Louvaine put his gun back in its holster. His hand went into his pocket and came out with that other great weapon—money. The Checker looked at the money hungrily, but he shook his head.
“I can’t write that you shot him. There’s no blood. Somebody might ask me about that. I could get into a lot of trouble.”
“I can take care of the blood right now,” Louvaine said, taking out the Widley and aiming at Harris. “He won’t care—can’t feel a thing.”
“Too late,” the Checker said. “We got company.”
An elderly man in Bermuda shorts and a white-haired woman, presumably his wife, in a violently colored Mother Hubbard, were standing a few feet away snapping their cameras, first at the corpse and then at Louvaine and the Checker and then at each other.
“Tourists,” the Checker said. “They’re a nuisance, but what would we do without them?”
Louvaine glared at them until they went away. Then he pressed some bills into the Checker’s hand. “Whatever you write, try to make me look good.”
The Checker nodded, pocketed the bills, thought for a moment, then wrote, “Dead of busted vertebrae sustained while trying to escape certain death at the hands of his Hunter, Mr. Louvaine Daubray.”
It wasn’t great, but it was enough to get Louvaine the standard acknowledgment of a successful Hunt. He got the usual bonus, too. But he went home to his apartment feeling discouraged and disgusted with himself. Jacinth was out. He sat in his darkened living room and brooded. How could he have missed with fourteen shots?
He turned on the evening Hunt news. Gordon Philakis of The Huntworld Show was running down the day’s kills. When he came to Louvaine’s he said, “As long as his victim slips, no one notices that Louvaine Daubray is also slipping. Maybe next time his Hunter won’t be so obliging.”
That was unspeakably vile of Philakis, and Louvaine turned off the television in a fury. Damn it, he was as good as he’d ever been. Better, in fact. He was just having a bad run. He determined that his next Hunt would prove his worth once and for all. In the next Hunt he would kill with unmatchable style. He would set it up so there’d be no mistake. He could afford the best. It was really a matter of Finding a more cooperative Victim.
22
Hunter Trials were held every day between nine and four in the Hunt Academy Annex, a low concrete building at the rear of the Hunt Academy. Nora insisted on going with Harold as far as the entrance.
“Look, Harold,” she said, “are you sure you want to do this? Once you pass your Trials you’re in the Hunt and you can’t change your mind. The computer will send you the name of your first opponent within a few days. They won’t let you leave the island until you’ve killed him or he … you know.”
“I know all that, Nora,” Harold said. “I came here to Hunt and make some money, and that’s what I’m going to do.”
“I’ve got some friends in this place,” Nora said. “I’m sure I could get you a job as a bartender. The tips are really good. You could do all right.”
Harold shook his head. “I didn’t come all this way to tend bar.”
“I don’t want to see you get killed!” She clung to him for a moment. There were tears in her blue eyes. Harold hugged her and then stepped back.
“You’d better wait for me back at the apartment. I’ll come straight back when I get through here. Tonight we’re going to a party.”
“What party?”
“Albani said it’s the Hunt Jubilee Ball. Supposed to be something special.”
“The Jubilee Ball? It’s the event of the year! Oh, Harold, how exciting! But I don’t have anything to wear.”
“You’ll find something,” Harold said. “See you later.” He kissed her lightly and went into the building.
An official named Mr. Baxter helped Harold with the paperwork. Baxter was a very large fat man who looked like he was about to give birth to a watermelon. He had fuzzy black hair and he wore tiny glinting spectacles. When Harold had completed the forms he led him through a door marked hunter trials and down a corridor to a large room lit with overhead fluorescents. At the far end of the room was a brightly painted doorway marked funhouse trials entrance.
“That’s where you go,” Baxter said. “Right through that doorway and follow the corridors. There’s only one way to go, so you can’t get lost. You can’t turn back, either, once you’re inside.”
“What do I do inside?”
