"I see," said Hendley, feeling properly squelched.
"You are free to go anywhere in the camp you wish," the beige-clad
official said crisply. "And you may use any of the facilities of the
camp for recreation, food, drink or, ah, whatever you choose." His
manner unbent as he lowered his voice confidentially. "The PIB's are
painted red. And if I may make a suggestion, sir, you shouldn't miss
the entertainment at the main Rec Hall. An excellent casino, and
I've heard that the show tonight on the stage is, ah, shall we say,
unusual?" He smiled with a lewd relish, so unexpected that it was
shocking. "You can't miss the Rec Hall. It's the big yellow building on
the hill."
Hendley started to mumble his thanks, but, after his brief lapse, the
official was once again impersonally efficient. "Official personnel
are not allowed out of the administration and service buildings--which
are, of course, windowless. Service facilities are underground. The
camp belongs to the free. You are one of them--until noon tomorrow."
He smiled mechanically, then added, making the phrase more a pointed
suggestion than a casual dismissal, "Have fun!"
A door opened at the end of another angled corridor, and Hendley walked
out into the bright, green land of the free.
* * * * *
It was perhaps two hours later--he was already conscious of missing his
watch, unable to shake a lifetime dependence upon measured time--when
Hendley paused to rest under the shade of an umbrella at a vending
cafe set in the central park. He ate a light meal and relaxed with
a tall whiskey and soda, enjoying the luxury of eating and drinking
expensively without having paid. He could not remember when he had last
had a whiskey in the middle of the day--and this tasted like grain
whiskey, not the chemical variety. Possibly it was the rarity of the
event--or the fresh air and the stimulation of the camp's bewildering
activity--which made the drink so satisfying.
Camp was an inexact word, he thought. The Freeman Camp was, in fact,
a huge, complex city, served by what must be an equally complex
underground service network, and gaining its atmosphere from being
oriented entirely toward pleasure--in a dazzling variety of sports
centers, swimming pools, gambling casinos, social clubs, theaters,
PIB's, museums, lavish restaurants, and bars as well as the more casual
outdoor cafes. Rapid conveyor sidewalks whisked the pleasure-seeker
from one part of the camp to another, although most of the time Hendley
had walked, anxious to see everything. His feet and legs ached from the
unaccustomed exercise.
Crowds thronged the streets, the walks, the parks, but there were,
unlike the underground cities, uncrowded areas: quiet havens in the
parks away from the activity centers, deserted footpaths through the
woods encircling the camp, and out-of-the-way nooks where you could
savor the delicious sensation of being alone in the open.
Hendley had briefly visited the room assigned to him for the night,
on the second floor of one of the countless rectangular buildings. In
spite of the airy spaciousness and inviting comfort of the room, he
had not lingered there. There was too much to see, and too little time
to enjoy it.
The vending cafe where he had paused was one of the few uncrowded
ones he had come upon. There were a dozen outdoor tables, each with
its brightly colored umbrella. Only one other table was occupied.
The man sitting there had glanced Hendley's way without apparent
interest, though his eyes were hidden behind the dark glasses worn by
the majority of the camp's residents. He was a slender, lithe young
man, about Hendley's own height and build, with skin darkened by long
exposure to the sun. Hendley envied the youthful stranger his casual,
indolent air. Quite obviously he was used to all this; he could take it
for granted.
Fifty yards away a game of some sort was in progress in an outdoor
pool. Shouts and sudden cries and bubbling laughter drifted across the
green lawn. On impulse Hendley downed the last of his drink, rose and
walked slowly toward the pool.
The scene might have been in a Freedom Play on the viewscreen in
Hendley's old room. Men and women in white uniforms sat around tables
on a broad patio surrounding the pool, or relaxed in lounge chairs,
caressing drinks while they talked or idly watched the action in the
pool. Sunlight sparkled on the blue water, which was churned into foam
where the swimmers tangled in a spirited struggle for a round ball. The
swimmers had doffed their uniforms and wore only thin strips of white
plastic mesh. One man had lost his flimsy cover in the course of the
game, but neither he nor the spectators appeared to pay any attention
to the loss.
