The End of the Game td-60

by Warren Murphy

  "If you both are not out of this house in twenty-one seconds, I will stop the funding for the movie," said Abner Buell. That finally did it

  As soon as the door had shut, a crease of a grin crossed his face. He had the calm unmarked appearance of plastic, the sort of expression models like to affect. Even his brownish hair looked as if it were extruded from some hydrocarbon base. Abner Buell did not mind his looks and did not even think about them. What did they have to do with reality? And the real reality was that Abner Buell was going to be entertained this night. For at least a half-hour.

  The late-night party had ended with dawn coming up behind the Rockies. It was nine A.M. in New York City. He turned on a large gray multiscreen television set and dialed a number in New York City.

  "Pamela Thrushwell, please," he said when he got the operator at the computer center. Besides having sound, he also had the operator on the screen when she answered. For a moment, he considered using the voice modulator that changed his own voice to that of a sultry woman, but decided against it.

  "Not in yet," the operator said.

  "Have her call the number."

  "What number, sir?"

  "She knows," said Buell.

  While he was waiting, he pushed computer memory buttons and reviewed his position on the screen. There was the first player. He had been brought in by simple money, become addicted to it, and pushed as far as he could go. Although Buell was pretty sure he could have gotten Waldo Hammersmith to commit a severe bodily assault. But he wasn't sure he could have gotten him to do murder. That was the policeman. The policeman had been relatively cheap and easy.

  Abner had organized the game so that he had only a certain amount of money to spread around and he was not allowed to replace it unless he achieved what he called "Superscore," which meant turning a personality completely around. If Buell could accomplish that, then he could increase his money supply for the game by a factor of one hundred.

  But staying within the budget was not the biggest aspect of the game. The real trick was not to lose anyone from service. That cost ten thousand penalty points.

  Abner Buell set the video machine on review as he waited for the call. There on the screen was stumpy little Waldo Hammersmith in his elegant clothes; Waldo, the supersuspicious taxi driver who had earned Abner Buell a thousand points the moment he didn't question his good fortune.

  Then there was nervous Waldo sweating in that empty office. And then came the good part. Pamela Thrushwell being very civil and polite and Waldo Hammersmith reaching out blindly and grabbing a breast.

  Abner's lips almost parted. "Nice," he said softly. That had been five thousand plus points for Abner.

  Then came the policeman running out and grabbing Hammersmith. It was so nice that this was in good color because there was that middle-aged former cabdriver mortified in bright red blushing. That was the good cosmetics of the game, just like the maiden's scream in Zylon when she was raped by the Orgmork, or the music in earlier games.

  The scene where Hammersmith wanted to die from humiliation and Pamela Thrushwell wanted to forget everything just to end it was no points but an absolute delight to watch. Buell almost smiled at that one.

  The goose itself was good too. Pamela looked as if she had been rousted by a cattle prod. He ran that one over again just to see her face. Back and then forward and then back again. The eyes wide in that round blond beautiful face.

  "Plucky Brit," thought Buell. He ought to have a game called "Plucky Brit." Maybe a group of five figures in red uniforms marching around through jungles, past alligators. Maybe have the alligators digest two and spit out their bones. That would be the children's version.

  Buell saw Detective Casey talking to Hammersmith and then shooting Hammersmith in the head. He did not like that. It cost him ten thousand penalty points for losing a player. He watched the body of the former cabdriver quiver on the old New York pier as the life pumped out of it.

  An unsolved crime. He shook his head. No points for an unsolved crime. It was just a saving move.

  Points were only given for real achievements. Making little Waldo Hammersmith throw away his working-class skepticism was an achievement. But having Casey kill him was not. Casey was a bad cop who had always been on the take, and making him a bit richer was really just taking him down a path he was already on.

  He was annoyed that Casey had cost him ten thousand penalty points and he called up the current screening of him. Sometimes it would not come in or sometimes it would show just a leg or an arm or a ceiling. Abner Buell never knew where Casey would place what he believed was the code box but was really a self-contained video camera whose signal was amplified by satellite and could be sent anywhere in the world.

