The 10th Victim

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The 10th Victim Page 9

by Robert Sheckley


  “And that’s it, that’s everything,” Polletti said, a little defensively. He realized that he had been babbling like a moonstruck adolescent. But he sternly reminded himself that it was not important, that he didn’t care what Caroline thought of him.

  Caroline said nothing at all. She was turned toward him, her face hidden and mysterious in the clinging darkness, a faint nimbus of starlight outlining her hair. She leaned almost imperceptibly closer to him, and her sweetly curved body and imagined face seemed archetypical rather than individual. She was perhaps a great beauty; but darkness rendered her lovelier still through Polletti’s imagination.

  He stirred restlessly. He reminded himself that the disillusioned, through the very specialization of their attitudes, are frequently and peculiarly prone to the myth of romance. He lit a cigarette and said, “Let’s get away from here. Perhaps we could go somewhere for a drink.”

  His matter-of-fact words were meant to break the spell. They failed, for Algol was still burning in the southern sky. Caroline said, in a voice barely louder than the low murmur of the surf, “Marcello, I think I love you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Polletti said, trying to subdue an anticipation of ecstasy by a show of irritation.

  “I do love you,” she said.

  “Forget it,” Polletti said. “This beach scene is all very pleasant, but let’s not get carried away.”

  “Then you love me, too?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Polletti told her. “At the moment I could say almost anything, and believe it—but only for the moment. Caroline, love is a wonderful game which begins in fun and ends in marriage.”

  “Is that so bad?”

  “In my experience, yes, very bad indeed,” Polletti said. “Marriage kills love. I will never marry you, Caroline. I will never marry anyone again. I consider the entire connubial institution a farce, a travesty on human relations, a wicked trick with mirrors, an absurd self-imposed trap—”

  “Why must you talk so much?” Caroline asked him.

  “I’m naturally loquacious,” Polletti said. It suddenly seemed very natural to be holding Caroline in his arms. “I love you very much,” he told her. “I adore you, Caroline, against all my better instincts.”

  He kissed her, tenderly at first, then with increasing passion. He found that he did indeed love her, and this surprised him, delighted him, and saddened him. For love, as he knew it, was an aberration, a form of temporary insanity, a shortlived state of autosuggestion.

  Love was a state which a wise man would prudently avoid. But Polletti had never considered himself wise, and prudence was the least of his virtues. He was unashamedly self-indulgent—which was in itself a possible form of wisdom. Or so he hoped.

  16

  It was deepest night in the Colosseum; a black and unforgivable night, clinging like seaweed to the ancient stones, its awesome integrity broken only by several banks of arc lights which made the place brighter than day.

  Down below, on the flat blood-drinking sands, half a dozen cameramen stood by their cameras. The Roy Bell Dancers, on a special platform to left of center, were resting after their latest rehearsal, and talking about ways to prevent the ends of one’s hair from splitting. Not far from them, in a motor coach filled with controls and instruments, Martin sat and made a final check of camera angles. He had left the Borgia Ballroom and transferred to this, his new command post. He had a thin black cigarette clenched between his teeth. Occasionally he reached up and rubbed his watering eyes.

  Chet sat behind him in front of a little table. The fact that he was playing solitaire showed the terrific nervous tension he was undergoing.

  Cole was seated just behind Chet. The fact that he was dozing uneasily in his chair showed the terrific nervous tension he was undergoing. He woke up abruptly, rubbed his watering eyes, and said, “Where is she? Why doesn’t she report?”

  “Take it easy, kid,” Martin said, not looking around. The fact that he was compulsively rechecking all his camera angles for perhaps the hundredth time showed that even he was not immune to the anxieties of other, lesser men.

  “But she should have reported by now!” Cole said. “Do you suppose. …”

  “I don’t suppose anything,” Martin said, and directed Camera 3 to pull back one and two-thirds inches.

  “Black ten on red jack,” Cole remarked to Chet.

  “Suppose you keep your nose out of my personal business,” Chet said, mildly, yet with a deep-seated hint of violence.

