by Stephen King
"Bend over and spread your cheeks. "
Richards bent and spread. A finger coated with plastic invaded his rectal channel, explored, retreated.
"Move along."
He stepped into a booth with curtains on three sides, like the old voting booths voting booths had been done away with by computer election eleven years ago and urinated in a blue beaker. The doctor took it and put it in a wire rack.
At the next stop he looked at an eye-chart. "Read," the doctor said.
"E-A,L-D,M,F-S,P,M,Z-K,L,A, C,D-U, S, G,A- "
"That's enough. Move along."
He entered another pseudo voting booth and put earphones over his head. He was told to push the white button when he heard something and the red button when he didn't hear it anymore. The sound was very high and faint-like a dog whistle that had been pitch-lowered into just audible human range. Richards pushed buttons until he was told to stop.
He was weighed. His arches were examined. He stood in front of a fluoroscope and put on a lead apron. A doctor, chewing gum and singing something tunelessly under his breath, took several pictures and noted his card number.
Richards had come in with a group of about thirty. Twelve had made it to the far end of the room. Some were dressed and waiting for the elevator. About a dozen more had been hauled out of line. One of them tried to attack the doctor that had cut him and was felled by a policeman wielding a move-along at full charge. The pal fell as if poleaxed.
Richards stood at a low table and was asked if he had had some fifty different diseases. Most of them were respiratory in nature. The doctor looked up sharply when Richards said there was a case of influenza in the family.
"Wife?"
"No. My daughter."
"Age?"
"A year and a half. "
"Have you been immunized? Don't try to lie!" the doctor shouted suddenly, as if Richards had already tried to lie. "We'll check your health stats."
"Immunized July 2023. Booster September 2023. Block health clinic."
"Move along. "
Richards had a sudden urge to reach over the table and pop the maggot's neck. Instead, he moved along.
At the last stop, a severe-looking woman doctor with close-cropped hair and an Electric Juicer plugged into one ear asked him if he was a homosexual.
"No."
"Have you ever been arrested on a felony charge?"
"No."
"Do you have any severe phobias? By that I mean-"
"No. "
"You better listen to the definition," she said with a faint touch of condescension. "I mean-"
"Do I have any unusual and compulsive fears, such as acrophobia or claustrophobia. I don't."
Her lips pressed tightly together, and for a moment she seemed on the verge of sharp comment.
"Do you use or have you used any hallucinogenic or addictive drugs?"
"No."
"Do you have any relatives who have been arrested on charges of crimes against the government or against the Network?"
"No."
"Sign this loyalty oath and this Games Commission release form, Mr., uh, Richards. "
He scratched his signature.
"Show the orderly your card and tell him the number-"
He left her in midsentence and gestured at the bucktoothed orderly with his thumb. "Number twenty-six, Bugs." The orderly brought his things. Richards dressed slowly and went over by the elevator. His anus felt hot and embarrassed, violated, a little slippery with the lubricant the doctor had used.
When they were all bunched together, the elevator door opened. The bulletproof Judas hole was empty this time. The cop was a skinny man with a large wen beside his nose. "Step to the rear," he chanted. "Please step to the rear."
As the doors closed, Richards could see the S's coming in at the far end of the hall. The doctor with the clipboard was approaching them. Then the doors clicked together, cutting off the view.
They rode up to the third floor, and the doors opened on a huge, semi-lit dormitory. Rows and rows of narrow iron-and-canvas cots seemed to stretch out to infinity.
Two cops began to check them out of the elevator, giving them bed numbers. Richards's was 940. The cot had one brown blanket and a very flat pillow. Richards lay down on the cot and let his shoes drop to the floor. His feet dangled over the end; there was nothing to be done about it.
He crossed his arms under his head and stared at the ceiling.
Minus 094 and COUNTING
He was awakened promptly at six the following morning by a very loud buzzer. For a moment he was foggy, disoriented, wondering if Sheila had bought an alarm clock or what. Then it came to him and he sat up.
They were led by groups of fifty into a large industrial bathroom where they showed their cards to a camera guarded by a policeman. Richards went to a blue-tiled booth that contained a mirror, a basin, a shower, a toilet. On the shelf above the basin was a row of toothbrushes wrapped in cellophane, an electric razor, a bar of soap, and a half-used tube of toothpaste. A sign tucked into the corner of the mirror read: RESPECT THIS PROPERTY! Beneath it, someone had scrawled: I ONLY RESPECT MY ASS!
Richards showered, dried with a towel that topped a pile on the toilet tank, shaved, and brushed.
They were let into a cafeteria where they showed their L D. cards again. Richards took a tray and pushed it down a stainless steel ledge. He was given a box of cornflakes, a greasy dish of home fries, a scoop of scrambled eggs, a piece of toast as cold and hard as a marble gravestone, a halfpint of milk, a cup of muddy coffee (no cream), an envelope of sugar, an envelope of salt, and a pat of fake butter on a tiny square of oily paper.
He wolfed the meal; they all did. For Richards it was the first real food, other than greasy pizza wedges and government pill-commodities, that he had eaten in God knew how long. Yet it was oddly bland, as if some vampire chef in the kitchen had sucked all the taste out of it and left only brute nutrients.