“Whatever you have to do to defend yourself. You’ll need this.” From a rack on one side of the room he selected a long-handled sledgehammer and gave it to Harold.
“When you come out the other side—assuming nothing goes wrong, of course—I’ll be waiting for you.”
Harold nodded, hefted the sledgehammer, and looked at the doorway. “What happens in there?”
“Various things,” Baxter said. “I’m not permitted to be any more specific than that.”
“And this is the only weapon I’m allowed?”
“Correct.”
“When do I get the Hunter’s bonus?”
“Immediately after the Trials. If you’re wounded during your run but are still considered repairable, the money will be applied to your hospital bills. If you’re killed the money will go to the beneficiary you indicated on the forms.”
Harold had named Nora as his beneficiary. “How often do people get killed in this Trial Run?” he asked.
“As often as we want,” Mr. Baxter said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Statistically, I mean. We never tamper with individual Trials.”
“Then what do you mean by statistically?”
“You should have read the brochure,” Baxter said. “The Huntworld Council sets the number of Hunters and Victims who may safely contest in the city at any one time. If we let too many people fight at the same time, the result would be an unmanageable chaos. This is how we control the number of fighters, by setting the degree of difficulty of the Trials Course in response to the demand or lack of demand for Hunters.”
“I think I see,” Harold said. “How high is the degree of difficulty now?”
“Point seven oh two five.”
“Is that high?”
“Not in comparison with three years ago,” Baxter said.
“That’s good.”
“But higher than any year since. Your run will be recorded on videotape, by the way. You can watch your own performance tonight on the evening news, assuming it goes all right. You’d better get started.”
Harold entered the Funhouse.
He stood inside the entrance for a moment to let his eyes get accustomed to the dark. The door clanged shut behind him. He leaned back against it. It had locked automatically. He had expected that.
He could make out the hum of the cameras from somewhere above him. A pale luminescence came from the walls. The corridor went ahead for a dozen feet, then turned sharply left. He could hear someone giggling. It was a scratchy giggle: recorded.
He moved on, gripping the sledgehammer firmly. Why a sledgehammer?
He heard a flapping noise above and behind him and whirled and ducked instinctively. Something with short broad wings and a long beak swept past him, turned, and came at him again. He could see that it was some sort of mechanical bird with blinking red eyes and stainless-steel beak and talons. Cute but clumsy. He knocked it down with the sledge and trampled it underfoot. There was a tinkling sound as fragile components snapped.
He continued down the corridor. The next thing he heard was a wet snuffling sound, coming toward him out of the darkness. It sounded like a bear, but that was impossible; there weren’t any bears left except in zoos. Another windup toy, he thought.
When it came around the corner he saw that it was a composite creature with a goat’s body, a lion’s head, and a serpent’s tail. It was only later that he learned this was a reconstruction of the fabled Chimera of Greek myth.
The Chimera was more trouble than the mechanical bird. Its microcomputer brain see
med to have a few more circuits or something. It dodged and darted and breathed a blowtorch blast of fire at him. Harold backed away, anticipating more trouble behind him. It wasn’t long in coming. From the other side came a monster scorpion, the sort of thing they used to show in old Japanese science fiction films.
Harold sidestepped the scorpion and gave it a tap with his sledgehammer, not enough to destroy it, just enough to send it careening into the Chimera. The two big toys swiped and cut at each other and Harold got around them and continued down the corridor.
Next came the simulated rats and bats, and they were unpleasant but not especially dangerous. He cut a way for himself through the critters, taking a few bites here and there but coming through in good shape.
He was feeling pretty confident by now. Maybe overconfident. The next one almost got him. A warrior machine dressed in black from head to toe dropped down from the ceiling and landed in front of him. Harold backed up and almost got decapitated by the warrior’s swinging broadsword. He regained his balance and swung the sledgehammer. He was lucky enough to catch the end of the warrior’s sword, driving the machine into the wall. Before it could recover Harold sledged it to bits.
