sk.runningman-第9部分

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t；　Mr。　Richards。　Then　the　lighting　runs。　You'll　be　quartered　offstage　and　we　won't　meet　again　before　you　go　on。　So…'
　　〃It's　been　grand；〃　Richards　said。　He　declined　the　hand。
　　Miss　Jones　led　him　out。　It　was　2：30。
　　
　　Minus　081　and　COUNTING
　　Richards　stood　in　the　wings　with　a　cop　on　each　side；　listening　to　the　studio　audience　as　they　frantically　applauded　Bobby　Thompson。　He　was　nervous。　He　jeered　at　himself　for　it；　but　the　nervousness　was　a　fact。　Jeering　would　not　make　it　go　away。　It　was　6：01。
　　〃Tonight's　first　contestant　is　a　shrewd；　resourceful　man　from　south　of　the　Canal　in　our　own　home　city；〃　Thompson　was　saying。　The　monitor　faded　to　a　stark　portrait　of　Richards　in　his　baggy　gray　workshirt；　taken　by　a　hidden　camera　days　before。　The　background　looked　like　the　fifth　floor　waiting　room。　It　had　been　retouched；　Richards　thought；　to　make　his　eyes　deeper；　his　forehead　a　little　lower；　his　cheeks　more　shadowed。　His　mouth　had　been　given　a　jeering；　curled　expression　by　some　technico's　airbrush。　All　in　all；　the　Richards　on　the　monitor　was　terrifying…the　angel　of　urban　death；　brutal；　not　very　bright；　but　possessed　of　a　certain　primitive　animal　cunning。　The　uptown　apartment　dweller's　boogeyman。
　　〃This　man　is　Benjamin　Richards；　age　twenty…eight。　Know　the　face　well！　In　a　half…hour；　this　man　will　be　on　the　prowl。　A　verified　sighting　brings　you　one　hundred　New　Dollars！　A　sighting　which　results　in　a　kill　results　in　one　thousand　New　Dollars　for　you！〃
　　Richards's　mind　was　wandering；　it　came　back　to　the　point　with　a　mighty　snap。
　　〃　。　。　。　and　this　is　the　woman　that　Benjamin　Richards's　award　will　go　to；　if　and　when　he　is　brought　down！〃
　　The　picture　dissolved　to　a　still　of　Sheila　。　。　。　but　the　airbrush　had　been　at　work　again；　this　time　wielded　with　a　heavier　hand。　The　results　were　brutal。　The　sweet；　not…so…good…looking　face　had　been　transformed　into　that　of　a　vapid　slattern。　Full；　pouting　lips；　eyes　that　seemed　to　glitter　with　avarice；　a　suggestion　of　a　double　chin　fading　down　to　what　appeared　to　be　bare　breasts。
　　〃You　bastard！〃　Richards　grated。　He　lunged　forward；　but　powerful　arms　held　him　back。
　　〃Simmer　down；　buddy。　It's　only　a　picture。〃
　　A　moment　later　he　was　half　led；　half　dragged　onstage。
　　The　audience　reaction　was　immediate。　The　studio　was　filled　with　screamed　cries　of　〃Boo！　Cycle　bum！　〃　〃Get　out；　you　creep！　〃　〃Kill　him！　Kill　the　bastard！　〃　〃You　eat　it！〃　〃Get　out；　get　out！　〃
　　Bobby　Thompson　held　his　arms　up　and　shouted　good…naturedly　for　quiet。　〃Let's　hear　what　he's　got　to　say。〃　The　audience　quieted；　but　reluctantly。
　　Richards　stood　bull…like　under　the　hot　lights　with　his　head　lowered。　He　knew　he　was　projecting　exactly　the　aura　of　hate　and　defiance　that　they　wanted　him　to　project；　but　he　could　not　help　it。
　　He　stared　at　Thompson　with　hard；　red…rimmed　eyes。　〃Somebody　is　going　to　eat　their　own　balls　for　that　picture　of　my　wife；〃　he　said。
　　〃Speak　up；　speak　up；　Mr。　Richards！〃　Thompson　cried　with　just　the　right　note　of　contempt。　〃Nobody　will　hurt　you　。　。　。　at　least；　not　yet。〃
　　More　screams　and　hysterical　vituperation　from　the　audience。
　　Richards　suddenly　wheeled　to　face　them；　and　they　quieted　as　if　slapped。　Women　stared　at　him　with　frightened；　half…sexual　expressions。　Men　grinned　up　at　him　with　blood…hate　in　their　eyes。
　　〃You　bastards！　〃　He　cried。　〃If　you　want　to　see　somebody　die　so　bad；　why　don't　you　kill　each　other？〃
