The Running Man Read online

  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 F.B.I. and the C.I.A. 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 Y.M.C.A. 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.

  …Minus 030 and COUNTING…

  It was McCone who broke the deadlock first. He threw back his head and laughed.

  It was a very cultured laugh, soft and velvet. “Oh, you are so good, Mr. Richards. Par excellence. Raise, call, and raise again. I salute you with honesty: The woman has not broken. She maintains stubbornly that the bulge I see in your pocket there is Black Irish. We can’t S.A.P. her because it leaves a definable trace. A single E.E.G. on the woman and our secret would be out. We are in the process of lifting in three ampoules of Canogyn from New York. Leaves no trace. We expect it in forty minutes. Not in time to stop you, alas.

  “She is lying. It’s obvious. If you will pardon a touch of what your fellows like to call elitism, I will offer my observation that the middle class lies well only about sex. May I offer another observation? Of course I may. I am.” McCone smiled. “I suspect it’s her handbag. We noticed she had none, although she had been shopping. We’re quite observant. What happened to her purse if it isn’t in your pocket, Richards?”

  He would not pick up the gambit. “Shoot me if you’re so sure.”

  McCone spread his hands sorrowfully. “How well I’d love to! But one does not take chances with human life, not even when the odds are fifty to one in your favor. Too much like Russian roulette. Human life has a certain sacred quality. The government—our government—realizes this. We are humane.”

  “Yes, yes,” Richards said, and smiled ferally. McCone blinked.

  “So you see—”

  Richards started. The man was hypnotizing him. The minutes were flying, a helicopter was coming up from Boston loaded with three ampoules of jack-me-up-and-turn-me-over (and if McCone said forty minutes he meant twenty), and here he stood, listening to this man’s tinkling little anthem. God, he was a monster.

  “Listen to me,” Richards said harshly, interrupting. “The speech is short, little man. When you inject her, she’s going to sing the same tune. For the record, it’s all here. Dig?”

  He locked his gaze with McCone’s and began to walk forward.

  “I’ll see you, shiteater.”

  McCone stepped aside. Richards didn’t even bother to look at him as he passed. Their coat sleeves brushed.

  “For the record, I was told the pull on half-cock was about three pounds. I’ve got about two and a half on now. Give or take.”

  He had the satisfaction of hearing the man’s breath whistle a little faster.

  “Richards?”

  He looked back from the stairs and McCone was looking up at him, the gold edges of his glasses gleaming and flashing. “When you get in the air, we’re going to shoot you down with a ground-to-air missile. The story for the public will be that Richards got a little itchy on the trigger. R.I.P.”

  “You won’t, though.”

  “No?”

  Richards began to smile and gave half a reason. “We’re going to be very low and over heavily populated areas. Add twelve fuel pods to twelve pounds of Irish and you got a very big bang potential. Too big. You’d do it if you could get away with it, but you can’t.” He paused. “You’re so bright. Did you anticipate me on the parachute?”

  “Oh, yes,” McCone said calmly. “It’s in the forward passenger compartment. Such old hat, Mr. Richards. Or do you have another trick in your bag?”

  “You haven’t been stupid enough to tamper with the chute, either, I’ll bet.”

  “Oh no. Too obvious. And you would pull that nonexistent imploder ring just before you struck, I imagine. Quite an effective airburst.”

  “Goodbye, little man.”

  “Goodbye, Mr. Richards. And bon voyage.” He chuckled. “Yes, you do rate honesty. So I will show you one more card. Just one. We are going to wait for the Canogyn before taking action. You are absolutely right about the missile. For now, just a bluff. Call and raise again, eh? But I can afford to wait. You see, I am never wrong. Never. And I know you are bluffing. So we can afford to wait. But I’m keeping you. ’Voir, Mr. Richards.” He waved.

  “Soon,” Richards said, but not loud enough for McCone to hear. And he grinned.

  …Minus 029 and COUNTING…

  The first-class compartment was long and three aisles wide, paneled with real aged sequoia. A wine-colored rug which felt yards deep covered the floor. A 3-D movie screen was cranked up and out of the way on the far wall between the first class and the galley. In seat 100, the bulky parachute pack sat. Richards patted it briefly and went through the galley. Someone had even put coffee on.

  He stepped through another door and stood in a short throat which led to the pilots’ compartment. To the right the radio operator, a man of perhaps thirty with a care-lined face, looked at Richards bitterly and then back at his instruments. A few steps up and to the left, the navigator sat at his boards and grids and plastic-encased charts.