  He had first used Casey when a bank employee noticed a computer error in the Insta-Charge accounts. He called up the scene on the video screen. There was Joe Casey shooting the employee down from a moving car. No points.

  He used Casey again when another policeman started to get involved. Shooting from the roof of a building with a telescopic sight. No points.

  Abner Buell glanced out at the Pacific in the morning, annoyed with himself. He really wasn't playing this one with skill, when every time he didn't get the people moving right, he killed them. You just didn't do that in a computer game, not even the early version of Zonkman.

  An out-of-focus and dark pistol grip came into view on the screen. Casey was carrying the codebox in his pocket again. Abner Buell checked his joystick control. It was working in unison with the code box. Next to the lever was a little red button. He put the button on user mode.

  A printed message came onto the screen:

  YOU ARE READY TO BLAST.

  "What's that?" came a child's voice from the screen.

  "That's my pistol and that's my special code box," said Casey. Light came onto the screen. Wire fencing appeared in a corner. Then concrete at the bottom. Casey was in a schoolyard. He might be surrounded by many children.

  Buell calculated instantly. There were no points won for children. Then again, he hadn't programmed any points against taking innocent lives. He would do that right now. Abner Buell punched into his game memory five hundred deficit points for every innocent life, double that, one thousand points, for children. He would deduct a thousand points for every innocent child's life lost in this game. He wondered for a brief moment if that was fair to him, or if it was too great a point penalty, but he decided, magnanimously, to let it stand.

  Buell pressed talk mode.

  "Say, Casey, how many kids are around you now?"

  "About ten, codebox," said Casey. Casey always referred to Buell's voice as codebox. That was all he knew of the source anyhow.

  "Can you get to some place private?"

  "Kids don't know what's going on," Casey said.

  "Some place away from people, even kids."

  Children's voices could be heard close. They wanted to talk into the box.

  "More people across the street," came Casey's voice. "This is rush hour here in the Bronx."

  "How many across the street?"

  "Twenty," Casey said.

  Suddenly a blue flashing light beeped on the adjacent screen in the mosaic of screens on Buell's game wall. Pamela Thrushwell was calling and her face appeared. Buell had to make a fast decision. The Pamela screen was starting to deduct power points for his delay in answering. Everything had to be timed in these things, or it wouldn't really be a challenge. You had to have something you were going after and something that could also destroy you. Leaving play pieces stranded cost the worst kind of points: power points which meant the money he used to play the game.

  He made his decision.

  Abner Buell pressed the red button on the joystick.

  In a New York City schoolyard a continent away, a codebox blew up, taking out the chest of a crooked New York City cop and slaughtering, in a spray of vicious metal fragments, seven children also.

  Abner Buell had cost himself seven t
housand points. To make that up, he would have to turn somebody completely around and get them to do something they would have sworn they would never do. Otherwise, he would lose badly. It was moving close to a legend appearing on the screen: "Game Over."

  "Good morning, Miss Thrushwell."

  "Is that you again?" she said. The pictures from the overhead cameras in her office showed clearly on Buell's screen. Pamela Thrushwell's cheeks were beginning to redden with anger. She was signaling another worker. She wrote on a note: "It's him."

  The worker read the note and signaled a manager to come over.

  "Bit of a bad day that other day, wasn't it?" Buell said. "People trying to cop a feel. Then goosing you on the street."

  "You are a filthy pervert," she said.

  "Pamela, child, what do you think I want you to do?"

  "I think you want dirty filthy things. I think you are sick and need help."

  "Pamela, I want you to do something for me."

  As Buell watched, the manager handed another note to Pamela. It read: KEEP HIM TALKING.

  "Something filthy, I suppose," Pamela said.

  "Only if you think so. I want you to do something you would ordinarily never do. Something horrible."

  "I don't do horrible things, thank you. I was raised not to."

