Victim Prime

by Robert Sheckley

  “Hell, why don’t I just go out and buy a suit?”

  “You save your money, Harold Erdman,” Nora said, mock-scolding. “You’re going to need new weapons, and a Spotter.”

  “I’ve seen a lot of fancy firearms around here,” Harold said, “but my old Smith & Wesson is plenty good enough for me. As for Spotters, I met this guy named Albani, told me he was a really good Spotter. Looked like he was in need of work. Probably works cheap.”

  The Jubilee Ball was held in the Mayor’s Palace adjoining the Hunt Academy. Uniformed attendants parked the cars of the arriving guests and opened the doors of taxis. The palace had a lot of windows, and they were all glowing with light. Harold looked a little confined and uncomfortable in Johnson’s white tuxedo, but he was still a large and impressive figure as they left their taxi and entered the palace.

  Nora knew a lot of people and soon was in conversation with a group of her friends. Harold wandered around on his own, uncomfortable in the tuxedo but feeling good. A waiter came by with drinks on a tray and offered him one. Harold took it. It was colored green, but it didn’t taste like crème de menthe. Much later he found out it was a Green Devil—a coconut-and-pineapple-juice concoction laced with a new cinnamon-flavored Spanish amphetamine. The mood elevators in the drink began working on him at once, and Harold went from feeling good to feeling very good indeed.

  Wherever he went there was a great press of smartly dressed people, several orchestras, buffets, and an inexhaustible supply of servants passing around trays of weird-looking drinks. Harold took another Green Devil and admired the way the chandeliers cast highlights on the women’s powdered shoulders. He listened to the babble of conversation but could make little out of it. People seemed to have a strange way of expressing themselves here.

  And then he found himself in conversation with a very pretty girl with a shining helmet of black hair. She was wearing a red sheath dress that revealed her spendid shoulders and the upper portions of her fine small bosom. Her name was Jacinth.

  “Huntworld is the world’s escape valve,” Jacinth was saying. “Drives not acted out will surface inappropriately. That simple psychological law is reason enough for the existence of Huntworld.”

  “That’s just what I thought,” Harold said.

  “Don’t play dumb,” she said merrily. “It’s well known that the cluster of emotions that we signalize by such terms as hunting, killing, defending, and the like require constant stimulation for a healthy personal and social life. Everybody knows that.”

  “Oh, sure,” Harold said.

  “It’s obvious,” she went on, “that the emotions in modern man are atrophied. For many centuries, hunting wild animals acted as a substitute for personal violence. But then populations expanded and urban centers increased in size and density. The animals all got killed off. And then the wars stopped and man was left without anything violent to do. Huntworld filled the killing gap.”

  “That’s amazing,” Harold said. “Where did you learn all that stuff?”

  “At Bennington.”

  “Must be quite a place.”

  The party was at its full fury. The air was filled with blue and yellow smoke from various narcotic substances. A pounding music was playing over gigantic speakers, so loud that Harold could feel it vibrating in his bones. Esmeraldans rated a party on how much noise it made and how much of a fool you were able to make of yourself.

  Harold hadn’t been doing his bit on that last score. He never drank much, and he knew he was out of his depth in this drug stuff. So he was holding himself in check, even though his head was whirling. He had to bend very far over to hear what Jacinth was saying to him. His ear was in close proximity to her finely carved lips. He could feel her small sharp breasts pressed against him by the movements of the crowd.

  Then someone pulled Jacinth away from him and Harold saw a young man in his late twenties or early thirties standing in front of him. He was slim, haughty, blond, with gray eyes and handsome irritable features.

  “Jacinth,” he said, “if you’re quite through licking this man’s ear or whatever it is you are doing with it, Tom and Mandy have reserved a table for us on the second level.”

  “I was just telling him some of the latest theories on the Hunt,” Jacinth said. “Harold, this is my cousin Louvaine.”

  “Pleased to meetcha,” Harold said, holding out his hand.

