Victim Prime

by Robert Sheckley

  “Don’t take it too hard, old fellow,” Jeffries said. “Sometimes one simply has an off day.”

  “But I ruined your kill,” Albani said, wringing his hands.

  “Think nothing of it. I wasn’t really in the mood today. Feeling a bit peckish. My doctor tells me I’ve been inhaling too much cordite. Never mind. Who is this?”

  “This is a friend, Mr. Harold Erdman, from America. He saved my life.”

  “Good show,” Jeffries said. “Wouldn’t want to lose you, Albani. I must be getting back now. Good to meet you, Erdman. We’ll get the fellow next time, eh, Albani?”

  “You can count on it!”

  “Give me a call when you’ve set him up again. Something in the city, if possible. I really don’t fancy climbing up and down these hills. Good to meet you, Erdman.” Jeffries turned and went back down the hillside.

  Albani was silent on the drive back to the city. He pulled up in front of the Estrella and said, “Harold, you did me a good turn. How did you know that fellow was there?”

  “I think I caught a glint of light off his telescopic lens,” Harold said.

  “But at that distance, how did you know it was a telescopic lens? Never mind. You’re quick. You’d do well at our game. Look, how would you like to come to a party tomorrow night?”

  “A party?” Harold said. “Whose party?”

  “It’s the Hunt Jubilee Ball,” Albani said. “Given once a year just before Saturnalia, and with a very restricted and exclusive guest list. All the top Hunters are there, of course, and the usual array of movie people, rock stars, senators, that sort of people. It would be something to tell your friends.”

  Harold said, “I don’t have any plans for the evening. But could I bring a friend?’”

  “No problem.” He took out his billfold and gave Harold an engraved invitation for two. “It’s at the Hunt Academy. Come around ten o’clock. That’s when it starts getting lively.”

  20

  Flight 461 from Atlanta was almost an hour late getting into Esmeralda, and Louvaine Daubray was fuming. He was in the middle of a Hunt that was proving rather grueling, and his cousin Jacinth Jones, in her senior year at Bennington, had decided at the last moment to spend her interterm vacation with him.

  Jacinth always picked inconvenient times to come visiting. She had decided at the last moment to come last year, and Louvaine was sure it was all the extra fuss, having to fix up the spare bedroom for her, that had thrown him off his stride and resulted in his making a kill so sloppy that he had been criticized not only in the newspapers but also on the usually sympathetic Huntworld Show, where the m.c., Gordon Philakis himself, had referred to it as involuntary vivisection and added that Louvaine had shown all the grace of a horse falling on a mole.

  It was true that his victim that year had worn thick spectacles, and that Louvaine’s attempt to cut him down with a saber from horseback had been successful only because his horse panicked and fell on top of the guy. Louvaine didn’t like to think about it. It had been the beginning of his run of bad luck.

  He had considered sending Souzer, his Spotter, out to meet Jacinth, but he knew that Jacinth would be offended and would probably mention it to his mother. Louvaine’s mother, living alone in Sharon, Connecticut, since the death of her husband, controlled the family trust that kept Louvaine in funds.

  Sarah Daubray was opposed to the entire Hunt world philosophy. She had said on several occasions that only the poor should kill each other, since the wealthy were too valuable to sacrifice. Louvaine, however, was a liberal; he believed anyone had the right to kill anyone else, rich or poor.

  Sarah Daubray’s sister was Ellen Jones, Jacky’s mother. If Jacinth reported home that Louvaine had been too busy trying to kill someone to meet her at the airport … well, it might not make any difference, but still, why take chances with something important like money?

  So here he was sitting in the airport observation tower and chain-smoking, and here came the plane at last, swooping down out of the clear blue Caribbean sky trailing its dark cloud of jet smoke.

  Jacinth came through the gate. She was twenty years old, slender and of medium height, with stylishly short sleek black hair, pretty features, thin crimson lips.

  “‘Louvaine, darling, how great! I was so looking forward to seeing you again!”

  Jacinth didn’t especially like Louvaine, but she always enjoyed staying in Huntworld, especially at Saturnalia time, and Louvaine had a super apartment right near Central Square.

