Opal II, the planetoid. How had the Hvai controlled men there? Mells confirmed, as he had thought, that not more than four or five hours had ever gone by in which a man was completely alone. How had they been seized? Perhaps the thirteen-hour limit was no longer in effect . . . if there had ever been a thirteen-hour limit. If not, then Lester’s sadistic psychiatrists had been fools. They had been deceived.
By seventy-four prisoners, tortured past all endurance? It didn’t seem possible.
Mells didn’t appear to be affected by the strain. He worked eighteen hours a day, serenely saving his strength. Skanlan was unable to help him. Day after day he paced around Mells’ laboratory, scowling at the instruments. On the fifth day he brought a book, but he couldn’t read it. Even without anyone else there, Skanlan couldn’t relax.
There were incidents, of sorts. On the morning of the fifth day, Mells and Skanlan were at Skanlan’s house, eating a hurried breakfast. The doorbell sounded, and Skanlan felt the nagging irritation that had been bothering him so long.
“Come in,” he called.
Mitch Morris came rushing in, and almost had his head blown off. Skanlan had been geared, mentally, for a slow entry; when Morris dashed in the blaster went off almost of its own accord. It was a close call. The blast missed Morris by a few inches.
“Cripes!” Morris gasped, frozen to the spot. “What—”
“Search him,” Skanlan barked at his wife. She found nothing more lethal than a fountain pen.
“You’ve got me all wrong, Joe,” Morris said unevenly. “I only wanted to—”
“Get out,” Skanlan said.
“Listen, Joe—”
“Get out. If I made a mistake I’m sorry. But don’t let me see you for a week or two.” Morris left hastily, almost tripping over the rug. The breakfast continued in silence.
On the morning of the sixth day, Mells announced quietly that he was almost finished. Skanlan nodded silently. He was haggard, unshaven, his eyes pouched from lack of sleep. He sat down on a stool beside Mells, watching him work. The something wrong feeling was back again, buzzing through a three-day headache.
Mells was surrounded by a maze of electrical equipment. Under his hands a machine was taking shape. Skanlan watched as the scientist screwed its tiny parts together with a jeweler’s screwdriver. He heard a noise outside the lab door.
“Who’s there?” he asked, walking over to it, blaster in hand.
“Joe,” his wife called. “Don’t open the door!”
“What?”
“It’s Morris. He’s controlled!”
For a moment, Skanlan’s vocal cords were frozen. He threw a quick glance at Mells. The man was serenely working on his machine.
“He came to the house,” Leona Skanlan gasped from the other side of the door. “He had a blaster in his hand, and I—I never saw anyone look that way. I went out the back door and ran all the way here. Don’t open the door, Joe! He’s outside the building, waiting.”
Skanlan unbolted the door, opened it a foot and, keeping himself shielded by it, grabbed his wife by the arm. He yanked her inside, slamming the door again so quickly he almost caught her foot.
“Get to the phone, Mells,” he shouted. “I’m going to—” The blaster was torn out of his hand.
Leona, his wife, had it. Her knuckles were white against the handle, and on her face was a look of implacable hatred. She was squeezing the trigger.
Leona! Skanlan realized everything in that fraction of a second. It wasn’t his wife standing there. The being was a Hvai, masquerading in borrowed flesh. He realized then how they had controlled the men on Opal II. But it was too late.
His thigh muscles knotted as he lunged, and he knew he wouldn’t make it. He threw himself low, hoping to escape the bolt. But she had started to crumple, even before he hit her.
“All right,” Mells said, standing beside his work table with the completed machine in his hands. “It works.”
Skanlan picked himself up. He took the blaster from Leona’s hand, looked at it, and put it back in his pocket. One part of his mind told him that Mells had used his invention.
Another part told him that there was someone at the door. Everything was happening too fast.
“Who’s there?” Skanlan asked, taking out the blaster again.