The game was unfamiliar to Hendley. There were goals set up at each end
of the pool, and the object of the skirmishing seemed to be to carry
the ball to one of these goals and push it through a round hoop. The
players were divided into two teams.
Hendley looked around for a vacant lounge chair. A girl sitting at the
far side of the pool, her legs over the edge, caught his eye. She was
clad in the wisps of white mesh around her breasts and hips, exposing
a large expanse of smooth, deeply tanned skin. Her slender brown legs
dangled in the water. Looking up, laughing, she saw Hendley watching
her. The laughter faded. Her eyes, large and dimly visible behind
tinted glasses, seemed to hold his, their expression unreadable. When
a sudden explosion of action in the water drew her attention, Hendley
took the opportunity to walk around the pool. He paused a few feet away
from the girl, staring down in admiration at her sleek, brown-skinned
body.
She glanced up with a slight smile made sensual by full red lips. "Why
aren't you in the game?" she asked.
"I don't know how to play." He squatted beside her, watching the agile
leap of a swimmer out of the water to spear a loose ball. "Is it easy
to learn?"
"Anybody can do it," she said with a careless shrug, "as long as you
can swim."
"I swim a little."
"You're new, aren't you?"
"How could you tell?"
Slowly she removed her tinted glasses. Large brown eyes regarded him
candidly. "You're so white," she said.
Hendley flushed. It was true, though he hadn't thought too much about
it before. His recent arrival in the camp would be obvious to everyone.
He felt a strong wish to belong, to be one with these brown, happy,
uninhibited people, to merge with them. And just as suddenly the harsh
reminder came: he wouldn't have time. He had less than a day.
The girl was no longer watching him. Hendley rose from his crouch,
but he didn't move away. She was about Ann's age, he thought. But Ann
would never be so brown-skinned. He frowned, guiltily conscious of a
comparison unfavorable to Ann, wondering why he had thought "never."
The swimmers converged at that moment near one of the goals. In the
tangle of brown bodies and boiling water it was impossible to follow
the action closely, but there was a sudden scream of pain, choked off
as a mouth filled with water. A whistle shrilled. The players drew
apart, surfacing, treading water, drifting to the sides of the pool.
One body stayed down, motionless near the bottom, appearing to undulate
gently with the rippling of the water. The other swimmers made no move
toward him, but even as alarm tugged at Hendley he saw two stiff-legged
figures trotting briskly toward the pool from a beige-colored building
in the background. With a start Hendley realized they were humanoids,
robots so flawlessly imitative of man that, across the width of the
pool, only a certain rigidity of movement betrayed their origin.
Without hesitation they dove into the pool.
"Why don't the others do anything?" Hendley exclaimed. "That man'll
drown!"
"They're not supposed to," the tanned girl said. "Rules of the game.
Besides, it's the robots' job. They're better at it."
"But I don't--" Hendley broke off. The robot rescuers surfaced with the
limp body of the injured player. With practiced efficiency they eased
him onto the deck beside the pool.
"That answers a question I had," Hendley said thoughtfully.
"What's that?"
"About how some of the services are performed in the camp. I didn't
know you had robots."
The girl lost interest. "They're handy, even if they are kind of
creepy."
A small crowd now huddled around the unconscious swimmer. "Do you
suppose he'll be all right?" Hendley wondered aloud.
"Looks like he's only got a broken arm," the girl said indifferently.
"They'll bring him around."
Hendley stared at her, startled by her lack of concern. Before he could
speak a broad-shouldered man with blond hair burned almost white by
the sun heaved himself from the water to flop onto the deck beside the
girl. "Two-minute break," he said loudly. "Bad luck. MTL-619 was a good
guard."
Becoming aware of Hendley standing nearby, he glanced up. "Hey!" he
exclaimed. "How about you? We need a player."
"Oh, I--I don't think so," Hendley demurred.
"Why not? It's fun!"
The girl was watching Hendley. Her brown eyes seemed to hold a
challenge. "You'll never learn unless you try," she said.
Hendley hesitated. "All right," he said, surprising himself. "Where do
I get one of those suits?"
"They'll give you one at that service building," the blond young man
said, waving toward the beige structure from which the robots had
appeared. "We'll have to start without you, but hurry up!"
