Simply—annihilation was just around the corner.
In the world wars, weapons increased in magnitude, efficiency, and exterminating power. Soldiers became accustomed to them, less and less reluctant to use them.
But the saturation point had been reached. Another war would truly be the war to end all wars. There would be no one left to start another.
So this peace had to last for all time, but the men who engineered it were practical. They recognized the tensions and dislocations still present, the cauldrons in which wars are brewed. They asked themselves why peace had never lasted in the past.
“Because men like to fight,” was their answer.
“Oh, no!” screamed the idealists.
But the men who engineered the peace were forced to postulate, regretfully, the presence of a need for violence in a large percentage of mankind.
Men aren’t angels. They aren’t fiends, either. They are just very human beings, with a high degree of combativeness.
With the scientific knowledge and the power they had at that moment, the practical men could have gone a long way toward breeding this trait out of the race. Many thought this was the answer.
The practical men didn’t. They recognized the validity of competition, love of battle, courage in the face of overwhelming odds. These, they felt, were admirable traits for a race, and insurance toward its perpetuity. Without them, the race would be bound to retrogress.
The tendency toward violence, they found, was inextricably linked with ingenuity, flexibility, drive.
The problem, then: To arrange a peace that would last after they were gone. To stop the race from destroying itself, without removing the responsible traits.
The way to do this, they decided, was to rechannel Man’s violence.
Provide him with an outlet, an expression.
The first big step was the legalization of gladiatorial events, complete with blood and thunder. But more was needed. Sublimations worked only up to a point. Then people demanded the real thing.
There is no substitute for murder.
So murder was legalized, on a strictly individual basis, and only for those who wanted it. The governments were directed to create Emotional Catharsis Boards.
After a period of experimentation, uniform rules were adopted.
Anyone who wanted to murder could sign up at the ECB. Giving certain data and assurances, he would be granted a Victim.
Anyone who signed up to murder, under the government rules, had to take his turn a few months later as Victim—if he survived.
That, in essence, was the setup. The individual could commit as many murders as he wanted. But between each, he had to be a Victim. If he successfully killed his Hunter, he could stop, or sign up for another murder.
At the end of ten years, an estimated third of the world’s civilized population had applied for at least one murder. The number slid to a fourth, and stayed there.
Philosophers shook their heads, but the practical men were satisfied. War was where it belonged—in the hands of the individual.
Of course, there were ramifications to the game, and elaborations. Once its existence had been accepted it became big business. There were services for Victim and Hunter alike.
The Emotional Catharsis Board picked the Victims’ names at random. A Hunter was allowed two weeks in which to make his kill. This had to be done by his own ingenuity, unaided. He was given the name of his Victim, address, and description, and allowed to use a standard-caliber pistol. He could wear no armor of any sort.
The Victim was notified a week before the Hunter. He was told only that he was a Victim. He did not know the name of his Hunter. He was allowed his choice of armor. He could hire spotters. A spotter couldn’t kill; only Victim and Hunter could do that. But he could detect a stranger in town, or ferret out a nervous gunman.
The Victim could arrange any kind of ambush in his power to kill the Hunter.
There were stiff penalties for killing or wounding the wrong man, for no other murder was allowed. Grudge killings and gain killings were punishable by death.
The beauty of the system was that the people who wanted to kill could do so. Those who didn’t—the bulk of the population—didn’t have to.
At least, there weren’t any more big wars. Not even the imminence of one.
Just hundreds of thousands of small ones.
Frelaine didn’t especially like the idea of killing a woman; but she had signed up. It wasn’t his fault. And he wasn’t going to lose out on his seventh hunt.
He spent the rest of the morning memorizing the data on his Victim, then filed the letter.
Janet Patzig lived in New York. That was good. He enjoyed hunting in a big city, and he had always wanted to see New York. Her age wasn’t given, but to judge from her photographs, she was in her early twenties.
Frelaine phoned for his jet reservations to New York, then took a shower. He dressed with care in a new Protec-Suit Special made for the occasion. From his collection he selected a gun, cleaned and oiled it, and fitted it into the fling-out pocket of the suit. Then he packed his suitcase.
A pulse of excitement was pounding in his veins. Strange, he thought, how each killing was a new thrill. It was something you just didn’t tire of, the way you did of French pastry or women or drinking or anything else. It was always new and different.
Finally, he looked over his books to see which he would take.
His library contained all the good books on the subject. He wouldn’t need any of his Victim books, like L. Fred Tracy’s Tactics for the Victim, with its insistence on a rigidly controlled environment, or Dr. Frisch’s Don’t Think Like a Victim!
He would be very interested in those in a few months, when he was a Victim again. Now he wanted hunting books.
Tactics for Hunting Humans was the standard and definitive work, but he had it almost memorized. Development of the Ambush was not adapted to his present needs.
He chose Hunting in Cities, by Mitwell and Clark; Spotting the Spotter, by Algreen; and The Victim’s Ingroup, by the same author.
Everything was in order. He left a note for the milkman, locked his apartment, and took a cab to the airport.
In New York, he checked into a hotel in the midtown area, not too far from his Victim’s address. The clerks were smiling and attentive, which bothered Frelaine. He didn’t like to be recognized so easily as an out-of-town killer.
The first thing he saw in his room was a pamphlet on his bed-table. How to Get the Most out of your Emotional Catharsis, it was called, with the compliments of the management. Frelaine smiled and thumbed through it.
Since it was his first visit to New York, he spent the afternoon just walking the streets in his Victim’s neighborhood. After that, he wandered through a few stores.
Martinson and Black was a fascinating place. He went through their Hunter-Hunted room. There were lightweight bulletproof vests for Victims, and Richard Arlington hats, with bulletproof crowns.
On one side was a large display of a new .38 caliber sidearm.
“Use the Malvern Strait-shot!” the ad proclaimed. “ECB-approved. Carries a load of twelve shots. Tested deviation less than .001 inches per 1000 feet. Don’t miss your Victim! Don’t risk your life without the best! Be safe with Malvern!”
Frelaine smiled. The ad was good, and the small black weapon looked ultimately efficient. But he was satisfied with the one he had.
There was a special sale on trick canes, with concealed four-shot magazine, promising safety and concealment. As a young man, Frelaine had gone in heavily for novelties. But now he knew that the old-fashioned ways were usually best.
Outside the store, four men from the Department of Sanitation were carting away a freshly killed corpse. Frelaine regretted missing the take.