  “Jacinth, I’m delighted.” He always called her by her full name. “If you don’t mind, love, we’ll get right back to the apartment. I’m right in the middle of a Hunt; you know how it is. I’ll have someone pick up your luggage.”

  Louvaine Daubray was thirty-four years old, of medium height, with thin ash-blond hair and eyebrows so fair they were almost invisible. His father had been a successful stockbroker in New Haven, Connecticut, and, after his retirement, a notable Hunter in Esmeralda with twelve kills to his credit before a Turkish Hunter disguised as a waiter blew him all over the antipasto wth a Sten gun.

  Louvaine’s mother, Sarah, a society woman proud of her one-eighth Iroquois blood, had stayed in Sharon, Connecticut, to administer the family trust and buy and sell antique stores, a hobby she had always wanted to pursue. Louvaine had a large and beautiful apartment in downtown Esmeralda and a little villa out on the island. He had everything a man could wish for except the satisfaction that comes from doing a job well.

  He showed Jacinth her room and sat down at his worktable. He loved playing with his guns. He had three that he was especially fond of: a Webley-Martin .303, a Beretta double-barreled derringer firing a .44 slug, and a long-barreled .22 target pistol. Several more handguns lay on his worktable, stripped down, and there were others in an ebony rack on the wall. There was a smell of machine oil in the air.

  Jacinth Jones came back into the living room. She sprawled on the couch with her stockinged feet in the air, a cigarette smoldering in an ashtray on a side table beside her. From where he sat, Louvaine could see only her sleek cap of black hair and her stockinged feet kicking idly as she read a fashion magazine she had picked up on the plane.

  The telephone rang. Louvaine reached for it, but Jacinth picked up the extension on the little end table near her head.

  “Sally? Darling, how are you? Yes, I’ve just arrived, isn’t it exciting? Of course I’m going to the Hunt Ball. What are you wearing?”

  Louvaine was making ferocious faces at her and gesturing at the telephone.

  “I’d better talk to you later,” Jacinth said. “Louvaine needs the phone. See you later.” She hung up and said to Louvaine, “All right now?”

  “I’m sorry,” Louvaine said. “But you know I’m waiting to hear from my Spotter.”

  “Are you a Hunter or a Victim this time?”

  “A Hunter. My Victim is a Fred C. Harris.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “He’s not a local. Comes from New Jersey. This is his third Hunt. Very quick little man with silver hair. In the movie business, I believe. According to what I’ve been able to learn he’s got some pretty cute moves.”

  “Are you still using Otto Spangler for your Spotter?”

  Louvaine shook his head. “He died in a car accident last month fulfilling his Reckless Driving Obligation.”

  “I’ve never been able to understand that custom.”

  “Not all customs have to have a reason.”

  “Who are you using now?”

  “Ed Souzer. Did you ever meet him? Fat man with a head like a melon, comes from Key West?”

  Jacinth shook her head. “He sounds neither familiar nor interesting. Why don’t you use Tom Dreymore? You always spoke so highly of him.”

  “He’s busy this week.”

  “Too busy for you? I find that hard to believe, considering what you pay?”

  “Tom doesn’t need the work. He’s been very successful of late. I tried to get h
im, but he was always out and never returned my calls. I think he’s avoiding me.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “You’ve been away, Jacinth. You weren’t here for my last Hunt.”

  “You were just setting it up when I went back to Bennington. What happened? You got the guy, didn’t you?”

  “Of course I did. Otherwise I wouldn’t be sitting here now, would I?”

  “Then what was the trouble?”

  “The Hunting Referees said it was an inelegant kill. Just because I had to finish the guy off with a shotgun.”

  “There’s nothing in the rules against that, is there?”

  “Of course not. It’s perfectly legal. But they got angry because I blew the guy all over the front of the Hospitality Building just when a load of tourists were passing. There were several tour cancellations. But why blame me? I mean, what did they expect? If people are squeamish, they shouldn’t come here at all. God knows it’s no secret what we do in Hunt world.”

  “There’s no penalty for making an inelegant kill, is there?”