“Mitch,” the voice said. “Listen, what I wanted to tell you yesterday—it’s about that planetoid. I’ve got it doped out. And I saw your wife leave the house in an awful rush. Is anything—”
“You can’t come in,” Skanlan said. “I’ll see you next week.”
“I heard some noises. Was there—”
“Get out of here!”
The footsteps faded away. Skanlan looked around. Mells was bending over Leona.
“She’ll be all right when she comes to,” he said, straightening. “I think I had better tell the War Department the machine is now ready.”
“It was damn stupid of me,” Skanlan said. “Letting her in. But I thought—”
“Of course,” Mells said sympathetically. “I suppose you understand now about control?”
“I think so,” Skanlan said. “The Hvai controlled their own men who had been captured. Probably could do it instantaneously. No wonder Lester got the same wrong answer seventy-four times.”
“It actually takes about five hours,” Mells said.
“When did you work this out?”
“This morning. Your wife was controlled then. I could tell; don’t forget, I’ve seen it five times before.”
“Then why—” Skanlan knew, but he still had to ask. “Why didn’t you say so this morning? Or now, when she was at the door?”
“With you the way you were? Oh, no, Skanlan. You were too keyed-up; you might have used the blaster. And I have far too much respect for Mrs. Skanlan to see that happen.” He looked at the unconscious woman, shook his head and concluded: “Besides, I had to be certain the invention worked. What better chance of testing it had we?”
He turned and walked to the telephone.
Skanlan put his blaster in his pocket. Then he took it out again and sat down on the floor beside his wife, facing the door.
SEVENTH VICTIM
The most dangerous game, said one writer, is Mari. But there is another stiff more deadly!
STANTON Frelaine sat at his desk, trying to look as busy as an executive should at nine-thirty in the morning. It was impossible. He couldn’t concentrate on the advertisement he had written the previous night, couldn’t think about business. All he could do was wait until the mail came.
He had been expecting his notification for two weeks now. The government was behind schedule, as usual.
The glass door of his office was marked Morger and Frelaine, Clothiers. It opened, and E.J. Morger walked in, limping slightly from his old gunshot wound. His shoulders were bent; but at the age of seventy-three, he wasn’t worrying much about his posture.
“Well, Stan?” Morger asked. “What about that ad?”
Frelaine had joined Morger sixteen years ago, when he was twenty-seven. Together they had built Protec-Clothes into a million-dollar concern.
“I suppose you can run it,” Frelaine said, handing the slip of paper to Morger. If only the mail would come earlier, he thought.
“ ‘Do you own a Protec-Suit?’ ” Morger read aloud, holding the paper close to his eyes. “ ‘The finest tailoring in the world has gone into Morger and Frelaine’s Protec-Suit, to make it the leader in men’s fashions.’ ”
Morger cleared his throat and glanced at Frelaine. He smiled and read on.
“ ‘Protec-Suit is the safest as well as the smartest. Every Protec-Suit comes with special built-in gun pocket, guaranteed not to bulge. No one will know you are carrying a gun—except you. The gun pocket is exceptionally easy to get at, permitting fast, unhindered draw. Choice of hip or breast pocket.’ Very nice,” Morger commented.
Frelaine nodded morosely.
“ ‘The Protec-Suit Special has the fling-out gun poc
ket, the greatest modern advance in personal protection. A touch of the concealed button throws the gun into your hand, cocked, safeties off. Why not drop into the Protec-Store nearest you? Why not be safe?’
“That’s fine,” Morger said. “That’s a very nice, dignified ad.” He thought for a moment, fingering his white mustache. “Shouldn’t you mention that Protec-Suits come in a variety of styles, single and double-breasted, one and two button rolls, deep and shallow flares?”
“Right. I forgot.”
FRELAINE took back the sheet and jotted a note on the edge of it. Then he stood up, smoothing his jacket over his prominent stomach. Frelaine was forty-three, a little overweight, a little bald on top. He was an amiable looking man with cold eyes.
“Relax,” Morger said. “It’ll come in today’s mail.”
