Is That What People Do?

by Robert Sheckley

  “I know something’s on your mind,” Janet said.

  “Darling, please!”

  “Is there something you’re keeping from me?”

  “Nothing!”

  “Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure?”

  “Absolutely sure.”

  “Then put your arms around me. That’s right...”

  And the sloop sailed itself for a while.

  Desire and fulfillment...But autumn came, and the sloop had to be hauled. The stock market regained some stability, but Peggy caught the measles. Tommy wanted to know the differences between ordinary bombs, atom bombs, hydrogen bombs, cobalt bombs, and all the other kinds of bombs that were in the news. Mr. Wayne explained to the best of his ability. And the maid quit unexpectedly.

  Secret desires were all very well. Perhaps he did want to kill someone, or live on a South Seas Island. But there were responsibilities to consider. He had two growing children, and a better wife than he deserved.

  Perhaps around Christmas time...

  But in midwinter there was a fire in the unoccupied guest bedroom due to defective wiring. The firemen put out the blaze without much damage, and no one was hurt. But it put any thought of Tompkins out of his mind for a while. First the bedroom had to be repaired, for Mr. Wayne was very proud of his gracious old home.

  Business was still frantic and uncertain due to the international situation. Those Russians, those Arabs, those Greeks, those Chinese. The intercontinental missiles, the atom bombs, the sputniks...Mr. Wayne spent long days at the office, and sometimes evenings, too. Tommy caught the mumps. A part of the roof had to be reshingled. And then already it was time to consider the spring launching of the sloop.

  A year had passed, and he’d had very little time to think of secret desires. But perhaps next year. In the meantime—

  “Well?” said Tompkins. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, quite all right,” Mr. Wayne said. He got up from the chair and rubbed his forehead.

  “Do you want a refund?” Tompkins asked.

  “No. The experience was quite satisfactory.”

  “They always are,” Tompkins said, winking lewdly at the parrot. “Well, what was yours?”

  “A world of the recent past,” Mr. Wayne said.

  “A lot of them are. Did you find out about your secret desire? Was it murder? Or a South Seas Island?”

  “I’d rather not discuss it,” Mr. Wayne said, pleasantly but firmly.

  “A lot of people won’t discuss it with me,” Tompkins said sulkily. “I’ll be damned if I know why.”

  “Because—well, I think the world of one’s secret desire feels sacred, somehow. No offense...Do you think you’ll ever be able to make it permanent? The world of one’s choice, I mean?”

  The old man shrugged his shoulders. “I’m trying. If I succeed, you’ll hear about it. Everyone will.”

  “Yes, I suppose so.” Mr. Wayne undid his parcel and laid its contents on the table. The parcel contained a pair of army boots, a knife, two coils of copper wire, and three small cans of corned beef.

  Tompkins’ eyes glittered for a moment. “Quite satisfactory,” he said. “Thank you.”

  “Goodbye,” said Mr. Wayne. “And thank you.”

  Mr. Wayne left the ship and hurried down to the end of the lane of gray rubble. Beyond it, as far as he could see, lay flat fields of rubble, brown and gray and black. Those fields, stretching to every horizon, were made of the twisted corpses of cities, the shattered remnants of trees, and the fine white ash that once was human flesh and bone.

  “Well,” Mr. Wayne said to himself, “at least we gave as good as we got.”

  That year in the past had cost him everything he owned, and ten years of his life thrown in for good measure. Had it been a dream? It was still worth it! But now he had to put away all thought of Janet and the children. That was finished, unless Tompkins perfected his process. Now he had to think about his own survival.

  With the aid of his wrist geiger he found a deactivated lane through the rubble. He’d better get back to the shelter before dark, before the rats came out. If he didn’t hurry he’d miss the evening potato ration.

  SEVENTH VICTIM

  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 pocket, 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 key
ed 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, less 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.

  After a period of experimentation, uniform rules were adopted.

&n
bsp; Anyone who wanted to murder could sign up at the ECB. Giving certain data and assurances, he would be granted a Victim.

  Anyone who signed up to murder, under the government rules, “had to take his turn a few months later as Victim—if he survived.

  That, in essence, was the setup. The individual could commit as many murders as he wanted. But between each, he had to be a Victim. If he successfully killed his Hunter, he could stop, or sign up for another murder.

  At the end of ten years, an estimated third of the world’s civilized population had applied for at least one murder. The number slid to a fourth, and stayed there.

  Philosophers shook their heads, but the practical men were satisfied. War was where it belonged—in the hands of the individual.

  Of course, there were ramifications to the game, and elaborations. Once its existence had been accepted it became big business. There were services for Victim and Hunter alike.

  The Emotional Catharsis Board picked the Victims’ names at random. A Hunter was allowed two weeks in which to make his kill. This had to be done by his own ingenuity, unaided. He was given the name of his Victim, address and description, and allowed to use a standard caliber pistol. He could wear no armor of any sort.

  The Victim was notified a week before the Hunter. He was told only that he was a Victim. He did not know the name of his Hunter. He was allowed his choice of armor. He could hire spotters. A spotter couldn’t kill; only Victim and Hunter could do that. But he could detect a stranger in town, or ferret out a nervous gunman.

  The Victim could arrange any kind of ambush in his power to kill the Hunter.

  There were stiff penalties for killing or wounding the wrong man, for no other murder was allowed. Grudge killings and gain killings were punishable by death.

  The beauty of the system was that the people who wanted to kill could do so. Those who didn’t—the bulk of the population—didn’t have to.

  At least there weren’t any more big wars. Not even the imminence of one.

  Just hundreds of thousands of small ones.

  Frelaine didn’t especially like the idea of killing a woman; but she had signed up. It wasn’t his fault. And he wasn’t going to lose out on his seventh Hunt.