  "You tell me what you think is a horrible thing," Buell said.

  "Lots of things are horrible," she said.

  Abner Buell pressed Difficulty-A button on his computer keyboard. A name appeared on the screen, followed by "Closest relative in the United States."

  "I want you to kill your Aunt Agnes. You live with her, right?" Buell said.

  Pamela Thrushwell chuckled. He saw a smile appear on her dimpled face.

  "Give me something difficult, will you, Jack?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "You've never met my Aunt Agnes, have you?"

  "Then you will kill her?"

  "Of course not. I don't do things like that. Listen, Jack, why don't you do yourself a bit of a favor and go see a headshrinker. It would do you good."

  "I want to see you murder your Aunt Agnes. I want you to lick a fire hydrant at noon in Times Square. I want you to fornicate with a wildebeest in St. Peter's Square, I want you to punch the queen, kick the Duke of Edinburgh in the nuts, and throw a pound of warm caramel mousse on Prince Charles and Lady Di."

  "Sounds ducky, love," said Pamela. She was laughing. Buell saw her. The tart was laughing. Up on the screen, the mirth was costing Abner Buell points. She was not taking him seriously. She was enjoying it.

  A coworker came to her desk and flashed a message. Buell was able to read it. It said: WE GOT HIM.

  Abner watched the excitement, saw an office manager appear, and heard someone in the back whisper how the number of the pervert had been traced. Abner waited for the excitement to reach a crescendo.

  "Pamela, why are you so happy?" he asked.

  "Listen, you bloody nance. We've got you now."

  "Have your office manager dial me if you've got me."

  "We'll find the line busy because you're on it," she said.

  "Dial," Buell said. "Have the office manager dial if you're so smart."

  He saw Pamela signal the manager sharply and whisper something. The manager nodded and dialed an adjacent phone. A ready light blinked on Buell's screen seven as soon as the telephone connection was made.

  Abner pressed BLAST OFF. The manager's eyes widened as though stretched open by releasing rubber bands. Her mouth opened in agonizing pain and she dropped the phone. Everyone else in the office jumped away and covered their ears. The high-range penetration signal had worked. It gave Buell three hundred points. Better than nothing.

  Pamela slammed the phone down and ran to the side of the office manager and Buell disconnected the line.

  Little bitch.

  He should have the computer center fire her. Buell owned the computer center-- although no one knew it-- and he could easily do that. He should have done it a long time ago when she first started causing him trouble.

  She alone, of all the recipients of Insta-Charge extra money, politely reported an error and wouldn't stop until the bank had admitted the error. That had started an investigation which hadn't stopped until Buell had brought the late Detective Lieutenant Joe Casey onto his payroll.

  From that day on, Pamela Thrushwell had been marked by Abner Buell for punishment, but so far she had managed to stay ahead of him. Damned plucky Brit.

  But he had always seemed to have trouble with Brits, he reflected. There was that time a year ago when he had gotten into the British government's computers and almost had Her Majesty's government ready to drop out of NATO and sign a friendship treaty with the Soviet Union. But the British had found out at the last minute, started an investigation, and Buell had had to withdraw. He didn't like losing games, but because of the trouble he had caused the British, he didn't call that game a loss. He listed it in his records as a tie. He might return to it one day.

  Abner Buell strolled into his bedroom, hopefully to end boredom with a few hours of sleep, but as he lay down in bed, a new game flashed into his mind.

  Why was he wasting his time pulling the strings on meaningless little individuals or small nations that didn't amount to anything anyway? There were big things he could do. The biggest.

  Nuclear war.

  How about the End of the World game?

  That was bang with a bang.

  He lay in bed for a while thinking about it. Of course, if there was an all-out nuclear war, he would die too. He considered that for a while, then whispered his decision in the darkness of his bedroom.

  "So what?" he said softly.

  Everybody had to die sometime and nuclear destruction was preferable to being bored to death.