  “Easy, kids,” Martin said softly. A natural-born leader of men, he knew by instinct the proper moment for a reassuring word instead of an angry command. Nervelessly he now directed Camera 1 to tilt down one and three-quarters degrees.

  “But she should have reported by now!” Cole said. “She hasn’t reported since she arrived at the Sunsetters Beach. That was six or seven hours ago! She hasn’t answered our calls. Anything could have happened—anything, I tell you! Do you suppose. …”

  “Get a grip on yourself,” Martin said coldly.

  “Sorry,” Cole said, putting both trembling hands to his white face and rubbing his aching eyes. “It’s the tension, the waiting. … I’ll be all right. I’ll be fine once the action starts.”

  “Sure you will, kid,” Martin said. “The waiting gets to us all.” He barked into his microphone, “Hold that tilt, Camera 1, and come back exactly one-half inch; and damn you, steer small!”

  “Red two on black three,” Cole remarked to Chet.

  Chet didn’t answer. He had decided to kill Cole immediately after he had gotten Martin fired. He had also decided to kill Mr. Fortinbras and Caroline, and his brother-in-law in Kansas City, Missouri, who invariably greeted him with a cheerful, “How’s it going with the image maker?” And also. …

  The door of the motor coach opened and Caroline walked in. “Hi, troops,” she said cheerfully.

  “Hi, kid,” Martin said casually. “How’d it go?”

  “Smooth as Acrilan,” Caroline replied. “I caught his act, and then I talked to him and he agreed to the interview tomorrow.”

  “Have much trouble?” Chet asked mildly.

  “Nope. He came across without much persuading, very businesslike about the whole thing. Five hundred down, five hundred in the morning before the interview starts.”

  “Fine, great, good,” Martin said. “But what did you do after that? I mean it’s been about five hours since you were supposed to report, and we were naturally worried about you.”

  “Well,” Caroline said, “I started to leave, but then I decided that maybe I should size him up a little more. So I went back and asked him out for a drink, and after that we went to this lovely little beach and talked and looked at the stars.”

  “That’s nice.” Martin smiled, a nervous tic developing at the corner of his left eye. “And how did you size him up, hmmmm?”

  “He’s a wonderful man,” Caroline said dreamily. “But you see, he’s been trying to get his marriage annulled for twelve years, and during that time he’s been living with this madwoman named Olga, and now that he’s finally got his annulment he doesn’t want to marry Olga.”

  “That’s very interesting,” Martin said.

  “As a matter of fact, he doesn’t want to marry anyone,” Caroline said. “He doesn’t even want to marry me.”

  Chet sat up so abruptly that he upset his cards. “Hey, what is this?” he asked.

  “I guess maybe you could call it like love,” Caroline said.

  “Whaddaya mean, love?” Chet asked. “Your contract expressly forbids you to fall in love during the duration of your tenth kill, and it furthermore explicitly forbids you to fall in love with your Victim.”

  “Love,” Caroline said coolly, “existed a long time before contracts.”

  “Contracts,” Martin said viciously, “are a lot more enforceable than love. Now look, baby, you aren’t going to chicken out on us, are you?”

  “I don’t suppose so,” Caroline said. “He sai
d he loved me, too. … But if he won’t marry me, I guess he’s better off dead.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Martin said. “Just remember that, okay, kid?”

  “I’m not likely to forget it,” Caroline said coldly. “But do you suppose. …”

  “I don’t suppose anything,” Martin said. “Look, let’s all go get ourselves a little shuteye, be nice and fresh for the morning’s kill. Right? Right.”

  All agreed. Martin gave the orders, and the arc lights slowly faded. The cameramen and the dancers left. Last of all, Martin, Chet, Cole, and Caroline left, got into Martin’s rented Roadrunner XXV, and drove off to their hotel.

  Black and impenetrable night lay over the Colosseum, its gloom pierced only by occasional cloud-smothered glances from a horned and gibbous moon. Silence oozed from the ancient rocks, and the sensation of impending death rose like an unseen miasma from the bloodsoaked sands.

  Then Polletti stepped from beneath an archway. His face was stern and angry. Behind him came Gino.