He pushed off the lip of the pool into the water. Hendley glanced again
at the girl. She was smiling, but the sunglasses hid her eyes once more
and he wasn't sure what the smile said.
* * * * *
A dispensomat was built into one wall of the beige service building.
A row of panels, each with an order button, listed various kinds
of sports equipment. Hendley pushed the button after SWIMMING
TRUNKS--MALE, and gave his size in answer to a metallic voice over
an intercom. The white mesh trunks, wrapped in plastic, slid down a
chute into view.
Since no facilities seemed available, Hendley guessed that he was
expected to change clothes in the open. He undressed hastily, wondering
at the insane urge which had made him agree to join the game. He became
exaggeratedly conscious of the warm current of air caressing his body,
and he felt a prickling of anticipation. He wished that he were not so
dead white.
Returning to the pool, Hendley hovered near the edge, not sure what
he was supposed to do. With chagrin he saw that the brown-eyed girl
did not appear to notice him. Almost immediately the dripping head and
shoulders of the husky young swimmer burst from the water, blond hair
plastered to his skull. "Come on!" he shouted.
"What do I do?"
"That's our goal! Just don't let them score. And if you get the ball,
throw it to me!"
He went under. The action was now concentrated at the far end of the
pool. Hendley chose the moment's safety to dive in near his appointed
goal. He wondered if the girl was as oblivious of him as she pretended,
but within seconds the other players were plunging and wrestling all
around him and there was no more time to think.
The rudimentary rules of the game soon became clear. There were five
players on each side. Two were guards--Hendley's position--stationed
near the goal to block an attack. The other three roamed the pool
freely, battling for possession of the ball. That much was simple. What
Hendley was unprepared for was the game's other basic rule: no holds
were barred. To score or prevent a score, anything went.
His first lesson came when the ball squirted from a player's grip and
bobbed loose within Hendley's reach. He got one hand on it. Something
slammed into the back of his neck. A knee, missing his groin, sank into
his stomach. Strong hands twisted his arm until it seemed ready to pop
from its shoulder socket. He swallowed water.
Coming up gagging, he gulped frantically for air. His arm hung limp.
As he grabbed the lip of the pool for support, he saw that the ball
had moved halfway down the length of the pool. Across the way the
brown-eyed, brown-skinned girl was laughing. More than that. She was
clapping her hands. Applauding.
Grimly Hendley turned to meet another attack. This time he didn't try
for the ball. He kept busy defending himself. One attacker got an arm
around his throat, but Hendley had caught the flash of muscular arm
from the corner of his eye. He was able to wrench free with no worse
than a bruised neck.
Hendley surfaced, pleased with himself. The blond young man came up for
air a few feet away. He glared at Hendley with hostile eyes. "You let
'em score!" he snarled. Then he was gone.
For a while Hendley was angry--with the blond man and with
himself--but after a short time he no longer felt anything but a desire
to get out of the water alive. Yet when the attackers threatened his
goal, he threw himself at the nearest one with savage determination.
His arms and legs grew heavy with weariness. His head ached. He
wondered how long the game lasted, and he longed for the end with a
deep yearning. He had forgotten all about the girl watching from the
side of the pool.
Then another player was injured and carried from the pool. He was on
the opposing team. It appeared that the attackers had used up their
substitutions. The game went on, unevenly matched. Hendley's team went
to work to exploit their advantage. They scored once. Moments later
another of the opposing swimmers drifted senseless near the bottom of
the pool. Five players to three. It would soon be over.
Hendley had grown numb to the meaning of what was happening. He was too
tired to feel pity or outrage. The chief emotion he felt as the game
resumed was an increased sense of security. The odds were improving.
That safe feeling lulled him into carelessness. When the other team,
in spite of being outmanned, seized the ball and launched an attack,
three of Hendley's teammates ganged up on the man with the ball. It
bobbed free. Hendley made the mistake of playing the ball instead of
protecting himself. Two men struck at him simultaneously, one at his
head, the other from below. They dragged him down. One seemed to be
trying to twist his leg off at the knee. The other, more direct, was
also more effective. His first blow rocked Hendley's head. The second
drove a tooth through his lower lip. The sun seemed to go down suddenly
and the blue water turned dark. A band of pressure tightened around
his neck. He clawed at it. It was an arm. It wouldn't come loose. His
struggles became weaker. He wondered why his teammates didn't come to
his aid. Then the man who'd been working on his knee changed tactics,
raising the level of his attack--about eighteen inches. Hendley felt
a rocketing pain. He followed its crimson burst. When he reached the
center of it, it turned to water and he was drowning....
