Mason sat still in his chair, watching the wizened editor.
“Of course, there are better reasons than tradition — sound economic reasons. Only towns of a certain population qualify for the big money in the State Aid to Small Communities annual grant. And Grayville only has two real industries, Mason: the lead mines and the plant that prints this newspaper. Neither makes gigantic profits, so there’s not much money floating around. People leave town now and then, but they tend to come back, and there’s just so many jobs at the paper and the mines, just so much little business here that can earn enough to stay open.”
“What about the amusement park?” Mason asked.
Burdell looked at him sharply. “Only open once a year, for one day in the summer. The day you happened to be driving through and doing some professional snooping.”
“So the community can only support ‘X’ number of citizens,” Mason said.
“Support them in a reasonably decent fashion.” Burdell cocked his head to one side as he peered across the small table. “Do you know what animals do when they exist in an area with limited food supply, Mason? The herd thins out. That’s nature’s way. They reduce in numbers until there’s adequate food.”
“Nature’s way,” Mason said.
“Instead of nature,” Burdell went on, “we here in Grayville have the annual Carnival. The odds on each of the rides are painted on the ticket booth — I’m sure you noticed them, though you probably didn’t realize at the time what they were. Three hundred to one on the Ferris wheel, four hundred to one on the roller coaster, and so on. No one knows when it will happen or to whom.”
“But why does anybody go on the rides?” Mason asked, not really able yet to believe completely what this man was calmly telling him.
Burdell looked at him as if surprised Mason didn’t understand. “Why, danger is the reason people go on any of those rides anywhere anytime. We here in Grayville just take it a step further. Once a citizen passes twelve years of age, he or she can go on the rides of their own choice. It was voted on once, sometime long ago in the town hall.”
“So the townspeople risk their lives and the lives of their children to — prune the community...” Mason shook his head incredulously. It was insane, somehow terrifying, and true.
“Oh, I’m afraid it’s nothing so selfless and noble as that,” Burdell said. “It’s human nature. You see, no one really ever thinks it will happen to him or her, always to someone else. The human animal can’t actually conceive of his own personal mortality. We even have a ride with ten to one odds, Mason, ‘The Pit And The Pail’. People go on it — not many, but some. Like all the other rides, the odds are accurate and the elimination is neat, quick and sure.”
“And they’ll take the chance because the odds are in their favor.”
Burdell smiled and shook his head no. “They’ll take the chance even if the odds are against them. The ‘sooner or later’ is always ‘later’. If you sent ten soldiers on a dangerous mission and told them only one would return, each of the ten would think he was that man. That’s how the human mind works.”
“And Grayville takes advantage of it.” Mason understood what the old editor was saying, could see the terrible perverse logic in it. “But now the most important question to me. What happens when somebody discovers what’s going on? Surely I’m not the first.”
“No, you’re not the first, Mason. And don’t worry, we’re not murderers. There’s no selection in our Carnival — it merely accelerates the life and death cycle for the benefit of the community.”
“You can’t really intend to hold me for the rest of my natural life in that cell.”
“The Clarion Call has a circulation that includes several nearby towns larger than Grayville, Mason. If I raise the annual subscription rate ten cents a month, the amount will easily supply the modest expenses for food and clothing you’d need in your vell. We could incarcerate you for life — or we could release you.”
Mason looked into the editor’s shrewd, level eyes, knew he might as well be candid. “I’m a journalist. I’d talk.”
“Who’d believe you?” Burdell asked. “The town easily alters records of births and deaths. We know no one would believe you because we’ve released people like you before, people who’ve found out. The cells downstairs are empty.”
“Then why not release me?”
“We can’t afford to release too many,” Burdell said, chewing briefly on his moustache. “Eventually one of you would be believed enough to cause serious trouble. The odds, you see.
A mild summer breeze stirred outside the windows, and the ticking of an unseen clock filled the room. “So how do you decide?” Mason asked.
“We don’t decide. You do, one time, like all the others.” Burdell reached into the roll top desk’s center drawer and removed an old Colt six-shot revolver. He flipped out the gun’s empty cylinder and inserted four gleaming, deadly looking cartridges at random. The remaining two chambers in the cylinder he left empty. After replacing the cylinder and spinning it a few times, he carefully laid the gun on the table before Mason.
“You either spend the rest of your life imprisoned here,” Burdell said, “or you hold the gun to your temple and pull the trigger that one way or another sets you free.”
He leaned back and folded his arms, a curious, expectant look in his narrow gray eyes. “Two to one, Mason. Not bad odds.”