MINUS 031 AND COUNTING

The service ramp described a rising arc around the glassine, futuristic Northern States Terminal. The way was lined with police holding everything from Mace‑B and tear gas to heavy armor‑piercing weaponry. Their faces were flat, dull, uni­form. Richards drove slowly, sitting up straight now, and they looked at him with vacant, bovine awe. In much the same way, Richards thought, that cows must look at a farmer who had gone mad and lies kicking and sun-fishing and screaming on the barn floor.

The gate to the service area (CAUTION‑EMPLOYEES ONLY‑NO SMOK­ING‑UNAUTHORIZED PERSONS KEEP OUT) had been swung open, and Richards drove sedately through, passing ranks of high‑octane tanker trucks and small private planes pulled up on their chocks. Beyond them was a taxiway, wide oil‑blackened cement with expansion joints. Here his bird was waiting, a huge white jumbo jet with a dozen turbine engines softly grumbling. Beyond, runways stretched straight and clean into the gathering twilight, seeming to approach a meeting point on the horizon. The bird’s roll‑up stairway was just being put into place by four men wearing coveralls. To Richards, it looked like the stairs leading to a scaffold.

And, as if to complete the image, the executioner stepped neatly out of the shad­ows that the plane’s huge belly threw. Evan McCone.

Richards looked at him with the curiosity of a man seeing a celebrity for the first time‑no matter how many times you see his picture in the movie 3‑D’s you can’t believe his reality until he appears in the flesh—and then the reality takes on a cu­rious tone of hallucination, as if entity had no right to exist separate from image.

He was a small man wearing rimless glasses, with a faint suggestion of a pot belly beneath his well‑tailored suit. It was rumored that McCone wore elevator shoes, but if so, they were unobtrusive. There was a small silver flag‑pin in his lapel. All in all, he did not look like a monster at all, the inheritor of such fearsome alphabet‑soup bureaus as the FBI and the CIA. Not like a man who had mas­tered the technique of the black car in the night, the rubber club, the sly question about relatives back home. Not like a man who had mastered the entire spectrum of fear.

“Ben Richards?” He used no bullhorn, and without it his voice was soft and cultured without being effeminate in the slightest.

“Yes.”

“I have a sworn bill from the Games Federation, an accredited arm of the Net­work Communications Commission, for your apprehension and execution. Will you honor it?”

“Does a hen need a flag?”

“Ah.” McCone sounded pleased. “The formalities are taken care of. I believe in formalities, don’t you? No, of course you don’t. You’ve been a very informal contestant. That’s why you’re still alive. Did you know you surpassed the standing Running Man record of eight days and five hours some two hours ago? Of course you don’t. But you have. Yes. And your escape from the YMCA in Boston. Sterling. I understand the Nielsen rating on the program jumped twelve points.”

“Wonderful.”

“Of course, we almost had you during that Portland interlude. Bad luck. Par­rakis swore with his dying breath that you had jumped ship in Auburn. We be­lieved him; he was so obviously a frightened little man.”

“Obviously,” Richards echoed softly.

“But this last play has been simply brilliant. I salute you. In a way, I’m almost sorry the game has to end. I suspect I shall never run up against a more inventive opponent.”

“Too bad,” Richards said.

“It’s over, you know,” McCone said. “The woman broke. We used Sodium Pentothal on her. Old, but reliable.” He pulled a small automatic. “Step out, Mr. Richards. I will pay you the ultimate compliment. I’m going to do it right here, where no one can film it. Your death will be one of relative privacy.”

“Get ready, then,” Richards grinned.

He opened the door and stepped out. The two men faced each other across the blank service area cement.

Date: 2015-04-20; view: 520