* * * * *
"He's coming around."
Hendley tried to open his eyes, but the lids were stuck. He stopped
trying and concentrated on his pain. His knee was aflame, and his neck
and jaw and stomach and other, more tender parts ached. Someone seemed
to be kneeling on his chest. But he could flex his toes and fingers. He
could breathe, if wheezingly. He seemed whole--and he was alive.
His eyelids struggled open. He looked into a smooth-skinned brown face
and brown eyes that seemed to devour him. The girl's full, wide mouth
was open. Her expression was no longer indifferent. It was--eager.
He stared past her rounded shoulder at the sky, and at another familiar
face which he did not immediately place. The face smiled.
"Close call," the young man who owned the face said. "But with a little
rest you'll be good as new."
The statement did not seem very credible, but Hendley was unequal to
argument. "What happened?" he asked.
"You won!" the tanned girl said enthusiastically.
"I did?"
"FLN-962--he's my Contracted--said you did very well. The team won.
They're playing a rematch now."
"Oh." The victory did not matter. What mattered was being out of the
game in one piece. He said, "They must be out of their minds."
"FLN is a nut about water polo," the girl agreed.
"I thought I was finished."
"He pulled you out." With a toss of her head the girl indicated the
stranger watching over her shoulder. Hendley tried to identify the
faintly sardonic smile, the cool ascetic face with its expression of
weary boredom. He noted that the man's uniform was soaking wet.
"The robot rescue team was on another call," the man said diffidently,
dismissing his action. "I thought they might not get to you in time."
Hendley closed his eyes. "Thanks," he murmured. He felt terribly tired,
but the pain in his groin had dulled a little and the other aches were
bearable, even the knee. Suddenly he remembered the young man's face.
He had been sitting with his air of indolence at a table near Hendley's
in the outdoor cafe. Hendley looked up again. The young man was gone.
"Where did he go?" Hendley asked.
"Never mind him," the brown-eyed girl said soothingly. Gently she
massaged his neck. "Do you think you can get up?"
"I don't know."
"I'll help you."
Somehow he managed to struggle to his feet with the girl's help. "You
need to relax," she said. "Come with me." Too weak to protest or even
to wonder why it was necessary to move, Hendley allowed himself to be
led away from the pool area. They were on grass, and she steadied him
as he sagged against her. Then they were under a canopy of trees which
screened the sunlight. The cool shade felt good. Sounds of play in the
pool had diminished.
"Lie here," the girl murmured in his ear.
Hendley did as he was told. It was wonderful to lie on the cool grass,
to let his abused muscles relax, to close his eyes, to feel the soft
breath of air against his body....
He tried to sit up. He wasn't in his uniform. He wore only the minimal
cover of the white mesh bathing trunks, and the girl's hands were
busily divesting him of this garment.
"You're so white," she breathed, lowering herself to the ground beside
him. "You don't know what that does--it's been so long since I've seen
anybody so white. And you're hurt. I'll make you feel better--you'll
see."
"Wait!" Hendley protested weakly.
"Mmmm," the girl said, her mouth seeking his. "I don't know what it
is--when I see a man hurt...."
"TLL! TLL!" Someone was calling. A man's voice. "TLL--where are you?"
"Oh, damn!" the girl said.
"TLL?" The voice was coming closer. Hendley's scalp prickled as he
recognized the voice. The muscular blond swimmer, her Contracted! If
the man found them like this, he'd never believe....
"Where the hell ... are you in there?"
With a sigh the girl sat up. Hendley tried to rise to his knees,
fumbling for his trunks. Bushes parted. The tall, broad-shouldered
figure of the blond man loomed over them. "There you are!" he said.
"Didn't you hear me?"
"I heard," the girl said petulantly.
