sk.runningman-第19部分

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a　few　along。〃
　　Richards　opened　the　rear　door　and　popped　the　trunk　to　get　the　black　satchel　inside。　Bradley　handed　him　a　cordovan…colored　cane　wordlessly。
　　The　car　pulled　out　into　traffic　smoothly。　Richards　stood　on　the　curb　for　a　moment；　watching　him　go…watching　him　myopically；　he　hoped。　The　taillights　flashed　once　at　the　corner；　then　the　car　swung　out　of　sight；　back　to　the　parking　lot　where　Bradley　would　leave　it　and　pick　up　the　other　to　go　back　to　Boston。
　　Richards　had　a　weird　sensation　of　relief　and　realized　that　he　was　feeling　empathy　for　Bradley…how　glad　he　must　be　to　have　me　off　his　back；　finally！
　　Richards　made　himself　miss　the　first　step　up　to　the　Winthrop　House's　entrance；　and　the　doorman　assisted　him。
　　
　　Minus　056　and　COUNTING
　　Two　days　passed。
　　Richards　played　his　part　well…that　is　to　say；　as　if　his　life　depended　on　it。　He　took　dinner　at　the　hotel　both　nights　in　his　room。　He　rose　at　seven；　read　his　Bible　in　the　lobby；　and　then　went　out　to　his　〃meeting。〃　The　hotel　staff　treated　him　with　easy；　contemptuous　cordiality…the　kind　reserved　for　half…blind；　fumbling　clerics　（who　paid　their　bills）　in　this　day　of　limited　legalized　murder；　germ　warfare　in　Egypt　and　South　America；　and　the　notorious　have…one…kill…one　Nevada　abortion　law。　The　Pope　was　a　muttering　old　man　of　ninety…six　whose　driveling　edicts　concerning　such　current　events　were　reported　as　the　closing　humorous　items　on　the　seven　o'clock　newsies。
　　Richards　held　his　one…man　〃meetings〃　in　a　rented　library　cubicle　where；　with　the　door　locked；　he　was　reading　about　pollution。　There　was　very　little　information　later　than　2002；　and　what　there　was　seemed　to　jell　very　badly　with　what　had　been　written　before。　The　government；　as　usual；　was　doing　a　tardy　but　efficient　job　of　double　thinking。
　　At　noon　he　made　his　way　down　to　a　luncheonette　on　the　corner　of　a　street　not　far　from　the　hotel；　bumping　into　people　and　excusing　himself　as　he　went。　Some　people　told　him　it　was　quite　all　right；　Father。　Most　simply　cursed　in　an　uninterested　way　and　pushed　him　aside。
　　He　spent　the　afternoons　in　his　room　and　ate　dinner　watching　The　Running　Man。　He　had　mailed　four　filmclips　while　enroute　to　the　library　during　the　mornings。　The　forwarding　from　Boston　seemed　to　be　going　smoothly。
　　The　producers　of　the　program　had　adopted　a　new　tactic　for　killing　Richards's　pollution　message　（he　persisted　with　it　in　a　kind　of　grinning　frenzy…he　had　to　be　getting　through　to　the　lip…readers　anyway）：　now　the　crowd　drowned　out　the　voice　with　a　rising　storm　of　jeers；　screams；　obscenities；　and　vituperation。　Their　sound　grew　increasingly　more　frenzied；　ugly　to　the　point　of　dementia。
　　In　his　long　afternoons；　Richards　reflected　that　an　unwilling　change　had　e　over　him　during　his　five　days　on　the　run。　Bradley　had　done　it…Bradley　and　the　little　girl。　There　was　no　longer　just　himself；　a　lone　man　fighting　for　his　family；　bound　to　be　cut　down。　Now　there　were　all　of　them　out　there；　strangling　on　their　own　respiration…his　family　included。
　　He　had　never　been　a　social　man。　He　had　shunned　causes　with　contempt　and　disgust。　They　were　for　pig…simple　suckers　and　people　with　too　much　time　and　money　on　their　hands；　like　those　half…assed　college　kids　with　their　cute　buttons　and　their　neo…rock　groups。