　　His　final　words　were　drowned　in　more　screams。　People　from　the　audience　（perhaps　paid　to　do　so）　were　trying　to　get　onstage。　The　police　were　holding　them　back。　Richards　faced　them；　knowing　how　he　must　look。
　　〃Thank　you；　Mr。　Richards；　for　those　words　of　wisdom。〃　The　contempt　was　palpable　now；　and　the　crowd；　nearly　silent　again；　was　eating　it　up。　〃Would　you　like　to　tell　our　audience　in　the　studio　and　at　home　how　long　you　think　you　can　hold　out？〃
　　〃I　want　to　tell　everybody　in　the　studio　and　at　home　that　that　wasn't　my　wife！　That　was　a　cheap　fake…〃
　　The　crowd　drowned　him　out。　Their　screams　of　hate　had　reached　a　near　fever　pitch。　Thompson　waited　nearly　a　minute　for　them　to　quiet　a　little；　and　then　repeated：　〃How　long　do　you　expect　to　hold　out；　Mister　Richards？〃
　　〃I　expect　to　go　the　whole　thirty；〃　Richards　said　coolly。　〃I　don't　think　you've　got　anybody　who　can　take　me。〃
　　More　screaming。　Shaken　fists。　Someone　threw　a　tomato。
　　Bobby　Thompson　faced　the　audience　again　and　cried：　〃With　those　last　cheap　words　of　bravado；　Mr。　Richards　will　be　led　from　our　stage。　Tomorrow　at　noon；　the　hunt　begins。　Remember　his　face！　It　may　be　next　to　you　on　a　pneumo　bus　。　。　。　in　a　jet　plane　。　。　。　at　a　3…D　rack　。　。　。　in　your　local　killball　arena。　Tonight　he's　in　Harding。　Tomorrow　in　New　York？　Boise？　Albuquerque？　Columbus？　Skulking　outside　your　home？　Will　you　report　him？〃
　　〃YESS！！！　〃　They　screamed。
　　Richards　suddenly　gave　them　the　finger…both　fingers。　This　time　the　rush　for　the　stage　was　by　no　stretch　of　the　imagination　simulated。　Richards　was　rushed　out　the　stage…left　exit　before　they　could　rip　him　apart　on　camera；　thus　depriving　the　Network　of　all　the　juicy　uping　coverage。
　　
　　Minus　080　and　COUNTING
　　Killian　was　in　the　wings；　and　convulsed　with　amusement。　〃Fine　performance；　Mr。　Richards。　Fine！　God；　I　wish　I　could　give　you　a　bonus。　Those　fingers　。　。　。　superb！　〃
　　〃We　aim　to　please；〃　Richards　said。　The　monitors　were　dissolving　to　a　promo。　〃Give　me　the　goddam　camera　and　go　fuck　yourself。〃
　　〃That's　generically　impossible；〃　Killian　said；　still　grinning；　〃but　here's　the　camera。〃　He　took　it　from　the　technico　who　had　been　cradling　it。　〃Fully　loaded　and　ready　to　go。　And　here　are　the　clips。　〃　He　handed　Richards　a　small；　surprisingly　heavy　oblong　box　wrapped　in　oilcloth。
　　Richards　dropped　the　camera　into　one　coat　pocket；　the　clips　into　the　other。　〃Okay。　Where's　the　elevator？〃
　　〃Not　so　fast；〃　Killian　said。　〃You've　got　a　minute　。　。　。　twelve　of　them；　actually。　Your　twelve　hours'　leeway　doesn't　start　officially　until　six…thirty。〃
　　The　screams　of　rage　had　begun　again。　Looking　over　his　shoulder；　Richards　saw　that　Laughlin　was　on。　His　heart　went　out　to　him。
　　〃I　like　you；　Richards；　and　I　think　you'll　do　well；〃　Killian　said。　〃You　have　a　certain　crude　style　that　I　enjoy　immensely。　I'm　a　collector；　you　know。　Cave　art　and　Egyptian　artifacts　are　my　areas　of　specialization。　You　are　more　analogous　to　the　cave　art　than　to　my　Egyptian　urns；　but　no　matter。　I　wish　you　could　be　preserved…collected；　if　you　please　just　as　my　Asian　cave　paintings　have　been　collected　and　preserved。〃
　　〃Grab　a　recording　of　my　brain　waves；　you　bastard。　They're　on　record。〃