The man gave Hendley a cursory nod. "Come on! I hear a hunt's getting
up. Soon as it's dark."
"A hunting party?" There was a subtle change in the girl's manner and
her voice. Hendley glanced into the large brown eyes. The glitter he
saw there made him uneasy.
"Hurry up! We'll have to eat and get ready!" The man for the first time
looked directly at Hendley, who made a halfhearted effort to cover
himself with the white mesh trunks, knowing the gesture was futile.
"You did all right in there for a beginner," the blond swimmer said
heartily. "Hope you'll keep showing up. Always need good players!"
He gave the girl his hand to pull her to her feet. "Just let me get my
uniform," she murmured, casually adjusting the halter of her swimming
garment. She glanced back at Hendley and said, with what seemed like
regret, "So white...."
Then the couple was striding off and the girl was saying, "We haven't
had a good hunt in so long. Who's the target? Is he playing now?"
Their voices trailed off. Hendley gaped after them. They were
Contracted--but there had been neither jealousy nor disgust in the
man's attitude. He had practically caught Hendley and the girl
violating one of the Organization's first rules of order--and he hadn't
cared!
Hendley caught hold of a heavy branch of the nearest bush and dragged
himself erect. The ways of Freemen were going to take some getting used
to, he thought. Remembering the girl's eyes when she had heard about
the hunting party, he shivered involuntarily. What kind of woman would
react so strongly to a man's pain? And what did they mean by the hunt?
He glanced down at his pale body, unused to the sun, and shivered
again. Even when he emerged from the shade into the warm sunlight, he
still felt cold.
* * * * *
Participation was a compulsive act. Less than an hour after Hendley
left the swimming pool in the central park, once more clad in his
visitor's white uniform, he found himself lingering beside a fence
enclosing a series of tennis courts. A shower, a rest, another whiskey
and soda had refreshed him. Walking had loosened bruised, stiff
muscles, although he still limped, favoring his right knee. Except for
the knee and a swollen lip, he felt almost normal. Ready for action,
in fact. Tennis, however, seemed a little too strenuous, even such
indifferent tennis as that being played here. The players lobbed the
ball back and forth listlessly, hardly trying when a shot went out of
reach. Odd. A number of the activities Hendley had watched were carried
on with the same indifference: lawn games, a bowling match, boating.
In the parks and on the streets many Freemen stood around with vacant
expressions. Yet the water polo players had thrown themselves into
their game with a vengeance Hendley could attest to. Some participants
in a football game he'd paused to watch for a while had piled into each
other with an audible crunching impact. Even a group of cyclists racing
around a circular track had competed with real fervor. They weren't
very good riders, for Hendley had witnessed two collisions on a far
turn in the brief time he watched. But they were enthusiastic.
Contact sports, he thought....
He walked on. The afternoon was waning, though the sun remained well
above the horizon. How little the Freemen seemed to notice the sun! He
never saw any of them staring up at the sky, while Hendley frequently
paused to survey that awesome immensity. They brushed heedlessly past
vivid flowers in bloom, trampled upon bushes, failed to turn their
heads when a bird sang from a tree, while Hendley found these things
fascinating. Perhaps in time you became used to them. They might come
to seem ordinary. Even the vaulting sky might fail to make you feel
small.
He came to an area of carefully tended lawns broken here and there by
patches of white sand, defined by rough stretches of taller grass and
shrubbery. Small groups of players strolled in the distance, pulling
carts or carrying bags containing slender sticks. Something tugged at
Hendley's memory. He had seen such a place in a miniature display in
the Sports Museum. In the underground cities there was not enough space
for such a layout, but it made a pretty picture in the late afternoon
in the spacious Freeman Camp.
Near one of the familiar beige service buildings a player was setting
a small white ball on the ground and preparing to strike it with the
weighted end of one of the slender poles. He was a stocky, vigorous
man twice Hendley's age, his skin reddened rather than tanned by the
sun, his thick arms choked with dense gray hair, his head completely
bald. Behind him another player hovered, watching, a tall angular man
of much the same age, with a prominent Adam's apple, knife-edge nose,
remarkably long arms, and an angry scowl. Calling on an old habit,
Hendley attached the nickname Curly to the bald man with the hairy
arms, and Happy to his scowling companion. Nicknames were easier to
remember than numbers.