　　Richards's　father　had　slunk　into　the　night　when　Richards　was　five。　Richards　had　been　too　young　to　remember　him　in　anything　but　flashes。　He　had　never　hated　him　for　it。　He　understood　well　enough　how　a　man　with　a　choice　between　pride　and　responsibility　will　almost　always　choose　pride…if　responsibility　robs　him　of　his　manhood。　A　man　can't　stick　around　and　watch　his　wife　earning　supper　on　her　back。　If　a　man　can't　do　any　more　than　pimp　for　the　woman　he　married；　Richards　judged；　he　might　as　well　walk　out　of　a　high　window。
　　He　had　spent　the　years　between　five　and　sixteen　hustling；　he　and　his　brother　Todd。　His　mother　had　died　of　syphilis　when　he　was　ten　and　Todd　was　seven。　Todd　had　been　killed　five　years　later　when　a　newsie　airtruck　had　lost　its　emergency　brake　on　a　hill　while　Todd　was　loading　it。　The　city　had　fed　both　mother　and　son　into　the　Municipal　Crematorium。　The　kids　on　the　street　called　it　either　the　Ash　Factory　or　the　Creamery；　they　were　bitter　but　helpless；　knowing　that　they　themselves　would　most　likely　end　up　being　belched　out　of　the　stacks　and　into　the　city's　air。　At　sixteen　Richards　was　alone；　working　a　full　eight…hour　shift　as　an　engine　wiper　after　school。　And　in　spite　of　his　back…breaking　schedule；　he　had　felt　a　constant　panic　that　came　from　knowing　he　was　alone　and　unknown；　drifting　free。　He　awoke　sometimes　at　three　in　the　morning　to　the　rotted…cabbage　smell　of　the　one…room　tenement　flat　with　terror　lodged　in　the　deepest　chamber　of　his　soul。　He　was　his　own　man。
　　And　so　he　had　married；　and　Sheila　had　spent　the　first　year　in　proud　silence　while　their　friends　（and　Richards's　enemies；　he　had　made　many　by　his　refusal　to　go　along　on　mass…vandalizing　expeditions　and　join　a　local　gang）　waited　for　the　Uterus　Express　to　arrive。　When　it　didn't；　interest　flagged。　They　were　left　in　that　particular　limbo　that　was　reserved　for　newlyweds　in　Co…Op　City。　Few　friends　and　a　circle　of　acquaintances　that　reached　only　as　far　as　the　stoop　of　their　own　building。　Richards　did　not　mind　this；　it　suited　him。　He　threw　himself　into　his　work　wholly；　with　grinning　intensity；　getting　overtime　when　he　could。　The　wages　were　bad；　there　was　no　chance　of　advancement；　and　inflation　was　running　wild…but　they　were　in　love。　They　remained　in　love；　and　why　not？　Richards　was　that　kind　of　solitary　man　who　can　afford　to　expend　gigantic　charges　of　love；　affection；　and；　perhaps；　psychic　domination　on　the　woman　of　his　choice。　Up　until　that　point　his　emotions　had　been　almost　entirely　untouched。　In　the　eleven　years　of　their　marriage；　they　had　never　argued　significantly。
　　He　quit　his　job　in　2018　because　the　chances　of　ever　having　children　decreased　with　every　shift　he　spent　behind　the　leaky　G…A　old…style　lead　shields。　He　might　have　been　all　right　if　he　answered　the　foreman's　aggrieved　〃Why　are　you　quitting？〃　with　a　lie。　But　Richards　had　told　him；　simply　and　clearly；　what　he　thought　of　General　Atomics；　concluding　with　an　invitation　to　the　foreman　to　take　all　his　gamma　shields　and　perform　a　reverse　bowel　movement　with　them。　It　ended　in　a　short；　savage　scuffle。　The　foreman　was　brawny　and　looked　tough；　but　Richards　made　him　scream　like　a　woman。
　　The　blackball　began　to　roll。　He's　dangerous。　Steer　clear。　If　you　need　a　man　bad；　put　him　on　for　a　week　and　then　get　rid　of　him。　In　G…A　parlance；　Richards　had　Shown　Red。
　　During　the　next　five　years　he　had　spent　a　lot　of　time　rolling　and　loading　newsies；　but　the　work　thinned　to　a　trickle　and　then　died。　The　Free…Vee　killed　the　printed　word　very　effectively。　Richards　pounded　the　pavement。　Richards　was　moved　along。　Richards　worked　intermittently　for　day…labor　outfits。