  “The fellow who’s going to get us all killed is coming up fellas,” he said into his throat mike. He gazed coolly at Richards.

  Richards said nothing. The man, after all, was almost certainly right. He limped into the nose of the plane.

  The pilot was fifty or better, an old war-horse with the red nose of a steady drinker, and the clear, perceptive eyes of a man wh
o was not even close to the alcoholic edge. His co-pilot was ten years younger, with a luxuriant growth of red hair spilling out from under his cap.

  “Hello, Mr. Richards,” the pilot said. He glanced at the bulge in Richards’s pocket before he looked at his face. “Pardon me if I don’t shake hands. I’m Flight Captain Don Holloway. This is my co-pilot Wayne Duninger.”

  “Under the circumstances, not very pleased to meet you,” Duninger said.

  Richards’s mouth quirked. “In the same spirit, let me add that I’m sorry to be here. Captain Holloway, you’re patched into communications with McCone, aren’t you?”

  “We sure are. Through Kippy Friedman, our communications man.”

  “Give me something to talk into.”

  Holloway handed him a microphone with infinite carefulness.

  “Get going on your preflight,” Richards said. “Five minutes.”

  “Will you want the explosive bolts on the rear loading door armed?” Duninger said with great eagerness.

  “Tend your knitting,” Richards said coldly. It was time to finish it off, make the final bet. His brain felt hot, overheated, on the verge of blowing a bearing. Call and raise, that was the game.

  I’m going to sky’s the limit right now, McCone.

  “Mr. Friedman?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Richards. I want to talk to McCone.”

  Dead air for half a minute. Holloway and Duninger weren’t watching him anymore; they were going through preflight, reading gauges and pressures, checking flaps, doors, switches. The rising and falling of the huge G-A turbines began again, but now much louder, strident. When McCone’s voice finally came, it was small against the brute noise.

  “McCone here.”

  “Come on, maggot. You and the woman are going for a ride. Show up at the loading door in three minutes or I pull the ring.”

  Duninger stiffened in his bucket seat as if he had been shot. When he went back to his numbers his voice was shaken and terrified.

  If he’s got guts, this is where he calls. Asking for the woman gives it away. If he’s got guts.

  Richards waited.

  A clock was ticking in his head.

  …Minus 028 and COUNTING…

  When McCone’s voice came, it contained a foreign, blustery note. Fear? Possibly. Richards’s heart lurched in his chest. Maybe it was all going to fall together. Maybe.

  “You’re nuts, Richards. I’m not—”

  “You listen,” Richards said, punching through McCone’s voice. “And while you are, remember that this conversation is being party-lined by every ham operator within sixty miles. The word is going to get around. You’re not working in the dark, little man. You’re right out on the big stage. You’re coming because you’re too chicken-shit to pull a double cross when you know it will get you dead. The woman’s coming because I told her where I was going.”

  Weak. Punch him harder. Don’t let him think.

  “Even if you should live when I pull the ring, you won’t be able to get a job selling apples.” He was clutching the handbag in his pocket with frantic, maniacal tightness. “So that’s it. Three minutes. Signing off.”

  “Richards, wait—”

  He signed off, choking McCone’s voice. He handed the mike back to Holloway, and Holloway took it with fingers that trembled only slightly.

  “You’ve got guts,” Holloway said slowly. “I’ll say that. I don’t think I ever saw so much guts.”

  “There will be more guts than anyone ever saw if he pulls that ring,” Duninger said.

  “Continue with your preflight, please,” Richards said. “I am going back to welcome our guests. We go in five minutes.”

  He went back and pushed the chute over to the window seat, then sat down watching the door between first class and second class. He would know very soon. He would know very soon.

  His hand worked with steady, helpless restlessness on Amelia Williams’s handbag.

  Outside it was almost full dark.

  …Minus 027 and COUNTING…

  They came up the stairs with a full forty-five seconds to spare. Amelia was panting and frightened, her hair blown into a haphazard beehive by the steady wind that rolled this manmade flatland. McCone’s appearance was outwardly unchanged; he remained neat and unaffected, unruffled you might say, but his eyes were dark with a hate that was nearly psychotic.

  “You haven’t won a thing, maggot,” he said quietly. “We haven’t even started to play our trump cards yet.”

  “It’s nice to see you again, Mrs. Williams,” Richards said mildly.