Curly glanced up from the white ball as Hendley came near. "Join us?"
he called cheerfully. "It's better with three."
"Humph!" the other grunted.
"I'd like to," Hendley said. The exercise, which seemed mild, would
help to limber abused muscles a little more, easing the soreness in
his arms and neck. He was issued a bag of clubs and three white balls
at the service building. When he joined the other players, Curly was
waiting, prepared to hit his ball.
"If you don't know how to play, you can just watch us," Curly said.
Hendley nodded. As Curly faced his ball, Hendley hefted the slender
plastic club with its flat-faced head and tentatively swung it.
"Not until I start my swing!" Curly snapped sharply.
Hendley desisted, not sure what he had done wrong. The stocky man
flexed his hairy arms and drew his club high over his head. He remained
frozen in that position for several seconds. Then he swung, the
clubhead lashing down in a swift arc. At that moment the dour-faced
player suddenly stabbed out with his club toward the ball. He missed by
inches. Curly's club smacked the ball solidly and, following through,
banged into his opponent's stick before it could be withdrawn. The club
shot from Happy's hands. He grabbed his fingers, grimacing with pain.
Curly laughed gleefully. "Caught you that time!" he cried.
The ball had flown almost out of sight down the playing field. The
three men watched it until it came to rest. "That's the fairway," Curly
explained. "Try to hit it there. Over there, that's called the rough.
And those sandy patches are traps. Object is to get to the green--see
it way off there?"
Hendley peered into the distance, wondering how he was ever going to
hit the ball that far. Then the angular player stepped over to place
his ball on the ground, scowling more savagely than before. Curly took
up a position behind the taller man. He winked at Hendley.
A pattern of play emerged. One player was allowed to stand behind
the one driving his ball. He could attempt to dislodge the ball, but
only after the driver had begun his swing. Happy's first maneuver
turned out to be a feint. He began his swing, checked it suddenly and
brought his club into position for a direct overhand smash. But Curly
had anticipated him. His stab at the ball was also a feint. Happy
was left holding his club aloft with no chance to hit his opponent's
stick. Curly laughed until his eyes were moist. "Cost you a stroke!" he
chortled.
Happy managed to make his drive, but he used a short, vicious stroke.
The ball sped out in a low trajectory, hooked sharply, and disappeared
into the tall grass of the rough. Happy muttered angrily to himself.
Hendley, innocent in the tricks of the game, became an object of
amusement to his fellow players. They took turns interfering with him.
Three times they managed to knock his ball away just before Hendley's
clubhead could strike it. On the fourth try Hendley not only hit the
ball but had the satisfaction of catching Curly's club as well. He
could feel the shivering impact.
His drive, with his three misses, he was informed, cost him a total of
four strokes.
Hendley was not sure that he cared much for the game, but he was
now determined to stick it out. At least his companions played in
earnest. Curly took a keen delight in every phase of the game, but
his cheerfulness did not disguise the intensity with which he played.
Happy's long face grew longer and darker as the game progressed, his
hawk nose seemed to sharpen, his mouth tightened into a thinner,
grimmer line. His derision over Hendley's atrocious play seemed to be
the only pleasure he found in the game. Hendley wondered why, with so
many other sports and entertainments in the camp to choose from, the
tall man should persist in one which merely made him angry.
At the beginning of the fourth hole, as each successive step in the
game was called, Curly bristled when Happy's club, trying to stab the
ball, struck the stocky man's shin. They exchanged heated words. Happy
raised his club threateningly, but Curly brandished his own and faced
the other down. They played on in sullen silence.
Hendley, the last to hit his ball successfully as usual, knocked
it once more into the rough. This time the other two players
contemptuously left him to hit out by himself without interference.
They played on ahead. By the time Hendley managed to knock ball onto
the close-cropped grass of the fairway, his companions were both on the
green, a circle of very fine grass visible in the distance. Hendley
paused a moment to watch them. He would quit after this hole, he
reflected. With daylight almost gone--the sun now rested at the tops
of the trees ringing the camp--he had no time to waste on pointless
pleasure. He lacked the fiercely competitive approach of the other two
men, perhaps because he was so inexpert.