  “No. The Huntworld code states explicitly that you can put your man down in any way you wish. But there are style points, and there’s the Warrior of the Year Award for best kill, and there’s the Big Payoff. I never get any of those.”

  “Poor Louvaine,” Jacinth said.

  “Look, it’s no joke. You weren’t here for my first kills. People said they had never seen anything like it. I used nothing but the .22 target pistol then, and I could shoot with either hand. I used to put those guys away before they knew what was hitting them. People predicted I’d win the higher honors. I was always being written up in the magazines and interviewed on television. But then something started going wrong. I was just as good as ever on the practice range. But in actual combat I was tightening up, missing the head shot, missing the heart shot, damn near getting myself killed. Jacinth, this really has me worried. It’s not just for myself. It’s the family name.”

  “Maybe you’ll have a good one this time out,” Jacinth said.

  “I need it badly. I’ve been thinking of seeing a psychiatrist about this problem. I’ve never told anyone that but you. Sometimes I think I’m just getting old.”

  “Old? At thirty-four? Don’t be silly.” She thought Louvaine was in fact getting a little long in the tooth, but she kept that opinion to herself. “I don’t feel old,” Louvaine said. “But still—”

  Just then the telephone rang. Louvaine grabbed it, listened, said, “Right, Souzer,” and hung up. He slipped on his special jacket with the built-in weapons pockets. “I really must go.”

  “Can I come too?”

  “No, I’ll see you later.”

  “Oh, come on, Louvaine, I’ve been gone so long, it would really be like a homecoming to watch you make your kill. Maybe I’d bring you luck.”

  “Absolutely not,” Louvaine said. “Women are bad luck on a Hunt. I’ll tell you all about it when I get back.”

  He hurried out the door. Jacinth had never seen Louvaine so nervous. She hoped he’d do well this time. He could get into a terrible temper when he made a sloppy kill. A lot of men were like that.

  21

  Louvaine met Souzer in Blake’s Coffee Shop near the downtown aquarium. Souzer apologized for the delay, explaining that the Victim, Mr. Fred C. Harris of Summit, New Jersey, had dawdled longer over his lunch than anticipated, and then had crossed Souzer up by going back to his hotel for a nap. He had just reappeared, rested and freshly shaved, a jolly little man with a neatly trimmed mustache flecked with gray.

  “Where is he now?” Louvaine asked.

  “Across the street in the bookstore. He goes in there every day. He only bought a book once, though.”

  “What kind of a book?”

  Souzer took a notepad out of his hip pocket and consulted it. “The 2091 edition of The Shooter’s Bible.”

  “That figures. How’s he armed?”

  Souzer turned a page in the notepad. “He’s got a Ruger Redhawk DA .44 Magnum in a Mexican leather shoulder holster, and a Taurus Model 85 .38 in a hip holster. He also has a replica Bowie knife strapped to his left leg.”

  “You’re thorough, Souzer, I’ll say that for you. Did you happen to learn the color of his underwear?”

  Souzer flipped through the pages of his notepad. “I’ve probably got it here somewhere.”

  “Never mind,” Louvaine said. “Did you get his target practice scores?”

  “He closes his eyes and squeezes.”

  “That’s what I like to hear,” Louvaine said. Then he frowned. “But blind squeezers do get lucky sometimes.”

  “Not this guy,” Souzer said. “He’s a walking death wish if I ever saw one. A murder looking for a place to happen. I’d suggest Plan A, the direct approach. Get behind him just after he leaves the bookstore. Let him see you by the time you get to Fairfax. He’ll turn into that alley between Sofrito and Main that goes past the back of Shultz’s Diner. That’s where he thinks he’s going to get you. That’s where you get him.”

  “It’s got to be a good kill,” Louvaine said, more to himself than to Souzer.

  “You’ll have everything going for you,” Souzer said. “A nice narrow alley, a spotlight I’ve set up to shine in his eyes, and that special little surprise when he gets to the diner door. It’s really a beautiful setup. Which gun did you decide to use?”

  “The Widley,” Louvaine said, taking the autoloader out of a shoulder holster. “It’s heavy, fifty-one ounces with the six-inch barrel, and it ruins the line of my sports jacket. But it’s damned accurate and carries a fourteen-round clip.”