  Louvaine looked at it as if he were being offered a wet fish. He looked Harold up and down. “If you’re quite finished rubbing yourself on Jacinth, we’ll go our way and let you sink back into your no doubt well-deserved anonymity.”

  Harold stared at him, uncertain whether to be amused or angry. He decided to take a middle course.

  “You’re a hard-mouthed little bastard, aren’t you?” he said. “Or so I’d be likely to think if it weren’t for the reputation you Esmeraldans have for courtesy. So I guess what you were saying to me is humor. If anyone said that stuff to me seriously, I’d just be forced to beat on him until he changed his tune.”

  Harold grinned amicably as he said this, but spoiled the effect by losing his balance and falling against a waiter, who spilled a tray of drinks. Louvaine caught his arm and helped Harold to his feet.

  “Very nice to have met you,” Louvaine said. “All in fun, eh? But you must watch that lurch. Come along, Jacinth.”

  Jacinth blew Harold a kiss and went off with Louvaine. Harold scratched his head and went off to find Nora.

  25

  “You didn’t seem to like Harold,” Jacinth said. They had left the party and were now eating mussels and drinking beer—an old Esmeraldan custom—in a little restaurant down by the docks.

  “Whatever gave you that impression? I like him very much. He’s really quite perfect.”

  “For what?” Jacinth asked.

  “Well, he’d make a great Victim. That clumsiness of his, it’s really very endearing.”

  Jacinth thought about it. “He did seem a little … naive. He’s just passed the Trials and signed up for the Hunt. Did you know that?”

  “Interesting,” Louvaine said. “He’d really make a superb target, wouldn’t he? I’m signing up for the Hunt again, by the way.”

  “So soon after the last.”

  “I didn’t make a very brilliant showing last time out. I need to show people once and for all that I still have all my moves.”

  “Wouldn’t it be funny if the computer put you and Harold together?”

  “Yes, very. A consummation devoutly to be wished for.”

  “Unlikely, though.”

  Louvaine nodded, and they went on to talk about other things. But he was thinking. He was dazzled by the splendor of his vision: hunting Harold, a target large enough and tall enough—for Louvaine had a tendency to Fire high—for anyone to hit.

  26

  Early the next morning, Louvaine took his car and went out looking for his Uncle Ezra. He was driving his town car, a Buick Triceratops with bulletproof glass, punctureproof tires, a superpadded interior of monocoque construction in case of collision, and oxygen equipment in the event of gas attack. Vehicles in Esmeralda tended to be functional. It was powered by a 30-liter double-camshaft 2,000-horsepower V-24 engine. A lot of power was necessary to haul the Buick’s inch-thick steel plating.

  All that armor played hell with performance and gas mileage, of course, but it was necessary in a place like Huntworld. There was always some oddball around who found it an irresistible prank to roll a hand grenade under a moving vehicle.

  And there was another reason for armor plating: people in Esmeralda tended to drive quickly, recklessly, and without skill. Consequently there were many collisions, but no insurance, since Huntworld and its institutions had been declared uninsurable by no less a source than Lloyd’s of London.

  And finally there was the terrifying prospect of being hit by a motorist discharging his Reckless Driving Obligation.

  Louvaine drove into the eternally slow-moving traffic jam that characte
rized the downtown streets near the Hunt Ministry. His Buick’s dagger-shaped front end enabled him to push and squeeze between slower and more clumsily shaped vehicles. This was accompanied by a nerve-shattering screech of metal on metal which his soundproofed interior mostly shut out.

  He triple-parked at a fire hydrant in a safety zone and ran up the broad marble steps of the Hunt Ministry, scattering the pigeons and squashing a little girl’s peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich in his haste.

  A clerk informed him that his Uncle Ezra was not there. He was probably over at the Coliseum, supervising the preparations for the Saturnalia fights.

  Louvaine got back in his car and sped to the Coliseum. On his way, more by accident than design, he clipped a cripple in a gas-powered wheelchair when the guy’s supercharger failed to kick in at the last moment. That gave Louvaine a hundred points toward Driver of the Year, and even though he was in a tearing haste to see Uncle Ezra, he stopped and waited until a Traffic Checker came along and verified the kill.