He turned down the next corridor, fired up now and ready for anything. He found daylight ahead. He was at the end of the course, and Mr. Baxter was standing there, making notes on a clipboard.
“How’d I do?” Harold asked.
“Well enough,” Baxter said. “But it was an easy course. The Trial standards have been set real low this year.”
“Then why did you give me that scare talk before?”
“To test your nerve a little, now, at the very beginning. We don’t want you to even consider dropping out of the Hunt once you’re in it.”
“Do people do that?” Harold asked.
“Of course. Some people think they can sign up for the Hunt, pick up the bonus money, and get away quick.”
“What’s to prevent them?” Harold asked.
Our police force, of course. No one who signs up for a Hunt gets off Esmeralda until he’s finished it.”
Harold went back to the main room with Mr. Baxter. There he was given a plastic identity tag to be worn at all times, giving his status as a fully accredited Hunter. He was told to await notification of his first Hunt. He could expect to receive it within a week, maybe a few days if the Hunt computer wasn’t down again. Mr. Baxter also gave him a Huntworld replica of a P38 Luger to start his career with, but Harold declined that. His Smith & Wesson was good enough for him. It fit his hand nice and he was used to it.
He also got a check for two thousand dollars. As soon as he endorsed it, Mr. Baxter changed it for him into twenty crisp hundred-dollar bills. Harold left the Hunter Trials Annex and went to the post office. He wired one thousand dollars to Caleb Ott in Keene Valley, New York, and then he went to find Nora and get ready for the party.
23
Albani met his Hunter, Jeffries, downtown in a cigar store near the courthouse. Jeffries looked slightly more alert than usual. That meant he was ready for action.
Albani said, “My informants tell me your Victim comes this way every day. He always has lunch at the same place. That’s it across the street; the Alamo Chili House. He claims it’s the only food he can stand.”
“What sort of food is it?” Jeffries asked.
“Beans and hot sauce,” Albani said, “and tough beef.”
“And he eats that on purpose?”
“He’s from Texas,” Albani said. “Texans are different—they can’t live long without their native cuisine.”
“And how, exactly, do I get him?”
“This guy is pretty cute,” Albani said. “After lunch he comes out of the Alamo—always with a toothpick in his mouth—walks down the block, and goes to the Longhorn Bar just down the street for a beer.”
“What brand does he drink?”
“Is that important?”
“It might give me an insight into his character.”
“He drinks imported Sudetenland Pilsner.”
“Ah. That means he’s more sophisticated than he may seem at first glance. That’s a very important point to remember, Albani. Go on, what’s your plan?”
“After having his beer, your Victim walks back to his hotel. He has on these trick sunglasses that let him see behind him.”
“That’s bad,” Jeffries said.
“No, it’s good. The glasses give him a sense of false security. I’ve calculated that when he reaches the corner of Northrup and the Mall, just as he makes his turn into Sedgwick, there’s a blind spot. It’s a trick of the afternoon lighting.”
“How large a blind spot?”
“Just big enough for you to stand in, Mr. Jeffries. You’ll be behind him and to his left. He carries his gun for a right-handed draw. He’ll pass within ten feet of you. It’s an easy shot.”
“Sounds good,” Jeffries said. “What sort of weapon is he carrying?”
“A Colt .357 Magnum in a shoulder holster and a five-and-a-half-inch H&R Model 6B6 in an ankle holster.”
“A lot of firepower there.”
“The idea is not to let him use it on you.”
“You’re sure about this blind spot?”
“Of course I’m sure. I’ve made a chalk mark on the sidewalk. Stand right there and he can’t see you as he comes by.”
“Sounds good,” Jeffries said. “Yes, very good indeed. I think this is going to be a good one.” He checked the chambers of his Mossberg Abilene .44 Magnum. “I’m ready.”
“Wait till he comes out of the Alamo. OK, go!”
