The Running Man

MINUS 093 AND COUNTING

On the fourth floor Richards’s group of fifty was herded first into a large, furniture-less room ringed with what looked like letter slots. They showed their cards again, and the elevator doors whooshed closed behind them.

A gaunt man with receding hair with the Games emblem (the silhouette of a human head superimposed over a torch) on his lab coat came into the room.

“Please undress and remove all valuables from your clothes,” he said. “Then drop your clothes into one of the incinerator slots. You’ll be issued Games coveralls.” He smiled magnanimously. “You may keep the coveralls no matter what your personal Games resolution may be.”

There was some grumbling, but everyone complied.

“Hurry, please,” the gaunt man said. He clapped his hands together twice, like a first-grade teacher signaling the end of playtime. “We have lots ahead of us.”

“Are you going to be a contestant, too?” Richards asked.

The gaunt man favored him with a puzzled expression. Somebody in the back snickered.

“Never mind,” Richards said, and stepped out of his trousers.

He removed his unvaluable valuables and dumped his shirt, pants, and skivvies into a letter slot. There was a brief, hungry flash of flame from somewhere far below.

The door at the other end opened (there was always a door at the other end; they were like rats in a huge, upward-tending maze: an American maze, Richards reflected), and men trundled in large baskets on wheels, labeled S, M, L, and XL. Richards selected an XL for its length and expected it to hang baggily on his frame, but it fit quite well. The material was soft, clingy, almost like silk, but tougher than silk. A single nylon zipper ran up the front. They were all dark blue, and they all had the Games emblem on the right breast pocket. When the entire group was wearing them, Ben Richards felt as if he had lost his face.

“This way, please,” the gaunt man said, and ushered them into another waiting room. The inevitable Free-Vee blared and cackled. “You’ll be called in groups of ten.”

The door beyond the Free-Vee was topped by another sign reading THIS WAY, complete with arrow.

They sat down. After a while, Richards got up and went to the window and looked out. They were higher up, but it was still raining. The streets were slick and black and wet. He wondered what Sheila was doing.