But he held back. Just for the moment, he told himself.
The Gladiatorials were about the same as those held anywhere else, except that the talent was a little better. There were the usual historical events, swordsmen and netmen, duels with saber and foil.
Most of these, naturally, were fought to the death.
Then bull fighting, lion fighting, and rhino fighting, followed by the more modern events. Fights from behind barricades with bow and arrow. Duelling on a high wire.
The evening passed pleasantly.
Frelaine escorted the girl home, the palms of his hands sticky with sweat. He had never found a woman he liked better. And yet she was his legitimate kill.
He didn’t know what he was going to do.
She invited him in and they sat together on the couch. The girl lighted a cigarette for herself with a large lighter, then settled back.
“Are you leaving soon?” she asked him.
“I suppose so,” Frelaine said. “The convention is only lasting another day.”
She was silent for a moment. “I’ll be sorry to see you go.”
They were quiet for a while. Then Janet went to fix him a drink. Frelaine eyed her retreating back. Now was the time. He placed his hand near the button.
But the moment had passed for him, irrevocably. He wasn’t going to kill her. You don’t kill the girl you love.
The realization that he loved her was shocking. He’d come to kill, not to find a wife.
She came back with the drink and sat down opposite him, staring at emptiness.
“Janet,” he said. “I love you.”
She sat, just looking at him. There were tears in her eyes.
“You can’t,” she protested. “I’m a Victim. I won’t live long enough to—”
“You won’t be killed. I’m your Hunter.”
She stared at him a moment, then laughed uncertainly.
“Are you going to kill me?” she asked.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “I’m going to marry you.”
Suddenly she was in his arms.
“Oh, Lord!” she gasped. “The waiting—I’ve been so frightened—”
“It’s all over,” he told her. “Think what a story it’ll make for our kids. How I came to murder you and left marrying you.”
She kissed him, then sat back and lighted another cigarette.
“Let’s start packing,” Frelaine said. “1 want—”
“Wait,” Janet interrupted. “You haven’t asked if I love you.”
“What?”
She was still smiling, and the cigarette lighter was pointed at him. In the bottom of it was a black hole. A hole just large enough for a .38 caliber bullet.
“Don’t kid around,” he objected, getting to his feet.
“I’m not being funny, darling,” she said.
In a fraction of a second, Frelaine had time to wonder how he could ever have thought she was not much over twenty. Looking at her now—really looking at her—he knew she couldn’t be much less than thirty. Every minute of her strained, tense existence showed on her face.
“I don’t love you, Stanton,” she said very softly, the cigarette lighter poised.
Frelaine struggled for breath. One part of him was able to realize detachedly what a marvelous actress she really was. She must have known all along.
Frelaine pushed the button, and the gun was in his hand, cocked and ready.
The blow that struck him in the chest knocked him over a coffee table. The gun fell out of his hand. Gasping, half-conscious, he watched her take careful aim for the coup de grace.
“Now I can join the Tens,” he heard her say elatedly as she squeezed the trigger.
CORDLE TO ONION TO CARROT
Surely, you remember that bully who kicked sand on the 97-pound-weakling? Well, that puny man’s problem has never been solved, despite Charles Atlas’s claims to the contrary. A genuine bully likes to kick sand on people; for him, simply, there is gut-deep satisfaction in a put-down. It wouldn’t matter if you weighed 240 pounds—all of it rock-hard muscle and steely sinew—and were as wise as Solomon or as witty as Voltaire; you’d still end up with the sand of an insult in your eyes, and probably you wouldn’t do anything about it.
That was how Howard Cordle viewed the situation. He was a pleasant man who was forever being pushed around by Fuller Brush men, fund solicitors, headwaiters, and other imposing figures of authority. Cordle hated it. He suffered in silence the countless numbers of manic-aggressives who shoved their way to the heads of lines, took taxis he had hailed first and sneeringly steered away girls to whom he was talking at parties.
What made it worse was that these people seemed to welcome provocation, to go looking for it, all for the sake of causing discomfort to others.
Cordle couldn’t understand why this should be, until one midsummer’s day, when he was driving through the northern regions of Spain while stoned out of his mind, the god Thoth-Hermes granted him original enlightenment by murmuring, “Uh, look, I groove with the problem, baby, but dig, we gotta put carrots in or it ain’t no stew.”
“Carrots?” said Cordle, struggling for illumination.
“I’m talking about those types who get you uptight,” Thoth-Hermes explained. “They gotta act that way, baby, on account of they’re carrots, and that’s how carrots are.”
“If they are carrots,” Cordle said, feeling his way, “then I—”
“You, of course, are a little pearly-white onion.”
“Yes! My God, yes!” Cordle cried, dazzled by the blinding light of satori.
“And, naturally, you and all the other pearly-white onions think that carrots are just bad news, merely some kind of misshapen orangey onion; whereas the carrots look at you and rap about freaky round white carrots, wow! I mean, you’re just too much for each other, whereas, in actuality—”
“Yes, go on!” cried Cordle.
“In actuality,” Thoth-Hermes declared, “everything’s got a place in The Stew!”
“Of course! I see, I see, I see!”
“And that means that everybody who exists is necessary, and you must have long hateful orange carrots if you’re also going to have nice pleasant decent white onions, or vice versa, because without all the ingredients, it isn’t a Stew, which is to say, life, it becomes, uh, let me see...”
“A soup!” cried ecstatic Cordle.
“You’re coming in five by five,” chanted Thoth-Hermes. “Lay down the word, deacon, and let the people know the divine formula...”
“A soup!” said Cordle. “Yes, I see it now—creamy, pure-white onion soup is our dream of heaven, whereas fiery orange carrot broth is our notion of hell. It fits, it all fits together!”
“Om mani padme hum,” intoned Thoth-Hermes.
“But where do the green peas go? What about the meat, for God’s sake?”
“Don’t pick at the metaphor,” Thoth-Hermes advised him, “it leaves a nasty scab. Stick with the carrots and onions. And, here, let me offer you a drink—a house specialty.”
“But the spices, where do you put the spices?” Cordle demanded, taking a long swig of burgundy-colored liquid from a rusted canteen.
“Baby, you’re asking questions that can be revealed only to a thirteenth-degree Mason with piles, wearing sandals. Sorry about that. Just remember that everything goes into The Stew.”
“Into The Stew,” Cordle repeated, smacking his lips.
“And, especially, stick with the carrots and onions; you were really grooving there.”
“Carrots and onions,” Cordle repeated.
“That’s your trip,” Thoth-Hermes said. “Hey, we’ve gotten to Corunna; you can let me out anywhere around here.”
Cordle pulled his rented car off the road. Thoth-Hermes took his knapsack from the back seat and got out.