Robert Sheckley: The People Trap

Surrender or death seemed the only options. But, weatherwise, the captain sniffed the air. 'Hang on, hearties!' he screamed. 'There's a Wester do be coming!'

Shells rained around them. Then, out of the west, a vast and impenetrable smog bank rolled in, blanketing everything in its inky tentacles. The battered little kif ship slid away from the combat; and the crew, hastily donning respirators, gave thanks to the smouldering trashlands of Secaucus. As the captain remarked, it is an ill wind that blows no good.

Half an hour later they docked at the 79th Street Pier. The captain embraced Steve warmly and wished him good fortune. And Steve Baxter continued on his journey.

The broad Hudson was behind him. Ahead lay thirty-odd downtown blocks and less than a dozen crosstown blocks. According to the latest radio report, he was well ahead of the other contestants, ahead even of Freihoff St John, who still had not emerged from the labyrinth at the New York end of the Lincoln Tunnel. He seemed to be doing very nicely, all things considered.

But Baxter's optimism was premature. New York was not conquered so easily. Unknown to him, the most dangerous parts of his journey still lay before him.

After a few hours' sleep in the back of an abandoned car, Steve proceeded southwards on West End Avenue. Soon it was dawn - a magical hour in the city, when no more than a few hundred early-risers were to be found at any given intersection. High overhead were the crenellated towers of Manhattan, and above them the clustered television antennae wove a faery tapestry against a dun and ochre sky. Seeing it like that, Baxter could imagine what New York had been like a hundred years ago, in the gracious, easygoing days before the population explosion.

He was abruptly shaken out of his musings. Appearing as if from nowhere, a party of armed men suddenly barred his path. They wore masks, wide-brimmed black hats and bandoliers of ammuntion. Their aspect was both villainous and picturesque.

One of them, evidently the leader, stepped forward. He was a craggy-featured, balding old man with a heavy black moustache and mournful red-rimmed eyes. 'Stranger,' he said, 'let's see yore pass.'

'I don't believe I have one,' Baxter said.

'Damned right you don't,' the old man said. 'I'm Pablo Steinmetz, and I issue all the passes around here and I don't recollect ever seeing you afore in these parts.'

'I'm a stranger here,' Baxter said. 'I'm just passing through.'

The black-hatted men grinned and nudged each other. Pablo Steinmetz rubbed his unshaven jaw and said. 'Well, sonny, it just so happens that you're trying to pass through a private toll road without permission of the owner, who happens to be me; so I reckon,that means you're illegally trespassing.'

'But how could anyone have a private toll road in the heart of New York City?' Baxter asked.

'It's mine 'cause I say it's mine,' Pablo Steinmetz said, fingering the notches on the stock of his Winchester 78. 'That's just the way it is, stranger, so I reckon you'd better pay or play.'

Baxter reached for his wallet and found it was missing. Evidently the pot-boat captain, upon parting, had yielded to his baser instincts and picked his pocket.

'I have no money,' Baxter said. He laughed uneasily. 'Perhaps I should turn back.'

Steinmetz shook his head. 'Going back's the same as going forward. It's toll road either way. You still gotta pay or play.'

'Then I guess I'll have to play,' Baxter said. 'What do I do?'

'You run,' Old Pablo said, 'and we take turns shooting at you, aiming only at the upper part of your head. First man to bring you down wins a turkey.'

'That is infamous!' Baxter declared.

'It is kinda tough on you,' Steinmetz said mildly. 'But that's the way the mortar crumbles. Rules is rules, even in an anarchy. So, therefore, if you will be good enough to break into a wild sprint for freedom ...'

The bandits grinned and nudged each other and loosened their guns in their holsters and pushed back their wide-brimmed black hats. Baxter readied himself for the death run—

And at that moment, a voice cried, 'Stop!'

A woman had spoken. Baxter turned and saw that a tall, red-headed girl was striding through the bandit ranks. She was dressed in toreador pants, plastic galoshes and Hawaiian blouse. The exotic clothing served to enhance her bold beauty. There was a paper rose in her hair, and a string of cultured pearls set off the slender line of her neck. Never had Baxter seen a more flamboyant loveliness.

Pablo Steinmetz frowned and tugged at his moustache. 'Flame!' he roared. 'What in tarnation are you up to?'

'I've come to stop your little game, Father,' the girl said coolly. 'I want a chance to talk to this tanglefoot.'

'This is man's business,' Steinmetz said. 'Stranger, git set to run!'

'Stranger, don't move a muscle!' Flame cried, and a deadly little Derringer appeared in her hand.

Father and daughter glared at each other. Old Pablo was the first to break the tableau.

'Damn it all, Flame, you can't do this,' he said. 'Rules is rules, even for you. This here illegal trespasser can't pay, so he's gotta play.'

'That's no problem,' Flame announced. Reaching inside her blouse she extracted a shiny silver double eagle. 'There!' she said, throwing it at Pablo's feet. 'I've done the paying, and just maybe I'll do the playing, too. Come along, stranger.'

She took Baxter by the hand and led him away. The bandits watched them go and grinned and nudged each other until Steinmetz scowled at them. Old Pablo shook his head, scratched his ear, blew his nose, and said, 'Consarn that girl!'

The words were harsh, but the tone was unmistakably tender.

Night came to the city, and the bandits pitched camp on the corner of 69th Street and West End Avenue. The black-hatted men lounged in attitudes of ease before a roaring fire. A juicy brisket of beef was set out on a spit, and packages of flash-frozen green vegetables were thrown into a capacious black cauldron. Old Pablo Steinmetz, easing the imaginary pain in his wooden leg, drank deep from a jerry can of pre-mixed Martinis. In the darkness beyond the campfire you could hear a lonely poodle howling for his mate.

Steve and Flame sat a little apart from the others. The night, silent except for the distant roar of garbage trucks, worked its enchantment upon them both. Their fingers met, touched and clung.

Flame said at last, 'Steve, you - you do like me, don't you?'

'Why, of course I do,' Baxter replied, and slipped his arm around her shoulders in a brotherly gesture not incapable of misinterpretation.

'Well, I've been thinking,' the bandit girl said. 'I've thought ...' She paused, suddenly shy, then went on. 'Oh, Steve, why don't you give up this suicidal race? Why don't you stay here with me! I've got land, Steve, real land - a hundred square yards in the New York Central Switchyard! You and I, Steve, we could farm it together!'

Baxter was tempted - what man would not be? He had not been unaware of the feelings which the beautiful bandit girl entertained for him, nor was he entirely unresponsive to them. Flame Steinmetz's haunting beauty and proud spirit, even without the added attraction of land, might easily have won any man's heart. For a heartbeat he wavered, and his arm tightened around the girl's slim shoulders.

But then, fundamental loyalties reasserted themselves. Flame was the essence of romance, the flash of ecstasy about which a man dreams throughout his life. Yet Adele was his childhood sweetheart, his wife, the mother of his children, the patient helpmate of the long years together. For a man of Steve Baxter's character, there could be no other choice.

The imperious girl was unused to refusal. Angry as a scalded puma, she threatened to tear out Baxter's heart with her fingernails and serve it up lightly dusted in flour and toasted over a medium fire. Her great flashing eyes and trembling bosom showed that this was no mere idle imagery.