“Damn it!” he said.
A waiter had passed by the girl. He didn’t want to chance winging someone else.
“Around the block again,” he told the driver.
The man gave him another grin and hunched down in his seat. Frelaine wondered if the driver would feel so happy if he knew that Frelaine was gunning for a woman.
This time there was no waiter around. The girl was lighting a cigarette, her mournful face intent on her lighter. Frelaine centered her in his sights, squarely above the eyes, and held his breath.
Then he shook his head and put the gun back in his pocket.
The idiotic girl was robbing him of the full benefit of his catharsis. He paid the driver and started to walk.
It’s too easy, he told himself. He was used to a real chase. Most of the other six kills had been quite difficult. The Victims had tried every dodge. One had hired at least a dozen spotters. But Frelaine had gotten to them all by altering his tactics to meet the situation.
Once he had dressed as a milkman, another time as a bill collector. The sixth Victim he had had to chase through the Sierra Nevadas. The man had clipped him, too. But Frelaine had done better than that.
How could he be proud of this one? What would the Tens Club say?
That brought Frelaine up with a start. He wanted to get into the club. Even if he passed up this girl, he would have to defend himself against a Hunter. Surviving that, he would still be four hunts away from membership. At that rate, he might never get in.
He began to pass the cafe again, then, on impulse, stopped abruptly.
“Hello,” he said.
Janet Patzig looked at him out of sad blue eyes, but said nothing.
“Say, look,” he said, sitting down. “If I’m being fresh, just tell me and I’ll go. I’m an out-of-towner. Here on a convention. And I’d just like someone feminine to talk to. If you’d rather I didn’t—”
“I don’t care,” Janet Patzig said tonelessly.
“A brandy,” Frelaine told the waiter. Janet Patzig’s glass was still half full.
Frelaine looked at the girl and he could feel his heart throbbing against his ribs. This was more like it—having a drink with your Victim!
“My name’s Stanton Frelaine,” he said, knowing it didn’t matter.
“Janet.”
“Janet what?”
“Janet Patzig.”
“Nice to know you,” Frelaine said, in a perfectly natural voice. “Are you doing anything tonight, Janet?”
“I’m probably being killed tonight,” she said quietly.
Frelaine looked at her carefully. Did she realize who he was? For all he knew, she had a gun leveled at him under the table.
He kept his hand close to the fling-out button.
“Are you a Victim?” he asked.
“You guessed it,” she said sardonically. “If I were you, I’d stay out of the way. No sense getting hit by mistake.”
Frelaine couldn’t understand the girl’s calm. Was she a suicide? Perhaps she just didn’t care. Perhaps she wanted to die.
“Haven’t you got any spotters?” he asked, with the right expression of amazement.
“No.” She looked at him, full in the face, and Frelaine saw something he hadn’t noticed before.
She was very lovely.
“I am a bad, bad girl,” she said lightly. “I got the idea I’d like to commit a murder, so I signed for ECB. Then—I couldn’t do it.”
Frelaine shook his head, sympathizing with her. “But I’m still in, of course. Even if I didn’t shoot, I still have to be a Victim.”
“But why don’t you hire some spotters?” he asked.
“I couldn’t kill anyone,” she said. “I just couldn’t. I don’t even have a gun.”
“You’ve got a lot of courage,” Frelaine said, “coming out in the open this way.” Secretly, he was amazed at her stupidity.
“What can I do?” she asked listlessly. “You can’t hide from a Hunter. Not a real one. And I don’t have enough money to make a real disappearance.”
“Since it’s in your own defense, I should think—” Frelaine began, but she interrupted.
“No. I’ve made up my mind on that. This whole thing is wrong, the whole system. When I had my Victim in the sights—when I saw how easily I could—I could—”
She pulled herself together quickly.
“Oh, let’s forget it,” she said, and smiled.
Frelaine found her smile dazzling.
After that, they talked of other things. Frelaine told her of his business, and she told him about New York. She was twenty-two, an unsuccessful actress.
They had supper together. When she accepted Frelaine’s invitation to go to the Gladiatorials, he felt absurdly elated.
He called a cab—he seemed to be spending his entire time in New York in cabs—and opened the door for her. She started in. Frelaine hesitated. He could have pumped a shot into her at that moment. It would have been very easy.
But he held his hand. 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.