Frelaine forced himself to smile. He felt like pacing the floor, but instead sat on the edge of the desk.
“You’d think it was my first kill,” he said, with a deprecating smile.
“I know how it is,” Morger said. “Before I hung up my gun, I couldn’t sleep for a month, waiting for a notification. I know.”
The two men waited. Just as the silence was becoming unbearable, the door opened. A clerk walked in and deposited the mail on Frelaine’s desk.
Frelaine swung around and gathered up the letters. He thumbed through them rapidly and found what he had been waiting for—the long white envelope from ECB, with the official government seal on it.
“That’s it!” Frelaine said, and broke into a grin. “That’s the baby!”
“Fine.” Morger eyed the envelope with interest, but didn’t ask Frelaine to open it. It would be a breach of etiquette, as well as a violation in the eyes of the law. No one was supposed to know a Victim’s name except his Hunter. “Have a good hunt.”
“I expect to,” Frelaine replied confidently. His desk was in order—had been for a week. He picked up his briefcase.
“A good kill will do you a world of good,” Morger said, putting his hand lightly on Frelaine’s padded shoulder. “You’ve been keyed up.”
“I know,” Frelaine grinned again and shook Morger’s hand.
“Wish I was a kid again,” Morger said, glancing down at his crippled leg with wryly humorous eyes. “Makes me want to pick up a gun again.”
The old man had been quite a Hunter in his day. Ten successful hunts had qualified him for the exclusive Tens Club. And, of course, for each hunt Morger had had to act as Victim, so he had twenty kills to his credit.
“I sure hope my Victim isn’t anyone like you,” Frelaine said, half in jest.
“Don’t worry about it. What number will this be?”
“The seventh.”
“Lucky seven. Go to it,” Morger said. “We’ll get you into the Tens yet.”
Frelaine waved his hand and started out the door.
“Just don’t get careless,” warned Morger. “All it takes is a single slip and I’ll need a new partner. If you don’t mind, I like the one I’ve got now.”
“I’ll be careful,” Frelaine promised.
INSTEAD of taking a bus, Frelaine walked to his apartment. He wanted time to cool off. There was no sense in acting like a kid on his first kill.
As he walked, Frelaine kept his eyes strictly to the front. Staring at anyone was practically asking for a bullet, if the man happened to be serving as Victim. Some Victims shot if you just glanced at them. Nervous fellows. Frelaine prudently looked above the heads of the people he passed.
Ahead of him was a huge billboard, offering J.F. O’Donovan’s services to the public.
“Victims!” the sign proclaimed in huge red letters. “Why take chances? Use an O’Donovan accredited Spotter. Let us locate your assigned killer. Pay after you get him!”
The sign reminded Frelaine. He would call Ed Morrow as soon as he reached his apartment.
He crossed the street, quickening his stride. He could hardly wait to get home now, to open the envelope and discover who his Victim was. Would he be clever or stupid? Rich, like Frelaine’s fourth Victim, or poor, like the first and second? Would he have an organized spotter service, or try to go it on his own?
The excitement of the chase was wonderful, coursing through his veins, quickening his heartbeat. From a block or so away, he heard gunfire. Two quick shots, and then a final one.
Somebody got his man, Frelaine thought. Good for him.
It was a superb feeling, he told himself. He was alive again.
AT his one-room apartment, the first thing Frelaine did was call Ed Morrow, his spotter. The man worked as a garage attendant between calls.
“Hello, Ed? Frelaine.”
“Oh, hi, Mr. Frelaine.” He could see the man’s thin, grease-stained face, grinning flat-lipped at the telephone.
“I’m going out on one, Ed.”
“Good luck, Mr. Frelaine,” Ed Morrow said. “I suppose you’ll want me to stand by?”
“That’s right. I don’t expect to be gone more than a week or two. I’ll probably get my notification of Victim Status within three months of the kill.”
“I’ll be standing by. Good hunting, Mr. Frelaine.”