  “Well?” Polletti asked.

  “It’s clear,” Gino said. “She’s your Hunter. There can be no doubt.”

  “Of course not. I was sure of it when she followed me out to the beach. This is merely confirmation. A big kill with plenty of publicity—the American style!”

  “I hear they’re doing it that way up in Milan now,” Gino said. “And of course the German Hunters, particularly in the Ruhr—”

  “Do you know what she told me tonight?” Polletti said. “She told me she loved me. And all the time she was planning to kill me.”

  “The treachery of women is proverbial,” Gino said. “What did you tell her?”

  “I told her of course that I loved her,” Polletti said.

  “Do you, by any chance?”

  Polletti thought for a long time. Then he said, “It’s odd, but she’s actually very lovable. She’s a nicely raised girl, quite shy in many ways.”

  “She’s killed nine men,” Gino reminded him.

  “You can’t really hold that against her,” Marcello said. “That’s simply a manifestation of the times.”

  “Perhaps you’re right,” Gino said. “But what will you do, Marcello?”

  “I shall perform the counter-kill, exactly as I had planned,” Polletti said. “The only real question is whether Vittorio has been able to arrange any publicity in time.”

  “You didn’t give him much notice,” Gino said.

  “That couldn’t be helped,” Polletti said. “He should be able to line up one or two sponsors, anyhow.”

  “He’ll probably arrange something,” Gino agreed. “But Marcello, what if she suspects that you’ve caught on? She has a big organization behind her, money, power. … Maybe you should just kill her at the first opportunity and take no chances.”

  Polletti drew a revolver from his jacket pocket, checked the load, then put it away. “Don’t worry,” he said to Gino. “She’s coming to my hut at nine in the morning for a rehearsal. Does that sound as if she suspects me of suspecting her?”

  “I don’t know,” Gino said. “I only know that the treachery of women is proverbial.”

  “So you told me,” Polletti said. “But then, so is the treachery of men. It’ll go off just as I’ve planned. I only wish she were less lovable.”

  “It is the lovability of women,” Gino stated, “that exposes us to their treachery.”

  “I suppose so,” Polletti said. “Anyhow, I’m going back to the hut. I need some sleep. You make sure that Vittorio makes sure of the arrangements.”

  “I’ll do that,” Gino said. “Good night, Marcello—and good luck.”

  “Good night,” Marcello said.

  They left. Marcello got into his car and drove back to the beach, and Gino walked to the nearest all-night café.

  And now at last, the Colosseum was deserted. The moon had waned and darkness was over all. A faint mist had sprung up, and faint cloudy figures seemed to move over the kill-crazy sands like the ghosts of long-dead gladiators. A breeze sighed across the empty seats like the voice of a long-dead emperor murmuring, “Do him in!” And then, out of the ambiguous gloom of the east, the first lightening of the morning sky could be discerned.

  An uncertain new day had begun.

  17

  Within his prefabricated hut, Marcello was sleeping deeply and well. He did not hear the faint squeak of hinges as his door was cautiously pushed open. Nor did he see the long, oddly shaped muzzle pushed in through the partially opened door.

  The muzzle centered on his head. There was a faint hiss, and a barely visible rush of gas escaped from the muzzle. Immediately, Polletti’s sleep became even deeper.

  A few seconds passed, and then Caroline stepped into the hut. She touched Polletti lightly on the shoulder, then shook him. Polletti didn’t stir. Caroline walked back to the door and waved. Then she came back into the room and sat down on the bed beside him.

  The hut began to shake and quiver. It leaned sharply to one side, and Caroline had to hold Polletti to keep him from falling to the floor. After a few moments the hut stopped moving.

  Polletti was still asleep. Caroline went to the door and opened it. She could see the streets of Rome gliding past. It would have been an eerie sensation if Caroline had not known that the hut, with herself and Polletti in it, was tied onto the bed of a truck, which Martin was presently driving toward the Colosseum. It was 8:46 exactly. Caroline searched the hut, took care of a few minor matters, and then sat down beside Polletti.

