazing how many bullets a body can absorb and still keep on going and pulling that trigger and pouring bullets into another body. It sort of gives you a good feeling about human tenacity, doesn’t it?”

  “I’ll say it does, Tommy.”

  “I’d like to remind the audience once again that this is the highest destiny that any really serious suicide can hope to attain: dying in front of the cameras on The Huntworld Show on the day before Saturnalia.”

  “We’re down to just eight clowns now, Tommy. Do you think they’re getting a little—well—faint-hearted? They’ve been at it for quite a while, in terms of actual combat conditions.”

  “Oh, these boys aren’t about to quit, Gordon. Not the way we train them at the Esmeralda Suicide Clown School.”

  “Tommy, why don’t you tell the folks something about our famous school while the surviving clowns take a few moments to reload?”

  “Well, Gordon, as you know, ethics have changed a great deal since suicide became legal in most civilized countries of the world. Most countries don’t any longer penalize would-be suicides who fail or lose their nerve. But we in Huntworld believe that if a law’s worth having, it’s worth enforcing. Once a person is accepted in the Suicide Clowns, he signs a pledge to kill himself when and in the manner prescribed by the director and production manager or his assistants. You see, theatrically speaking, a suicide that doesn’t happen is just a fizzle.”

  “Perhaps you could tell these folks how you enforce the contracts. I mean, suppose a Suicide Clown refuses to kill himself or let himself be killed as the production manager directed. What would you do? Execute him?”

  “Certainly not. That would be just what he wanted: somebody else to take responsibility for his death. No, Gordon, if a Suicide Clown defaults, the penalty is very simple. He has to paint his nose red and wear a sign on his back which says ‘Chicken.’ And go on living as long as possible. It doesn’t happen often, I can assure you.”

  “I’d think not, Tommy,” Gorden Philakis said. “Now I see the surviving Clowns have finished reloading and are ready to go at it again. They’re coming out from behind their barricades, guns ready but not firing. They’re forming a circle. A Clown in the costume of a ringmaster has walked to the center of the circle. He has on a tall black silk hat. He takes it off. A pigeon escapes from beneath. It is the signal.

  “Everybody blazes away! Bodies flop and fly apart! Wow, just look at that blood! It’s one hell of a finish! Listen to the applause!

  “And look! The ringmaster has somehow survived, even though he was at the center of it all. He’s badly wounded, struggling to his feet. He’s still holding on to his silk hat. He manages to stand up. He salutes the audience and puts on the hat …

  “And the top of his head blows off! A bomb inside the hat! First the bird and then the bomb! What a good finish! Oh, yes, Tommy, that was a really good finish. How did you ever think up that one?”

  “Thinking it up wasn’t so difficult, Gordon. It was rehearsing it that posed the problems.”

  51

  Down in the artists’ section below the arena, in a private dressing room with a star over the door, Albani was giving Harold a back rub and some good last-minute advice.

  “I don’t know what form this duel is going to take. They pull something new every year. The Elders of the Hunt Academy make their decision at the last minute. So remember what Chang told you. Expect the unexpected. You feeling OK?”

  “You know,” Harold said, “it really is fun. Hunting, I mean. It’s just too bad someone has to get killed. I don’t suppose it would work out all right without that, but it’s too bad anyhow.”

  “You keep on with thoughts like that and you’re going to have a short afternoon,” Albani said.

  “I’m not going to let him ki
ll me,” Harold said.

  In another private dressing room in another part of the artists’ section, also with a star over the door, Louvaine sat with his Spotter, Souzer. There was a third man in the dressing room: George Sachs, the special trainer Louvaine had hired for this event.

  Sachs was fat and stupid and had boorish manners and bad body odor. All these defects were outweighed by a single virtue. Sachs’s brother-in-law, Hostilius Vira, was chief weaponer for the Huntworld Games. That meant Vira was one of the first to know what weapons and special equipment would be needed for this year’s Big Payoff. And since Vira was a family man and felt sorry for his sister, Petrilla, Sachs was able to get information from his brother-in-law regarding the type of combat to be selected.

  “But where is the information?” Louvaine asked, the n vibrating unpleasantly in his nose.

  “I don’t know what’s keeping him,” Sachs said. “Vira’s never been this late before. He should have telephoned me half an hour ago.”

  “He’d better do it soon,” Louvaine said. “Otherwise this junk’ll be useless.” He gestured at the two large canvas sacks that he and Souzer had lugged into the arena past a bribed guard. “I’ll be going on soon. These little subterfuges will be useless unless I know what I’m up against.”

  “Everything’s gonna be okay, boss,” Sachs said, his thick lips moving so obscenely that they seemed to sully the very words he uttered, rendering them unfit to ever be used again.

  Just then the telephone rang.

  52

  “Joining us now,” Gordon Philakis said, “is Mel Prott, a former three-time winner of the 1000-cc scythe-cycle event. Glad to have you with us tonight, Mel.”

  “Glad to be here, Gordon,” said Prott. He was a beefy man with a head of tight blond curls. Like Philakis he was wearing a green blazer with the Huntworld insigna emblazoned over the right breast.