“Thanks. So long.”
He hung up. It was a wise safety measure to reserve a first-class spotter. After his kill, it would be Frelaine’s turn as Victim. Then, once again, Ed Morrow would be his life insurance.
And what a marvelous spotter Morrow was! Uneducated—stupid, really. But what an eye for people! Morrow was a natural. His pale eyes could tell an out-of-towner at a glance. He was diabolically clever at rigging an ambush. An indispensable man.
Frelaine took out the envelope, chuckling to himself, remembering some of the tricks Morrow had turned for the Hunters. Still smiling, he glanced at the data inside the envelope.
Janet-Marie Patzig.
His Victim was a female!
Frelaine stood up and paced for a few moments. Then he read the letter again. Janet-Marie Patzig. No mistake. A girl. Three photographs were enclosed, her address, and the usual descriptive data.
Frelaine frowned. He had never killed a female.
He hesitated for a moment, then picked up the telephone and dialed ECB.
“Emotional Catharsis Bureau, Information Section,” a man’s voice answered.
“Say, look,” Frelaine said. “I just got my notification and I pulled a girl. Is that in order?” He gave the clerk the girl’s name.
“It’s all in order, sir,” the clerk replied after a minute of checking micro-files. “The girl registered with the board under her own free will. The law says she has the same rights and privileges as a man.”
“Could you tell me how many kills she has?”
“I’m sorry, sir. The only information you’re allowed is the Victim’s legal status and the descriptive data you have received.”
“I see.” Frelaine paused. “Could I draw another?”
“You can refuse the hunt, of course. That is your legal right. But you will not be allowed another Victim until you have served. Do you wish to refuse?”
“Oh, no,” Frelaine said hastily. “I was just wondering. Thank you.”
HE hung up and sat down in his largest armchair, loosening his belt. This required some thought.
Damn women, he grumbled to himself, always trying to horn in on a man’s game. Why can’t they stay home?
But they were free citizens, he reminded himself. Still, it just didn’t seem feminine.
He knew that, historically speaking, the Emotional Catharsis Board had been established for men and men only. The board had been formed at the end of the fourth world war—or sixth, as some historians counted it.
At that time there had been a driving need for permanent, lasting peace. The reason was practical, as were the men who engineered it.
Simply—annihilation was just around the corner.
In the world wars, weapons increased in magnitude, efficiency, and exterminating power. Soldiers became accustomed to them, l
ess and less reluctant to use them.
But the saturation point had been reached. Another war would truly be the war to end all wars. There would be no one left to start another.
So this peace had to last for all time, but the men who engineered it were practical. They recognized the tensions and dislocations still present, the cauldrons in which wars are brewed. They asked themselves why peace had never lasted in the past.
“Because men like to fight,” was their answer.
“Oh, no!” screamed the idealists.
But the men who engineered the peace were forced to postulate, regretfully, the presence of a need for violence in a large percentage of mankind.
Men aren’t angels. They aren’t fiends, either. They are just very human beings, with a high degree of combativeness.
With the scientific knowledge and the power they had at that moment, the practical men could have gone a long way toward breeding this trait out of the race. Many thought this was the answer.
The practical men didn’t. They recognized the validity of competition, love of battle, courage in the face of overwhelming odds. These, they felt, were admirable traits for a race, and insurance toward its perpetuity. Without them, the race would be bound to retrogress.
The tendency toward violence, they found, was inextricably linked with ingenuity, flexibility, drive.
The problem, then: To arrange a peace that would last after they were gone. To stop the race from destroying itself, without removing the responsible traits.
The way to do this, they decided, was to rechannel Man’s violence.
Provide him with an outlet, an expression.
The first big step was the legalization of gladiatorial events, complete with blood and thunder. But more was needed. Sublimations worked only up to a point. Then people demanded the real thing.
There is no substitute for murder.
SO murder was legalized, on a strictly individual basis, and only for those who wanted it. The governments were directed to create Emotional Catharsis Boards.
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