Szabo managed to catch one; the other severed his left arm just above the elbow.
Ignoring the injury, Szabo tried to set himself for one final throw. Before he could let go, another double Frisbee salvo came fluttering at him from opposite sides.
One was a near miss. The other sliced through the Hungarian’s head just above the eyebrows.
A boom mike caught his last expiring gurgle and amplified it for the cheering crowd.
And then it was time for the Big Payoff.
57
The last of the carnage left by the scythe cyclists had been cleared away. “And now, ladies and gentlemen,” Gordon Philakis announced, “the event you have all been waiting for, at whose conclusion Saturnalia officially begins. Yes, friends, it’s time for the Big Payoff! I know you’ve all been wondering what form it’s going to take this year. So let’s not waste any more time. Ok, boys, set it up.”
Men in white jumpsuits came out into the arena wheeling a large raised platform enclosed with ropes, like a boxing ring only larger. A groan of disappointment arose from the audience when they saw it.
“Now wait just a minute,” Philakis said to the crowd. “It’s not what you think. You probably think it’s going to be a simple gladiatorial event like we had last year, right? Wrong! We’ve got a little switch this time, and we think it’ll be a lot of fun. But first let me introduce our lucky finalists. Come on out here, boys.”
Harold and Louvaine came out through different gateways to thunderous applause. Both were dressed in black one-piece-suits.
Four Big Payoff attendants came out with them, carrying between them a large wooden box.
“Here they are, folks,” Philakis said, “our two Big Payoff players, our local boy, Louvaine Daubray, and his opponent, a newcomer to our fair shores, Harold Erdman. Only one of them is going to come out of that ring alive, and he will be our new King of Saturnalia. How you feeling, boys? Louvaine, how does it feel to be in the Big Payoff? I hear you’ve been wanting this honor for a long time.”
“I can only say,” Louvaine said, “that although I don’t really deserve it, I’m deeply aware of the honor bestowed on me and I promise to give everyone a good fight.”
“Spoken like a true Hunter!” Philakis said. “And what about you, Harold?”
“What? Oh, all that stuff he said, that’s what I mean, too. But I really do mean it!”
“Good luck to both of you. And now, let’s take a look at the weapons.”
The attendants opened the box and removed from it two glittering daggers.
“That’s for the close-in fighting,” Philakis said, “but here is the main armament.”
The attendants took from the box two short-handled, double-bladed battleaxes and held them up for everyone to see. The cameras zoomed in for a closer look.
“Aren’t they beauties?” Philakis said. “They’re exact replicas of an old Norse model. These axes were manufactured right here in our own Hunt Armory and sharpened to a degree that we suspect the old Norsemen knew nothing about. Full-size working replicas of these axes will be on sale at the exits immediately after this event. But that’s later. For now, these boys are going to get into that ring and have it out. How about that, folks?”
There was a polite round of applause.
“Now, friends,” Philakis said, “I’ve got a feeling that some of you are just a little disappointed. You’re probably thinking, well, yes, battleaxes, that’s nice, but it’s not all that different from last year’s underwater sword fight. Well, friends, the Elders of your Hunt Academy have thought long and hard and have taken steps to ensure that this fight with battleaxes will be a little different from what you might have expected. … Okay, boys, show them the rest of the stuff.”
The attendants on the arena floor had been standing at attention around the raised platform. Now they stripped off the canvas that covered it. Beneath was a glassy surface. Sunlight bounced off it in dazzling reflections.
A murmur of appreciation came up from the crowd.
“Now,” Philakis said, “you’re probably asking yourself, what is that shiny stuff? Well, friends, that shiny stuff is something we don’t see much of here in Esmeralda except in our drinks. That is ice, ladies and gentlemen, and it’s kept in superhard, superslick condition by the portable refrigeration units stored underneath the platform’s apron. Let’s have a round of applause for TWA, which flew in this unit for us from Miami’s Iceworld on short notice.”
There was a round of applause.
“And now for the final piece of equipment.” Philakis gestured at the attendants standing beside Harold and Louvaine with the wooden box. The attendants opened the box once more and removed from it two pairs of lace-up ice skates.
First there was a titter of amusement in the crowd, then growing applause as the idea caught on. Philakis socked it home.
“Yes, friends, men with battleaxes on ice skates! What do you think, Mel?”
“I’ve seen a lot of these Payoffs,” Mel said, in a husky confidential voice, “but this one really looks like something special. I would predict, Gordon, that this event should prove a new high in bloodshed and merriment.”
“I think so too, Mel. And now, what about a round of applause for our researchers, who, by methods known only to themselves, learned the shoe sizes of our contestants?”
There was more applause.
“Boys, you’ll find that your names have been appliquéd on the sides of your skates. Contestants, suit up!”
58
The afternoon was beginning to wane. The ice rink was bathed in spotlights. The referee motioned the two men to come to the center of the rink.
Harold skated out cautiously, uncertain of his balance. He had done a little skating back home, probably more than Louvaine had ever done. Given his size and weight, this sort of a contest ought to favor him.
But he suspected that Louvaine had something up his sleeve. The guy didn’t look worried enough. He was even grinning at him!
And he seemed to skate pretty well, too.