What were they eating this morning? Kelp pills. Fake milk for the baby. A sudden feeling of desperation swelled over him. Christ, when would they start seeing money? Today? Tomorrow? Next week?
Or maybe that was just a gimmick too, a flashy come-on. Maybe there wasn't even any rainbow, let alone a pot of gold.
He sat staring at his empty plate until the seven o'clock buzzer went and they were moved on to the elevators.
Minus 093 and COUNTING
On the fourth floor Richards's group of fifty was herded first into a large, furniture-less room ringed with what looked like letter slots. They showed their cards again, and the elevator doors whooshed closed behind them.
A gaunt man with receding hair with the Games emblem (the silhouette of a human head superimposed over a torch) on his lab coat came into the room.
"Please undress and remove all valuables from your clothes," he said. "Then drop your clothes into one of the incinerator slots. You'll be issued Games coveralls. " He smiled magnanimously. "You may keep the coveralls no matter what your personal Games resolution may be. "
There was some grumbling, but everyone complied.
"Hurry, please," the gaunt man said. He clapped his hands together twice, like a first-grade teacher signaling the end of playtime. "We have lots ahead of us. "
"Are you going to be a contestant, too?" Richards asked.
The gaunt man favored him with a puzzled expression. Somebody in the back snickered.
"Never mind," Richards said, and stepped out of his trousers.
He removed his unvaluable valuables and dumped his shirt, pants, and skivvies into a letter slot. There was a brief, hungry flash of flame from somewhere far below.
The door at the other end opened (there was always a door at the other end; they were like rats in a huge, upward-tending maze: an American maze, Richards reflected), and men trundled in large baskets on wheels, labeled S, M, L, and XL. Richards selected an XL for its length and expected it to hang baggily on his frame, but it fit quite well. The material was soft, clingy, alm
ost like silk, but tougher than silk. A single nylon zipper ran up the front. They were all dark blue, and they all had the Games emblem on the right breast pocket. When the entire group was wearing them, Ben Richards felt as if he had lost his face.
"This way, please," the gaunt man said, and ushered them into another waiting room. The inevitable Free-Vee blared and cackled. "You'll be called in groups of ten."
The door beyond the Free-Vee was topped by another sign reading THIS WAY, complete with arrow.
They sat down. After a while, Richards got up and went to the window and looked out. They were higher up, but it was still raining. The streets were slick and black and wet. He wondered what Sheila was doing.
Minus 092 and COUNTING
He went through the door, one of a group of ten now, at quarter past ten. They went through single file. Their cards were scanned. There were ten three-sided booths, but these were more substantial. The sides were constructed of drilled soundproof cork paneling. The overhead lighting was soft and indirect. Muzak was emanating from hidden speakers. There was a plush carpet on the floor; Richards's feet felt startled by something that wasn't cement.
The gaunt man had said something to him.
Richards blinked. "Huh?"
"Booth 6," the gaunt man said reprovingly.
"Oh. "
He went to Booth 6. There was a table inside, and a large wall clock mounted at eye level beyond it. On the table was a sharpened G-AIIBM pencil and a pile of unlined paper. Cheap grade, Richards noted.
Standing beside all this was a dazzling computer-age priestess, a tall, Junoesque blonde wearing iridescent short shorts which cleanly outlined the delta-shaped rise of her pudenda. Rouged nipples poked perkily through a silk fishnet blouselet.
"Sit down, please," she said, "I am Rinda Ward, your tester." She held out her hand.
Startled, Richards shook it. "Benjamin Richards."
"May I call you Ben?" The smile was seductive but impersonal. He felt exactly the token rise of desire he was supposed to feel for this well-stacked female with her well-fed body on display. It angered him. He wondered if she got her kicks this way, showing it off to the poor slobs on their way to the meat grinder.
"Sure," he said. "Nice tits."
"Thank you," she said, unruffled. He was seated now, looking up while she looked down, and it added an even more embarrassing angle to the picture. "This test today is to your mental faculties what your physical yesterday was to your body. It will be a fairly long test, and your luncheon will be around three this afternoon-assuming you pass." The smile winked on and off.
"The first section is verbal. You have one hour from the time I give you the test booklet. You may ask questions during the examination, and I will answer them if I am allowed to do so. I will not give you any answers to test questions, however. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
She handed him the booklet. There was a large red hand printed on the cover, palm outward. In large red letters beneath, it said:
STOP!
Beneath this: Do not turn to the first page until your tester instructs you to proceed.
"Heavy," Richards remarked.
"Pardon me?" The perfectly sculpted eyebrows went up a notch.
"Nothing. "
"You will find an answer sheet when you open your booklet," she recited. "Please make your marks heavy and black. If you wish to change an answer, please erase completely. If you do not know an answer, do not guess. Do you understand?'
"Yes."
"Then please turn to page one and begin. When I say stop, please put your pencil down. You may begin."
He didn't begin. He eyed her body slowly, insolently.
After a moment, she flushed. "Your hour has begun, Ben. You had better-"
"Why," he asked, "does everybody assume that when they are dealing with someone from south of the Canal they are dealing with a horny mental incompetent?"