  At last a game worthy of his talents.

  The targets: the United States and Russia.

  The goal: to get one of them to begin World War III.

  He fell asleep with a smile on his lips and a warming thought in his heart.

  At least if he started World War III, that plucky Brit bitch, Pamela Thrushwell, would get hers too.

  sChapter Four

  Usually Harold W. Smith gave Remo his assignments by scrambler telephone through a maze of connections and secret numbers that had in the past included Dial-A-Prayer, Off-Track Betting offices in New York City, and a meat-packing plant in Raleigh, North Carolina.

  So when Remo got a message at the hotel desk telling him that his Aunt Millie was ill, he was surprised, because the message meant that Remo should stay where he was; Smith was on his way to see him.

  When Smith arrived at the Atlanta penthouse that evening, there seemed to be a small chill between Remo and Chiun, although the CURE director couldn't be sure. There often seemed to be some small roiling contention going on between them, but nothing he was ever allowed in on.

  On those few occasions when Smith mentioned it, Remo would be blunt and tell him it was none of his business. And Chiun would act as if the only important thing in the world was Smith's happiness, and that any friction between Remo and Chiun was "as nothing." But Chiun's apparent obsequiousness was really wind and smoke. It was even a more impenetrable wall than Remo's "None of your business."

  This evening, there was something to do with melons. Chiun was convinced that Remo had forgotten melons and Smith assumed it was Remo's failure to buy them at the store. Although Smith wasn't sure that they even ate melons anymore. They never seemed to eat anything.

  Smith opened his thin leather attacha233 case whose innards were lined with lead to shield against any possible X rays. On a small typewriter keyboard, he punched in a code.

  "Your fingers work with grace, O Emperor Smith," said Chiun.

  "They're getting old," said Smith.

  "Age is wisdom. In a civilized country, age is respected. Age is honored. When the elders tell of their traditions, they are treated with reverence, at least by those who are civilized."

&n
bsp; Smith nodded. He assumed that Remo had been failing to revere something. He was not going to ask.

  Remo lounged on a sofa wearing a T-shirt, slacks, and loose loafers with no socks. He watched Smith punch in the numbers. Smith had offered him one of those attacha233-case computers once and said anyone could learn to use it. It could store information Remo might need, was not vulnerable to penetration because of the coding system, and could be used in conjunction with a telephone to get into the main computer system at Folcroft Sanitarium, where all CURE'S records were kept. Smith called it the most modern advance in computer technology. Remo refused it several times. Smith kept offering. Finally, when they met near a river one day in Little Silver, New Jersey, Remo accepted. He scaled the attacha233 case like a piece of shale a quarter-mile down the river, where it sank without a trace.

  "Why did you do that?" Smith had asked.

  "I don't know," Remo had said.

  "That's all? You don't know?"

  "Right," Remo had said.

  Smith stopped offering technological assistance after that.

  Smith now closed the top of his attacha233 case and looked across the room at Remo.

  "What we have is a pattern. It's a pattern that has touched on something so frightening that we can't make head or tail of it," he said.

  "So what else is new?" Remo asked.

  "Any danger to the throne is a great danger," said Chiun. Remo knew that Chiun would automatically make anything Smith said into something of awesome proportions under the theory that in a peaceful kingdom, an assassin would starve. Like present-day lawyers, the Masters of Sinanju had learned through the ages that if the world was not fraught with peril, one had to do some intensive fraughting.

  "We are facing a nuclear holocaust," Smith said.

  "That's been going on for forty years now," Remo said, "and all we've had are little wars. If anything, the nukes are keeping the peace."

  "They might not be now," Smith said. "Somebody seems to be destabilizing things and we're not sure how or why."

  "How do you know this?" Remo asked.

  "Just computer hints that our equipment has picked up. Somebody trying to get close to nuclear personnel in America and Russia. Someone or something tapping into lines and codes and information storage. It's like a picture made up of dots. No dot means anything by itself, but all together, they make a picture."