  “What are you loaded with?”

  “Winchester 9-millimeter Magnums. And I’m also carrying a Smith & Wesson Model 59 just in case.”

  “It’s good to have a backup,” Souzer agreed. “Hey, he’s coming out now!”

  Fred C. Harris came out of the bookshop and walked briskly down Main. Louvaine slid the Widley out of its holster and into his hand and left the coffee shop. He walked rapidly until he was about twenty feet behind Harris, then slowed. The Widley felt good in his hand, solid, dependable. Louvaine thought of it as precision death at the end of his hand. He thumbed off the safety and jacked a round into the chamber. Harris was just ahead of him, a tempting target, but Louvaine couldn’t shoot yet; there were too many people in the way and the penalties for hitting bystanders were severe.

  Harris had spotted him now and had his gun out, but he was in an awkward position to use it and he kept on going, hurrying now, breaking into a run, his white hair flying, dodging around to keep people between him and Louvaine. Louvaine was also running, pulses hammering in his temples, his system flooded with adrenaline, floating along on Hunter’s High when the world goes into slow motion and you’re never going to die.

  Harris slipped into the alley just as Souzer had said he would. Souzer had deduced Harris’s plan. It was to lure Louvaine into this alley and then to slip through the back door into Shultz’s Diner. There was a slit cut in that door just big enough for a gun barrel. The door itself was steel-plated. Harris was figuring that he’d have Louvaine dead to rights then, himself crouched down behind steel plating with Louvaine targeted in the alley. Some idiot cut-rate Spotter must have sold him on that one. It showed the crap you got when you didn’t pay for the very best.

  Harris reached the back door of the diner as Louvaine turned into the alley. Harris wrenched at the door, but it was locked, of course; Souzer had seen to that. When Harris touched the doorknob, it set off a switch that activated a powerful searchlight, also set up by Souzer. The powerful beam hit Harris right in the eyes, and the little man realized he’d been had. He was trying blind to bring his gun up to firing position when Louvaine stopped, took a firm two-handed stance, and began firing.

  Harris got off one wild shot. Then he stumbled and fell backward over a garbage can.

  Louvaine, riding the Hunter’s High, was firing what he thought was a couple of times, an
d he knew that he was aiming high. He tried to correct while still firing and suddenly he was clicking on an empty chamber and damned if he hadn’t fired off the whole fourteen-shot clip.

  He fumbled in his pocket for another clip. He was bathed in cold sweat. He couldn’t believe he’d triggered off the whole clip just like that. Harris had him dead to rights now. All the little clown had to do was poke his gun out from behind that garbage can and blast away.

  But Harris wasn’t moving. By the time Louvaine had found an extra clip and loaded it, it was apparent that Harris was dead and that Louvaine had broken quite a lot of windows on both sides of the alley.

  So he had won again. Louvaine closed his eyes and stood perfectly still as the speed and energy drained out of him. When he opened his eyes again there was somebody in the alley with him. It took Louvaine a moment to recognize the khaki hat and blue enamel insignia that marked a Kill Checker.

  The Checker bent over the garbage can with his clipboard and pen, ready to take down the important data concerning the decedent’s status in the Hunt.

  “How many times did I get him?” Louvaine asked.

  “You didn’t hit him once,” the Checker said. “There’s not a mark on him.”

  “You’re kidding,” Louvaine said. ‘“He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  “Sure he’s dead. But you didn’t kill him. Look for yourself.”

  Louvaine looked. Fred C. Harris from Summit, New Jersey, had that oddly peaceful expression on his face that dead Hunters so often assume in their final moments.

  The Checker straightened up. “Looks like he fell over that garbage can and broke his neck. People don’t realize how easy it is to break your neck when you fall backward over a cylindrical object. I’ll have to report this as death through natural causes.”

  “Wait a minute,” Louvaine said. “You can’t write that in your report.”

  “Why can’t I?”

  “Because I won’t get credit for the kill.”

  “I mark ’em like I see ’em,” the Checker said, wetting the stub of his pencil.