She was completely flustered now. "I . . . I never . . . "
"No, you never. " He smiled and picked up his pencil. "My Christ, you people are dumb. "
He bent to the test while she was still trying to find an answer or even a reason for his attack; she probably really didn't understand.
The first section required him to mark the letter of the correct fill-in-the-blank answer.
1. One---does not make a summer.
a. thought
b. beer
c. swallow
d. crime
e. none of these
He filled in his answer sheet rapidly, rarely stopping to deliberate or consider an answer twice. Fill-ins were followed by vocabulary, then by word-contrasts. When he finished, the hour allotted still had fifteen minutes to run. She made him keep his exam-legally he couldn't give it to her until the hour was up-so Richards leaned back and wordlessly ogled her nearly naked body. The silence grew thick and oppressive, charged. He could see her wishing for an overcoat and it pleased him.
When the time was up, she gave him a second exam. On the first page, there was a drawing of a gasoline carburetor. Below:
You would put this in a
a. lawnmower
b. Free-Vee
c. electric hammock
d. automobile
e. none of these
The third exam was a math diagnostic. He was not so good with figures and he began to sweat lightly as he saw the clock getting away from him. In the end, it was nearly a dead heat. He didn't get a chance to finish the last question. Rinda Ward smiled a trifle too widely as she pulled the test and answer sheet away from him. "Not so fast on that one, Ben."
"But they'll all be right," he said, and smiled back at her. He leaned forward and swatted her lightly on the rump. "Take a shower, kid. You done good. "
She blushed furiously. "I could have you disqualified."
"Bullshit. You could get yourself fired, that's all."
"Get out. Get back in line. " She was snarling, suddenly near tears.
He felt something almost like compassion and choked it back. "You have a nice night tonight, " he said. "You go out and have a nice six-course meal with whoever you're sleeping with this week and think about my kid dying of flu in a shitty threeroom Development apartment. "
He left her staring after him, white-faced.
His group of ten had been cut to six, and they trooped into the next room. It was one-thirty.
Minus 091 and COUNTING
The doctor sitting on the other side of the table in the small booth wore glasses with tiny thick lenses. He had a kind of nasty, pleased grin that reminded Richards of a half-wit he had known as a boy. The kid had enjoyed crouching under the high school bleachers and looking up girls' skirts while he flogged his dog. Richards began to grin.
"Something pleasant?" the doctor asked, flipping up the first inkblot. The nasty grin widened the tiniest bit.
"Yes. You remind me of someone I used to know."
"Oh? Who?"
"Never mind. "
"Very well. What do you see here?"
Richards looked at it. An inflated blood pressure cuff had been cinched to his right arm. A number of electrodes had been pasted to his head, and wires from both his head and arm were jacked into a console beside the doctor. Squiggly lines moved across the face of a computer console.
"Two Negro women. Kissing."
He flipped up another one. "This?"
"A sports car. Looks like a Jag. "
"Do you like gascars?"
Richards shrugged. "I had a model collection when I was a kid."
The doctor made a note and flipped up another card.
"Sick person. She's lying on her side. The shadows on her face look like prison bars. "
"And this last one?"
Richards burst out laughing. "Looks like a pile of shit. " He thought of the doctor, complete with his white coat, conning around under the bleachers, looking up girls' skirts and jacking off, and he began to laugh again. The doctor sat smiling his nasty smile, making t
he vision more real, thus funnier. At last his giggles tapered off to a snort or two. Richards hiccupped once and was still.
"I don't suppose you'd care to tell me-"
"No," Richards said. "I wouldn't."
"We'll proceed then. Word association. " He didn't bother to explain it. Richards supposed word was getting around. That was good; it would save time.
"Ready?"
"Yes. "
The doctor produced a stopwatch from an inside pocket, clicked the business end of his ballpoint pen, and considered a list in front of him.
"Doctor. "
"Nigger," Richards responded.
"Penis. "
"Cock. "
"Red. "
"Black. "
"Silver. "
"Dagger. "
"Rifle. "
"Murder. "
"Win."
"Money. "
"Sex. "
"Tests."
"Strike. "
"Out. "
The list continued; they went through over fifty words before the doctor clicked the stem of the stopwatch down and dropped his pen. "Good, " he said. He folded his hands and looked at Richards seriously. "I have a final question, Ben. I won't say that I'll know a lie when I hear it, but the machine you're hooked up to will give a very strong indication one way or the other. Have you decided to try for qualification status in the Games out of any suicidal motivation?"
"No. "
"What is your reason?"
"My little girl's sick. She needs a doctor. Medicine. Hospital care."
The ballpoint scratched. "Anything else?"
Richards was on the verge of saying no (it was none of their business) and then decided he would give it all. Perhaps because the doctor looked like that nearly forgotten dirty boy of his youth. Maybe only because it needed to be said once, to make it coalesce and take concrete shape, as things do when a man forces himself to translate unformed emotional reactions into spoken words.
"I haven't had work for a long time. I want to work again, even if it's only being the sucker-man in a loaded game. I want to work and support my family. I have pride. Do you have pride, Doctor?"