The referee reminded them that there would be no rounds and no breaks, and that anything they did to each other was legal. A tie would be declared if both men were too badly wounded to proceed. In that case, the referee would flip a coin to decide who was to be the winner and who the decedent. Only one man could come out of the ring alive.
Harold skated back to the little stool provided for him. Albani rubbed the back of his neck in the immemorial gesture of all trainers.
“The thing to remember,” Albani said, “is that each action has an equal and opposite reaction. That means a lot when you’re swinging a battleax.”
“What bothers me,” Harold said, “is that Louvaine looks too sure of himself. And he seems to skate pretty well, too.”
“He’s just bluffing, trying to psych you out,” Albani said.
In fact, he had been thinking the same thing. Thank God he’d get the Spotter’s bonus whether Harold won or lost. Not that he was indifferent to the outcome, but one did have to be practical.
“It’s like Louvaine knows something we don’t know,” Harold said.
“If I see anything fishy,” Albani said, “I’ll lodge an immediate protest. It’ll be too late, but I’ll see that your reputation is vindicated.”
The bell rang.
“Whatever he’s got,” Albani said, “you’ve got better. You’re going to win this, Harold. Go in there and get ’em, kid!”
Harold skated out and the fight was on.
59
Souzer, sitting in Louvaine’s corner, watched as the skaters circled each other warily, staying just out of striking distance. Louvaine looked pretty good on those skates. That winter he’d spent in Switzerland had really paid off. Harold didn’t look so bad, either. But Harold didn’t have the edge.
There had been ice-skating duels before in Huntworld. Souzer had been prepared for this eventuality. He had prepared the skates himself with the help of a machinist friend.
That, plus the fact that he was well trained in the use of the battleax. Indeed, he had represented his country in the ax-dueling competition in the last Olympics.
With a country as small as Esmeralda, that didn’t necessarily argue a high level of skill. But it was something, and presumably more than Harold had going for him. Harold had only his luck, and that had about run out.
Louvaine and Harold were skating faster now, circling, turning, sweeping around each other, a pas de deux of death on ice to the accompaniment of the Huntworld orchestra playing selections from Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake.
The battleaxes glinted steely blue under the spotlights. The Fighters feinted and swung, forehand and backhand, grunting, stumbling, and revolving with the force of their efforts.
Louvaine scored a lucky glancing blow off Harold’s left shoulder, drawing blood.
Harold spun around like a top, striking out blindly.
Louvaine ducked, came up again, swung the ax, went off balance, careened into the ropes, came off them, found Harold circling in toward him, ax at the ready.
Gordon Philakis’s excited commentary could be heard above the thunder of the crowd. The crowd were on their feet and yelling. Even the pickpockets had forgotten business for a moment, watching the peak spectacle of the Esmeraldan year.
Souzer could tell when Louvaine was ready to make his killing move. A certain look came over his face. A second later Louvaine was moving into action. He crowded Harold toward a neutral corner, feinting with the ax. Then he went up on his toes. His battleax was poised over his right shoulder. He swung a broad downward sweep, a deadly cut impossible for a man on skates to avoid.
Harold dodged it in the only possible way. He fell down and slid across the ice.
Louvaine’s arm came back again with the battleax. He ran forward on steel points and began the deadly backswing designed to carve Harold into pork chops.
Harold was a few feet away, down flat on the ice, still spinning slightly, unable to stabilize himself. He did the only thing he could do. He released the battleax, a quick wrist throw with a lot of spin on it.
The ax skittered across the ice toward Louvaine’s feet. Louvaine jumped back to avoid it. He came down flat on his skates, and they shot out from under him.
Harold managed to stop himself from spinning and scrambled to his feet and fell again. He couldn’t find his ax. He was helpless. He threw his hands over his head, waiting for the killing blow.
But Louvaine was still down on the ice. He was lying in a widening pool of blood. The crowd was screaming. It took Harold a moment to realize that Louvaine had fallen on top of the ax. One head had imbedded itself in the ice. The other head had cut into Louvaine’s spine.
Harold scrambled on hands and feet across the ice. He cradled Louvaine in his arms. A wave of pity came over him. “You’re going to be all right!” he cried.
Louvaine coughed pathetically. “Actually, I don’t think so. ‘Tis not as deep as a well nor as wide as a church door, but ’twill do.’ I always thought Mercutio the most appealing of Shakespeare’s characters, much more interesting than that sappy Romeo.”
“Oh, Louvaine,” Harold said, “I’m sorry it had to be you. I’ve come to like you, dammit.”
“And I like you, too,” Louvaine said. “But we would never have become friends if we hadn’t been trying to kill each other. Droll, isn’t it? Goodbye, Harold. Oh, one last thing.”
“Yes?” said Harold, bending to hear the faltering words.
“Tell them to bury me under my Indian name. It is Un-ko-Pi-Kas, He Who Laughs First, in the language of the Algonquins.”
“How did you get an Indian name?” Harold asked.
Louvaine smiled wanly. “If only I had time to tell you!” His eyelids fluttered, then lay still on his cheeks like gased moths.
Harold threw back his head and let out a great shouting howl of grief and anger and triumph. And then the crowd had broken into the ring and carried him away on their shoulders to be crowned winner of the Big Payoff and King of Saturnalia.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1987 by Robert Sheckley
Cover design by Open Road Integrated Media
ISBN 978-1-4976-3519-7
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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Victim Prime Page 17