  Then he drove on. The incident, trifling in itself, had raised his spirits. Yes, perhaps things were going to turn his way again at last. If only Uncle Ezra could be persuaded to do one simple little thing for him.

  27

  Louvaine parked at the eastern gate of the Coliseum and hurried inside. The giant amphitheater was modeled closely on the original Colosseum in Rome. He went through the outer wall, four stories high, with its arcaded Corinthian columns, then through the second wall and onto the arena floor.

  The seats sloped upward and backward on all sides. Attendants were at work attaching the awnings that would shelter the spectators from Esmeralda’s fierce afternoon sun. On the arena floor the scene was one of confusion. Lighting men, sound men, cameramen, performers, agents all mingled together on the arena floor in a mess of black electrical cables and half-finished props. The scene was made all the more confusing by the presence of many delivery boys bringing in sandwiches and drinks.

  Louvaine saw his Uncle Ezra across the arena. Ezra was a diminutive man with a tuft of white hair above each ear. He was rosy-cheeked and rosy-skulled, with a small pug nose and impressive eyebrows. He was sitting in front of a table filled with blueprints and plans weighted down by a brace of revolvers.

  Uncle Ezra was one of the Huntworld Elders. He had reached this position by making a great deal of money trading in commercial intangibles in London and Paris and then retiring to Huntworld with his profits. He was one of the men who made Huntworld policy. Now he was working furiously on final preparations for the Big Payoff. It would be held at the end of the week, and it would mark the start of the Saturnalia season.

  Saturnalia was the most important holiday in the Esmeraldan year. Like Mardis Gras or Carnival in other places, Saturnalia featured a great lot of singing in the streets and public intoxication. There would be fanciful floats with pretty half-naked girls in scanty costumes throwing flowers. Food vendors would serve specialties unobtainable the rest of the year because they were forbidden except during Saturnalia, thus helping make it a really special holiday.

  A part of Uncle Ezra’s work as an Elder was the mounting and staging of the various events to take place in the arena—the duels, melees, massacres, and fights to the death, and, of course, the popular Suicide Clowns.

  In one way at least the Esmeraldan Games were superior to the ancient Roman gladiatorial events—previously the standard in vulgar and senseless slaughter. The old Romans didn’t have the internal combustion engine and therefore were unable to stage really satisfying vehicle combats. (Although it’s true that a four-chariot pileup at high speed is an event worth going out of your way to see.)

  Unlike the Roman Games, the Esmeraldan Games had no animal fights. Nobody wanted to see animals killed. There were too few big animals around, even counting those in zoos. What everyone wanted to see killed was human beings—those big-brained mammals who had brought the world to its present state.

  Every year the events of the arena had to be similar to what had gone before, but a little bit different so that the planners could not be accused of lack of originality. Ezra spent a lot of his time consulting with death decorators, crash consultants, pop death concept salesmen, and the like.

  The climax to it all would be the Big Payoff. One pair of Hunters, selected from all the Hunts going on in Esmeralda at the time, would finish their combat in the Coliseum in front of the sell-out crowd. It would be the main event of the Games, and no one knew in advance what weapons or conditions would be chosen.

  Louvaine had always wanted to be in a Big Payoff. Win or lose, it was the shortest way to immortality. But Uncle Ezra didn’t have anything to do with the selections for that. The Big Payoff was always staged by The Huntworld Show, and featured a Hunt picked by Gordon Philakis, the well-liked master of ceremonies.

  “Uncle Ezra, how good to see you!” Louvaine said.

  “Ah, Louvaine, good to see you, too. I caught the video clip of your latest kill last night on The Late Night Hunt News. Very amusing, I must say.”

  “I didn’t find it so,” Louvaine said.

  “I suppose not. But you must admit it was funny, your Victim falling over a garbage can and breaking his neck while you broke all the windows in the neighborhood.”