On the distant green something had happened. Curly was shaking a fist
at the taller man. They stood so close their chests bumped. Hendley
could not hear them, but he watched the silent tableau of their anger
with a feeling of apprehension. Suddenly Happy's thin, sharp-angled
figure bent, lashing out like a whip. He snatched the other man's club
from him, dropping his own. He brought the slender plastic rod down
viciously across his bony thigh. To Hendley's surprise the plastic rod
bent. At a second blow it snapped in two. With malice evident in the
gesture Happy threw the two broken pieces onto the green.
Hendley had started toward them. For a moment nothing happened, the
two men seeming to glare at each other in impotent rage. Hendley's
pace quickened to a trot. It was a lucky thing that Curly had such a
cheerful disposition....
Hendley started running. The stocky man had suddenly scooped up Happy's
club from the ground. The tall man lunged for it. Curly eluded him.
"Stop it!" Hendley shouted, but he knew he could not be heard. Curly
dodged away from the surly player, whirled, raising the club, lashing
down....
Hendley pulled up short. He seemed unable to breathe. The two figures
on the green were motionless in the bright sunlight. Slowly the
dour-faced man's tall body began to collapse, sliding toward the ground
as if it were strung together in loosely attached sections. The silent
impact of the lean figure hitting the ground prodded Hendley into
action. His mind was still stunned, but his legs moved without his
volition, automatically propelling him toward the green. Far off to the
right another group of players had paused to stare. Hendley waved at
them urgently, but they did not move.
What happened next no longer had the power to shock or terrify him. As
he raced closer to the green, the stocky, good-humored Curly raised the
plastic club in his hands and with careful, deliberate aim brought the
weighted head down to crush the fallen man's skull.
Near the sand trap at the edge of the green Hendley paused to be sick.
When he was able to stagger onto the smoothly clipped carpet of grass
Curly was thoughtfully wiping the clubhead on the grass. Not far away a
small, beige-painted vehicle was speeding toward them. The stocky man
hardly glanced at Hendley or his victim. He made no attempt to escape.
He's mad, Hendley thought, facing him across the green. But at any rate
he wouldn't get away now. The beige vehicle was approaching swiftly.
Hendley stared at the dead man, whose face no longer scowled. Happy, he
thought. Sickened again, he turned away.
The beige car, a motor-powered van carrying two beige-uniformed
attendants, drove directly to the edge of the green. As the men hopped
out Hendley expected Curly to run--or to prepare to resist. To his
astonishment the two attendants paid no more attention to the stocky
man than to Hendley. With silent efficiency they scooped the dead
body onto a stretcher, carried it to the rear of the van, and slid it
inside. Without a word they retreated around the car and began to climb
back onto their seats.
"Wait!" Hendley shouted, running toward them. "Aren't you going to do
anything about _him_?" He pointed accusingly at Curly, who was making
practice swings with his borrowed club. The stocky man looked up.
One of the attendants was already in his seat, but the driver paused.
His head swiveled toward Hendley--stiffly. "He was murdered!" Hendley
shouted. "I saw it! You can't let him get away with it!"
The driver's face completed its turn. It was blank, shining,
impersonal, and, in spite of its perfection of feature, inhuman.
Hendley stared in stunned incredulity. Robots! Cleaning up the human
debris on the golf course as they rescued drowning swimmers from the
pools. No wonder Curly had remained indifferent!
The vehicle drove off while Hendley stared after it. Swinging around,
he tried to find the distant group of players who had paused in their
game to watch what was happening. He saw them far off on another
fairway. Their interest had turned back to their game.
Hendley swung back to confront Curly. Revulsion shook him. The whole
affair was impossible--it couldn't happen! "What kind of a man are
you?" he shouted, hardly knowing what he was saying.
To his horror the stocky man smiled with his usual cheerfulness. "These
things happen," he said. "He never liked the game really. I told him
he shouldn't play it, but...." Curly made another idle swing with his
club, the head whistling in the air. "Don't think about it. You'll soon
feel better. Shall we get on?"