“Tom, the directors of Rex gave you that grant. They used Main-Farbenger as a front, but Rex gave you that grant! Can't you see what it means?”
“No. Will you please stop screaming and explain?”
“Tom, it's the Permitted Murder section of the Suicide Act. They’re going to invoke it.”
“What are you taking about?”
“I'm talking about the section of the Suicide Act that makes host-taking legal. Rex has guaranteed the survival of your mind after death, you've accepted it. Now they can legally take your body for any purpose they desire. They own it. They can kill your body, Tom!”
“Kill me?”
“Yes. And of course they’re going to. The government is planning action against them for illegally transporting you from the past. If you’re not around, there's no case. Now listen. You must get out of New York, then out of the country. Maybe they'll leave you alone then. I'll help. I think that you should —” The telephone went dead.
Blaine clicked the receiver several times, but got no dial tone. Apparently the line had been cut.
The elation he had been filled with a few seconds ago drained out of him. The intoxicating sense of freedom from death vanished. How could he have contemplated berserking? He wanted to live. He wanted to live in the flesh, upon the Earth he knew and loved. Spiritual existence was fine, but he didn't want it yet. Not for a long time. He wanted to live among solid objects, breathe air, eat bread and drink water, feel flesh surrounding him, touch other flesh.
When would they try to kill him? Any time at all. His apartment was like a trap. Quickly Blaine scooped all his money into a pocket and hurried to the door. He opened it, and looked up and down the hall. It was empty.
He hurried out, ran down the corridor, and stopped.
A man had just come around the corner. The man was standing in the center of the hall. He was carrying a large projector, which was levelled at Blaine's stomach. The man was Sammy Jones. “Ah, Tom, Tom,” Jones sighed. “Believe me, I'm damned sorry it's you. But business is business.” Blaine stood, frozen, as the projector lifted to level on his chest.
“Why you?” Blaine managed to ask.
“Who else?” Sammy Jones said. “Aren't I the best hunter in the Western Hemisphere, and probably Europe, too? Rex hired every one of us in the New York area. But with beam and projectile weapons this time. I'm sorry it's you, Tom.”
“But I'm a hunter, too,” Blaine said.
“You won't be the first that got gunned. It's the breaks of the game, lad. Don't flinch. I'll make it quick and clean.”
“I don't want to die!” Blaine gasped.
“Why not?” Jones asked. “You've got your hereafter insurance.”
“I was tricked! I want to live! Sammy, don't do it!”
Sammy Jones’ face hardened. He took careful aim, then lowered the gun. “I'm growing too soft-hearted for this game,” Jones said. “All right, Tom, start moving. I guess every Quarry should have a little head start. Makes it more sporting. But I'm only giving you a little.”
“Thanks, Sammy,” Blaine said, and hurried down the hall.
“But Tom — watch your step if you really want to live. I'm telling you, there's more hunters than citizens in New York right now. And every means of transportation is guarded.”
“Thanks,” Blaine called, as he hurried down the stairs.
He was in the street, but he didn't know where to go. Still, he had no time for indecision. It was late afternoon, hours before darkness could help him. He picked a direction and began walking.
Almost instinctively, his steps were leading him toward the slums of the city.
26
He walked past the rickety tenements and ancient apartment houses, past the cheap saloons and night clubs, hands thrust in his pockets, trying to think. He would have to come up with a plan. The hunters would get him in the next hour or two if he couldn't work out some plan, some way of getting out of New York.
Jones had told him that the transportation services were being watched. What hope had he, then? He was unarmed, defenceless —“
Well, perhaps he could change that. With a gun in his hand, things would be a little different. In fact, things might be very different indeed. As Hull had pointed out, a hunter could legally shoot a Quarry; but if a Quarry shot a hunter he was liable for arrest and severe penalties.
If he did shoot a hunter, the police would have to arrest him! It would all get very involved, but it would save him from the immediate danger.
He walked until he came to a pawnshop. In the window was a glittering array of projectile and beam weapons, hunting rifles, knives and machetes. Blaine went in.
“I want a gun,” he said to the moustached man behind the counter.
“A gun. So. And what kind of a gun?” the man asked.
“Have you got any beamers?”
The man nodded and went to a drawer. He took out a gleaming handgun with a bright copper finish.
“Now this,” he said, “is a special buy. It's a genuine Sailes-Byrn needlebeam, used for hunting big Venusian game. At five hundred yards you can cut through anything that walks, crawls or flies. On the side is the aperture selector. You can fan wide for close-range work, or extend to a needle point for distance shooting.”
“Fine, fine,” Blaine said, pulling bills from his pocket.
“This button here,” the pawnbroker said, “controls length of blast. Set as is, you get a standard fractional jolt. One click extends time to a quarter second. Put it on automatic and it'll cut like a scythe. It has a power supply of over four hours, and there's more than three hours still left in the original pack. What's more, you can use this weapon in your home workshop. With a special mounting and a baffle to cut down the power, you can slice plastic with this better than with a saw. A different baffle converts it into a blowtorch. The baffles can be purchased —”
“I'll buy it,” Blaine broke in.
The pawnbroker nodded. “May I see your permit, please?”
Blaine took out his Hunter's License and showed it to the man. The pawnbroker nodded, and, with maddening slowness, filled out a receipt.
“Shall I wrap it?”
“Don't bother. I'll take it as is.”
The pawnbroker said. “That'll be seventy-five dollars.” As Blaine pushed the money across the counter, the pawnbroker consulted a list on the wall behind him.
“Hold it!” he said suddenly.
“Eh?”
“I can't sell you that weapon.”
“Why not?” Blaine asked. “You saw my Hunter's License.”
“But you didn't tell me you were a registered Quarry. You know a Quarry can't have weapons. Your name was flashed here half an hour ago. You can't buy a legal weapon anywhere in New York, Mr. Blaine.”
The pawnbroker pushed the bills back across the counter. Blaine grabbed for the needle-beam. The pawnbroker scooped it up first and levelled it at him.
“I ought to save them the trouble,” he said. “You've got your damned hereafter. What else do you want?”
Blaine stood perfectly still. The pawnbroker lowered the gun.
“But that's not my job,” he said. “The hunters will get you soon enough.”
He reached under the counter and pressed a button. Blaine turned and ran out of the store. It was growing dark. But his location had been revealed. The hunters would be closing in now.
He thought he heard someone calling his name. He pushed through the crowds, not looking back, trying to think of something to do. He couldn't die like this, could he? He couldn't have come 152 years through time to be shot before a million people! It just wasn't fair!
He noticed a man following close behind him, grinning. It was Theseus, gun out, waiting for a clear shot.
Blaine put on a burst of speed, dodged through the crowds and turned quickly into a side street. He sprinted down it, then came to a sudden stop.