Jeffries smoothed back his hair, put the Mossberg in his pocket, and walked out onto the street. He rounded the corner, Albani trailing behind, and took up his station at the indicated place. The Victim, noticeable by his cowboy hat and high-heeled boots, came out of the Alamo, turned to the left just as expected, and walked down the street. He turned the corner. Jeffries let him pass and raised his gun.
At that moment the pavement blew up beneath him.
Albani rushed over. He couldn’t believe it. What had happened? There was Jeffries, or what was left of him, smeared out along the broken pavement. The Victim was taking a long thin black cigar out of his pocket, biting off the end, and lighting it. There was the sound of a siren. A car with the official Huntworld seal pulled up and a Kill Checker got out.
“Your name?” the Checker said to the Hunter.
“Tex Draza,” the Hunter said.
“You sure leave a mess,” the Checker said. “What did you use on this guy?”
“Antipersonnel mine under the pavement.”
Albani came up. “That’s not allowed. Random killing devices are specifically prohibited under Huntworld law.”
“This wasn’t any random device,” Draza said. “It was keyed to the Hunter’s body signature.”
“Never heard of that before,” the Checker said. “But how did you know this guy was your Hunter?”
“People give themselves away in many little ways,” Draza said, and winked. The Checker knew that some unscrupulous Victims were not above paying out large bribes to the right officials in order to learn the names and identities of their Hunters. It made killing them so much easier. He had no proof of this, however; otherwise it would have cost Draza a really big bribe.
“Looks like everything’s in order,” the Checker said.
‘“I protest!” Albani said.
The Checker shook his head. “Seems legal enough to me. You were this guy’s Spotter?” He indicated the mess on the pavement.
“Well, yes,” Albani said. “That is, I was advising him. I warned him that this wasn’t a good setup, but no, Mr. Know-It-All, he had to do it his way. I can’t be held responsible for this, officer.”
“Take it up with the Adjudication Board,” the Spotter said. “Looks like a legal kill to me.”
Albani walked away. He was feeling really rotten. He hated the way outsiders with newfangled schemes were coming into Huntw
orld and changing the entire character of the Hunt. Something ought to be done about it. Now he had another fine to face. This had really turned out to be a rotten day. Thank God there was the Hunt Jubilee Ball tonight. He planned to get drunk and forget his troubles.
24
Nora listened to the story of the Trial Run and felt happy for Harold. It was nice that a boy from her hometown was doing well. And the bonus money was helpful, too. Harold insisted on pulling out two hundred dollars and giving it to her, despite her protests.
“Put in on the rent,” Harold told her. “Don’t worry, there’s more where that came from. After my first kill I get another bonus.”
“It’s a tough way to earn money,” Nora said.
“No, it’s an easy way. It’s just that everything can come to a screeching halt if things don’t go right. But it’s still a lot better than what’s back home. Listen, Nora, I’ve worked hard and now I want to celebrate. What about that Jubilee Party?
“Just give me a moment to change,” Nora said.
It took a lot more than a moment, but when she came out of her bedroom Nora looked lovely in a white evening gown and a synthetic fur wrap and her hair done up fancy.
“How, do I look?”
“Lady, you look plenty good,” Harold said. “By the way, what is this Hunt Jubilee Ball?”
“It’s just about the most important social event of the Esmeraldan year. The Jubilee Ball marks the beginning of the Saturnalia season.”
“Well,” Harold said, “a party’s always fun.”
“This one especially. They serve wonderful food, all the liquor you can drink, and every sort of drug known to man.”
“I don’t go in much for drugs,” Harold said. “Except for a little weed now and then.”
“You don’t have to use any. I’m just telling you what they’ve got.”
“Fair enough. Will I need some new clothes?” He’d had his serge suit cleaned and pressed, but it still didn’t look right.
“I’ve still got Johnson’s things here,” Nora said. “He was a little shorter than you but big in the chest. The shirts and jackets ought to fit. And maybe I can let down the pants.”
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