  As if he had given her a signal, pulled an invisible string, she began to weep. It was not a hysterical weeping; it was an entirely hopeless sound that came from her belly like hunks of slag. The force of it made her stagger, then crumple to the plush carpet of this plush first-class section with her face cupped in her hands, as if to hold it on. Richards’s blood had dried to a tacky maroon smear on her blouse. Her full skirt, spread around her and hiding her legs, made her look like a wilted flower.

  Richards felt sorry for her. It was a shallow emotion, feeling sorry, but the best he could manage.

  “Mr. Richards?” It was Holloway’s voice over the cabin intercom.

  “Yes.”

  “Do we…are we green?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’m giving the service crew the order to remove the stairs and seal us up. Don’t get nervous with that thing.”

  “All right, Captain. Thank you.”

  “You gave yourself away when you asked for the woman. You know that, don’t you?” McCone seemed to be smiling and scowling at the same time; the overall effect was frighteningly paranoid. His hands were clenching and unclenching.

  “Ah, so?” Richards said mildly. “And since you’re never wrong, you’ll undoubtedly jump me before we take off. That way you’ll be out of jeopardy and come up smelling like a rose, right?”

  McCone’s lips parted in a tiny snarl, and then pressed together until they went white. He made no move. The plane began to pick up a tiny vibration as the engines cycled higher and higher.

  The noise was suddenly muted as the boarding door in second class was slammed shut. Leaning over slightly to peer out one of the circular windows on the port side, Richards could see the crew trundling away the stairs.

  Now we’re all on the scaffold, he thought.

  …Minus 026 and COUNTING…

  The FASTEN SEAT BELTS/NO SMOKING sign to the right of the trundled-up movie screen flashed on. The airplane began a slow, ponderous turn beneath them. Richards had gained all his knowledge of jets from the Free-Vee and from reading, much of it lurid adventure fiction, but this was only the second time he had ever been on one; and it made the shuttle from Harding to New York look like a bathtub toy. He found the huge motion beneath his feet disturbing.

  “Amelia?”

  She looked up slowly, her face ravaged and tear streaked. “Uh?” Her voice was rusty, dazed, mucus clogged. As if she had forgotten where she was.

  “Come forward. We’re taking off.” He looked at McCone. “You go wherever you please, little man. You have the run of the ship. Just don’t bother the crew.”

  McCone said nothing and sat down near the curtained divider between first and second class. Then, apparently thinking better of it, he pushed through into the next section and was gone.

  Richards walked to the woman, using the high backs of the seats for support. “I’d like the window seat,” he said. “I’ve only flown once before.” He tried to smile but she only looked at him dumbly.

  He slid in, and she sat next to him. She buckled his belt for him so his hand did not have to come out of his pocket.

  “You’re like a bad dream,” she said. “One that never ends.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I didn’t—” she began, and he clamped a hand over her mouth and shook his head. He mouthed the word No! at her eyes.

  The plane swung around with slow
, infinite care, turbines screaming, and began to trundle toward the runways like an ungainly duck about to enter the water. It was so big that Richards felt as if the plane were standing still and the earth itself was moving.

  Maybe it’s all illusion, he thought wildly. Maybe they’ve rigged 3-D projectors outside all the windows and—

  He cut the thought off.

  Now they had reached the end of the taxiway and the plane made a cumbersome right turn. They ran at right angles to the runways, passing Three and Two. At One they turned left and paused for a second.

  Over the intercom Holloway said expressionlessly: “Taking off, Mr. Richards.”

  The plane began to move slowly at first, at no more than air-car speed, and then there was a sudden terrifying burst of acceleration that made Richards want to scream aloud in terror.

  He was driven back into the soft pile of his seat, and the landing lights outside suddenly began to leap by with dizzying speed. The scrub bushes and exhaust-stunted trees on the desolate, sunset-riven horizon roared toward them. The engines wound up and up and up. The floor began to vibrate again.

  He suddenly realized that Amelia Williams was holding on to his shoulder with both hands, her face twisted into a miserable grimace of fear.

  Dear God, she’s never flown either!

  “We’re going,” he said. He found himself repeating it over and over and over, unable to stop. “We’re going. We’re going.”

  “Where?” she whispered.

  He didn’t answer. He was just beginning to know.

  …Minus 025 and COUNTING…

  The two troopers on roadblock duty at the eastern entrance of the jetport watched the huge liner fling itself down the runway, gaining speed. Its lights blinked orange and green in the growing dark, and the howl of its engines buffeted their ears.

  “He’s going. Christ, he’s going.”