  “Look, can’t we talk about something else?”

  “Of course, my boy. What would you like to talk about?”

  “I’m signing up for another Hunt,” Louvaine said.

  “Excellent idea. But don’t you think you might want to take a course first in Remedial Shooting?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with my aim,” Louvaine said. “I’m just having bad luck.”

  “We all get that from time to time,” Ezra said. “It’ll pass.”

  “I plan to make it pass,” Louvaine said.

  “Excellent attitude.”

  “I’ll need your help, though.”

  Ezra looked at him sternly. “If it’s a matter of arranging somebody’s death, I told you last time I would never do that again.”

  “That’s not the favor I need,” Louvaine said. “I’m perfectly capable of killing my own people, thank you very much.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “Perhaps you’ll agree,” Louvaine said, “that in order to have a good fight one needs a good opponent. That’s what they used to say in the days of the old Spanish bullfight.”

  “That makes sense, I’m sure,” Ezra said. “But what has that got to do with me? If you expect me to arrange a fight for you with a bull—”

  “No, you’re getting it all mixed up,” Louvaine said. “What I want you to do is very simple. There is a fellow in town named Harold Erdman. He has just signed up for his first Hunt.”

  “Nothing unusual about that. People do it all the time.”

  “I want you to arrange for the computer to pick me as his Victim.”

  “But that’s against the rules.”

  “Of course it’s against the rules,” Louvaine said testily. “That’s why I’m asking you to arrange it for me.”

  “My dear boy, I have a reputation for honesty in this town.”

  “It isn’t as if we’re going to tell anyone,” Louvaine pointed out “And even if it is against the rules, it’s not against the spirit of the rules.”

  “How do you differentiate?”

  “The spirit of the rules is to produce good fights. If you can set me up with this one, I can guarantee it’ll be an absolute peak experience.”

  “What’s the matter with the fellow?” Ezra asked. “Got a broken leg or something?”

  “No, no, he’s perfectly sound. But he’s a novice. Sort of slow and clumsy, and a bit stupid, too, I think.”

  “I’ll say this for you,” Ezra said. “You can really pick them. He does sound like a perfect victim.”

  “And, of course, him not knowing that I know he’s hunting me would be of some help, too.”

  “It would give you quite an advantage,” Ezra said.

 
“Sure, it’s an advantage,” Louvaine said. “But I’m doing it for the sake of show business and to save our family name from people laughing at it when they watch the video clips.”

  “I don’t like to bend the rules,” Ezra said, “but it’s true, we can’t have people laughing at us, even if your last Hunt was laughable.”

  “Will you do this for me, Uncle?”

  His uncle winked at him. “We’ll see. And now, scat. I’m busy.”

  28

  Several days later, Harold went for a walk down to the open-air market near the port, where the old town hall had stood. It was a picturesque place filled with stalls piled high with clothing, foodstuffs, and flowers under a corrugated iron roof painted with pink and white stripes. Here were displayed goods from all over the earth, and even a few imported specialties from Mars Colony.

  Harold was feeling pretty good. With the money left over from the bonus he had bought himself some new clothes and extra cartridges for the Smith & Wesson, and had rented a small furnished apartment in the Old Quarter, not far from where Nora lived.

  He came by the flower stands and saw the girl he had met at the Jubilee Ball. Jacinth, that was her name. She looked stunning in a simple white dress, an exotic creature unlike any he had known with her stylishly cut black hair and provocative crimson lips.

  Jacinth asked him if he was happy in Huntworld.

  Harold nodded. “This is the best I’ve ever had it in my life.”

  “You must be from one of those deprived backgrounds,” Jacinth said. “I’d hate to have to live that way. Thank God my family is rich.”

  Jacinth’s father owned a nationwide chain of butcher shops. Real meat was in constant demand and limited supply in America, and brought astronomical prices. Jacinth never had to bother her pretty head about how to afford to travel first-class all of the time when she wasn’t in college. She was glad of that, because if she had to worry about money she was sure it would make her sulky and spoil her looks.