　　The　great　movements　of　the　decade　passed　by　him　ignored；　like　ghosts　to　an　unbeliever。　He　knew　nothing　of　the　Housewife　Massacre　in　'24　until　his　wife　told　him　about　it　three　weeks　later…two　hundred　police　armed　with　tommy　guns　and　high…powered　move…alongs　had　turned　back　an　army　of　women　marching　on　the　Southwest　Food　Depository。　Sixty　had　been　killed。　He　was　vaguely　aware　that　nerve　gas　was　being　used　in　the　Mideast。　But　none　of　it　affected　him。　Protest　did　not　work。　Violence　did　not　work。　The　world　was　what　it　was；　and　Ben　Richards　moved　through　it　like　a　thin　scythe；　asking　for　nothing；　looking　for　work。　He　ferreted　out　a　hundred　miserable　day　and　half…day　jobs。　He　worked　cleaning　jellylike　slime　from　under　piers　and　in　sump　ditches　when　others　on　the　street；　who　honestly　believed　they　were　looking　for　work；　did　nothing。
　　Move　along；　maggot。　Get　lost。　No　job。　Get　out。　Put　on　your　boogie　shoes。　I'll　blow　your　effing　head　off；　daddy。　Move。
　　Then　the　jobs　dried　up。　Impossible　to　find　anything。　A　rich　man　in　a　silk　singlet；　drunk；　accosted　him　on　the　street　one　evening　as　Richards　shambled　home　after　a　fruitless　day；　and　told　him　he　would　give　Richards　ten　New　Dollars　if　Richards　would　pull　down　his　pants　so　he　could　see　if　the　street　freaks　really　did　have　peckers　a　foot　long。　Richards　knocked　him　down　and　ran。
　　It　was　then；　after　nine　years　of　trying；　that　Sheila　conceived。　He　was　a　wiper；　the　people　in　the　building　said。　Can　you　believe　he　was　a　wiper　for　six　years　and　knocked　her　up？　It'll　be　a　monster；　the　people　in　the　building　said。　It'll　have　two　heads　and　no　eyes。　Radiation；　radiation；　your　children　will　be　monsters…
　　But　instead；　it　was　Cathy。　Round；　perfect；　squalling。　Delivered　by　a　midwife　from　down　the　block　who　took　fifty　cents　and　four　cans　of　beans。
　　And　now；　for　the　first　time　since　his　brother　had　died；　he　was　drifting　again。　Every　pressure　（even；　temporarily；　the　pressure　of　the　chase）　had　been　removed。
　　His　mind　and　his　anger　turned　toward　the　Games　Federation；　with　their　huge　and　potent　munications　link　to　the　whole　world。　Fat　people　with　nose　filters；　spending　their　evenings　with　dollies　in　silk　underpants。　Let　the　guillotine　fall。　And　fall。　And　fall。　Yet　there　was　no　way　to　get　them。　They　towered　above　all　of　them　dimly；　like　the　Games　Building　itself。
　　Yet；　because　he　was　who　he　was；　and　because　he　was　alone　and　changing；　he　thought　about　it。　He　was　unaware；　alone　in　his　room；　that　while　he　thought　about　it　he　grinned　a　huge　white…wolf　grin　that　in　itself　seemed　powerful　enough　to　buckle　streets　and　melt　buildings。　The　same　grin　he　had　worn　on　that　almost…forgotten　day　when　he　had　knocked　a　rich　man　down　and　then　fled　with　his　pockets　empty　and　his　mind　burning。
　　
　　Minus　055　and　COUNTING
　　Monday　was　exactly　the　same　as　Sunday…the　working　world　took　no　one　particular　day　off　anymore…until　six…thirty。
　　Father　Ogden　Grassner　had　Meatloaf　Supreme　sent　up　（the　hotel's　cuisine；　which　would　have　seemed　execrable　to　a　man　who　had　been　weaned　on　anything　better　than　fast…food　hamburgers　and　concentrate　pills；　tasted　great　to　Richards）　with　a　bottle　of　Thunderbird　wine　and　settled　down　to　watch　The　Running　Man。　The　first　segment；　dealing　with　Richards　himself；　went　much　as　it　had　on　the　two　nights　previous。　The　audio　on　his　clips　was　drowned　out　by　the　studio　audienc