　　〃So　I'd　like　to　give　you　a　piece　of　advice；〃　Killian　said；　ignoring　him。　〃You　don't　really　have　a　chance；　nobody　does　with　a　whole　nation　in　on　the　manhunt　and　with　the　incredibly　sophisticated　equipment　and　training　that　the　Hunters　have。　But　if　you　stay　low；　you'll　last　longer。　Use　your　legs　instead　of　any　weapons　you　happen　to　pick　up。　And　stay　close　to　your　own　people。〃　He　leveled　a　finger　at　Richards　in　emphasis。　〃Not　these　good　middle…class　folks　out　there；　they　hate　your　guts。　You　symbolize　all　the　fears　of　this　dark　and　broken　time。　It　wasn't　all　show　and　audience…packing　out　there；　Richards。　They　hate　your　guts。　Could　you　feel　it？〃
　　〃Yes；〃　Richards　said。　〃I　felt　it。　I　hate　them；　too。〃
　　Killian　smiled。　〃That's　why　they're　killing　you。〃　He　took　Richards's　arm；　his　grip　was　surprisingly　strong。　〃This　way。〃　'
　　Behind　them；　Laughlin　was　being　ragged　by　Bobby　Thompson　to　the　audience's　satisfaction。
　　Down　a　white　corridor；　their　footfalls　echoing　hollowly…alone。　All　alone。　One　elevator　at　the　end。
　　〃This　is　where　you　and　I　part　pany；〃　Killian　said。　〃Express　to　the　street。　Nine　seconds。〃
　　He　offered　his　hand　for　the　fourth　time；　and　Richards　refused　it　again。　Yet　he　lingered　a　moment。
　　〃What　if　I　could　go　up？〃　he　asked；　and　gestured　with　his　head　toward　the　ceiling　and　the　eighty　stories　above　the　ceiling。　〃Who　could　I　kill　up　there？　Who　could　I　kill　if　I　went　right　to　the　top？〃
　　Killian　laughed　softly　and　punched　the　button　beside　the　elevator；　the　doors　popped　open。　〃That's　what　I　like　about　you；　Richards。　You　think　big。〃
　　Richards　stepped　into　the　elevator。　The　doors　slid　toward　each　other。
　　〃Stay　low；〃　Killian　repeated；　and　then　Richards　was　alone。
　　The　bottom　dropped　out　of　his　stomach　as　the　elevator　sank　toward　the　street。
　　
　　Minus　079　and　COUNTING
　　The　elevator　opened　directly　onto　the　street。　A　cop　was　standing　by　its　frontage　on　Nixon　Memorial　Park；　but　he　did　not　look　at　Richards　as　he　stepped　out；　only　tapped　his　move…along　reflectively　and　stared　into　the　soft　drizzle　that　filled　the　air。
　　The　drizzle　had　brought　early　dusk　to　the　city。　The　lights　glowed　mystically　through　the　darkness；　and　the　people　moving　on　Rampart　Street　in　the　shadow　of　the　Games　Building　were　only　insubstantial　shadows；　as　Richards　knew　he　must　be　himself。　He　breathed　deeply　of　the　wet；　sulphur…tainted　air。　It　was　good　in　spite　of　the　taste。　It　seemed　that　he　had　just　been　let　out　of　prison；　rather　than　from　one　municating　cell　to　another。　The　air　was　good。　The　air　was　fine。
　　Stay　close　to　your　own　people；　Killian　had　said。　Of　course　he　was　right。　Richards　hadn't　needed　Killian　to　tell　him　that。　Or　to　know　that　the　heat　would　be　heaviest　in　Co…Op　City　when　the　truce　broke　at　noon　tomorrow。　But　by　then　he　would　be　over　the　hills　and　far　away。
　　He　walked　three　blocks　and　hailed　a　taxi。　He　was　hoping　the　cab's　Free…Vee　would　be　busted…a　lot　of　them　were…but　this　one　was　in　A…1　working　order；　and　blaring　the　closing　credits　of　The　Running　Man。　Shit。
　　〃Where；　buddy？〃
　　〃Robard　Street。〃　That　was　five　blocks　from　his　destination；　when　the　cab　dropped　him；　he　would　go　backyard　express　to　Moue's　place。
　　The　cab　accelerated；　ancient　gas…powered　engine　a　discordant　symphony　of　pounding　pistons　and　manifold　noise。　Richards　slumped　back　against　the　vinyl　cushions；　into　what　he　hoped　was　deeper　shadow。
　　〃Hey；　I　just　seen　you　on　the　Free…Vee！〃　the　cabbie　exclaimed。　〃You're　that　guy　Pritchard！　〃
　　〃Pritchard。　That's　right；〃　Richards　said　resignedly。　The　Games　Building　was　dwindling　behind　them。　A　psychological　shadow　seemed　to　be　dwindling　proportiona