  About half an hour later, Polletti stirred, rubbed his eyes, and sat up. “What time is it?” he asked Caroline.

  “Nine twenty-two,” Caroline said.

  “I’m afraid I overslept,” Marcello said.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “But do we still have time for the rehearsal?” Polletti asked.

  “I’m sure we’ll do all right without it,” Caroline told him. Her face was hard, and she spoke quietly, without emphasis. She turned away from him now and began to make up her face with the help of a tiny compact.

  Polletti yawned and reached for his telephone. Then he noticed that the wire was cut. Caroline was watching him in her compact mirror. Polletti stretched, apparently at ease, and reached for his jacket on a nearby chair. He took out cigarettes and matches, and patted the breast pocket. His revolver was no longer there.

  Lighting up, he gave Caroline an affectionate little smile. Receiving no response, he leaned back in bed, drew deeply on his cigarette, then turned over and found his little electronic monkey on the floor. He played with it for a while, then climbed quickly out of bed and changed into slacks and a sport shirt. He lay down on the bed again and picked up the monkey.

  Caroline still had not turned to look at him. She was still watching him in the mirror of her compact.

  Polletti stretched out again on the bed. “Do you know what I was just thinking?” he asked her. “I was just thinking, why don’t you and I go away somewhere—just the two of us. We could have a wonderful life together, Caroline. We could even get married, if you thought it absolutely necessary.”

  Caroline closed her compact and turned to face him. She held the compact in her hand, one finger poised over the back hinge. It was doubtless a gun, Polletti decided. It was hard nowadays to find anything that wasn’t a gun.

  “You’re not interested in my offer?” Polletti asked.

  “I’m not amused by your lies,” Caroline told him.

  Polletti nodded, playing with his electronic monkey. “You may be right,” he said. “I’ve done too much lying and cheating in my time. Not through fondness for falsehood, I can assure you; just through—circumstances. But I do want to be honest with you, Caroline. I can tell the truth. Perhaps I could even prove my sincerity.”

  Caroline shook her head. “It’s too late.”

  “Not at all,” Polletti said. “I have friends who will vouch for my character. For example—” he held up the electronic monkey—“have you met Tommaso
?”

  “That’s just the, kind of character witness you’d have,” Caroline said.

  “Tommaso is a very truthful little beast,” Polletti said. He put the animal on the floor and turned it to face her. The electronic monkey hopped over to her and tried to climb up her leg.

  “I’m not interested in him,” Caroline said.

  “But you aren’t being fair. Look how affectionate he is. I think he likes you. Tommaso is very choosy about his friends.”

  Caroline smiled with evident effort, then lifted the monkey and set him on her lap.

  “Stroke him,” Polletti suggested. “And you might also pat him on the nose. He likes that very much.”

  Caroline turned the animal over. Then, gingerly, she patted his nose.

  The electronic animal abruptly stopped moving. Simultaneously, a panel in his chest swung open, revealing a heavy revolver concealed inside.

  “Did you know about this?” Caroline asked.

  “Of course,” Polletti said. “Just as I know about you—that you are my Hunter.”

  Caroline stared at him, the smile gone from her face.

  “That revolver is proof of my sincerity,” Polletti said. “It is proof that I want to live with you … that I do not want to kill you.”

  Caroline bit her lip. Her face set, and her hand tightened over the revolver within the electronic monkey.

  Just at that moment the walls of the hut began to tremble violently, and then to rise slowly into the air. Caroline did not even bother to look up at this unusual sight. Her intent gaze never left Polletti’s face. Polletti, for his part, watched with evident delight as the walls lifted, foot by foot, revealing rows of ruins in the middle distance.

  “It’s wonderful, Caroline,” he said. “It’s absolutely marvelous.”

  Now the upper part of the hut was lifted away entirely. Gazing skyward, Polletti could see the walls being borne away in a south-south westerly direction on the end of a single-core Nylorex cable by a helicopter painted red, white and beige—the colors of the UUU Teleplex Ampwork. And around him, tier upon crumbling tier, rose the serried bleachers of the Colosseum.

 

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