Stephen King - The Running Man

“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.

He went through the door, one of a group of ten now, at quarter past ten. They went through single file. Their cards were scanned. There were ten three-sided booths, but these were more substantial. The sides were constructed of drilled soundproof cork paneling. The overhead lighting was soft and indirect. Muzak was emanating from hidden speakers. There was a plush carpet on the floor; Richards’s feet felt startled by something that wasn’t cement.

The gaunt man had said something to him.

Richards blinked. “Huh?”

“Booth 6,” the gaunt man said reprovingly.

“Oh.”

He went to Booth 6. There was a table inside, and a large wall clock mounted at eye level beyond it. On the table was a sharpened G-AIIBM pencil and a pile of unlined paper. Cheap grade, Richards noted.

Standing beside all this was a dazzling computer-age priestess, a tall, Junoesque blonde wearing iridescent short shorts which cleanly outlined the delta-shaped rise of her pudenda. Rouged nipples poked perkily through a silk fishnet blouselet.

“Sit down, please,” she said, “I am Rinda Ward, your tester.” She held out her hand.

Startled, Richards shook it. “Benjamin Richards.”

“May I call you Ben?” The smile was seductive but impersonal. He felt exactly the token rise of desire he was supposed to feel for this well-stacked female with her well-fed body on display. It angered him. He wondered if she got her kicks this way, showing it off to the poor slobs on their way to the meat grinder.

“Sure,” he said. “Nice tits.”

“Thank you,” she said, unruffled. He was seated now, looking up while she looked down, and it added an even more embarrassing angle to the picture. “This test today is to your mental faculties what your physical yesterday was to your body. It will be a fairly long test, and your luncheon will be around three this afternoon-assuming you pass.” The smile winked on and off.

“The first section is verbal. You have one hour from the time I give you the test booklet. You may ask questions during the examination, and I will answer them if I am allowed to do so. I will not give you any answers to test questions, however. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

She handed him the booklet. There was a large red hand printed on the cover, palm outward. In large red letters beneath, it said:

Beneath this: Do not turn to the first page until your tester instructs you to proceed.

“ Heavy,” Richards remarked.

“Pardon me?” The perfectly sculpted eyebrows went up a notch.

“Nothing.”

“You will find an answer sheet when you open your booklet,” she recited. “Please make your marks heavy and black. If you wish to change an answer, please erase completely. If you do not know an answer, do not guess. Do you understand?'

“Yes.”

“Then please turn to page one and begin. When I say stop, please put your pencil down. You may begin.”

He didn’t begin. He eyed her body slowly, insolently.

After a moment, she flushed. “Your hour has begun, Ben. You had better-”

“Why,” he asked, “does everybody assume that when they are dealing with someone from south of the Canal they are dealing with a horny mental incompetent?”

She was completely flustered now. “I… I never…”

“No, you never.” He smiled and picked up his pencil. “My Christ, you people are dumb.”

He bent to the test while she was still trying to find an answer or even a reason for his attack; she probably really didn’t understand.

The first section required him to mark the letter of the correct fill-in-the-blank answer.

1. One-does not make a summer.

a. thought

b. beer

c. swallow

d. crime

e. none of these

He filled in his answer sheet rapidly, rarely stopping to deliberate or consider an answer twice. Fill-ins were followed by vocabulary, then by word-contrasts. When he finished, the hour allotted still had fifteen minutes to run. She made him keep his exam-legally he couldn’t give it to her until the hour was up-so Richards leaned back and wordlessly ogled her nearly naked body. The silence grew thick and oppressive, charged. He could see her wishing for an overcoat and it pleased him.

When the time was up, she gave him a second exam. On the first page, there was a drawing of a gasoline carburetor. Below:

You would put this in a

a. lawnmower

b. Free-Vee

c. electric hammock

d. automobile

e. none of these

The third exam was a math diagnostic. He was not so good with figures and he began to sweat lightly as he saw the clock getting away from him. In the end, it was nearly a dead heat. He didn’t get a chance to finish the last question. Rinda Ward smiled a trifle too widely as she pulled the test and answer sheet away from him. “Not so fast on that one, Ben.”

“But they’ll all be right,” he said, and smiled back at her. He leaned forward and swatted her lightly on the rump. “Take a shower, kid. You done good.”

She blushed furiously. “I could have you disqualified.”

“Bullshit. You could get yourself fired, that’s all.”

“Get out. Get back in line.” She was snarling, suddenly near tears.

He felt something almost like compassion and choked it back. “You have a nice night tonight,” he said. “You go out and have a nice six-course meal with whoever you’re sleeping with this week and think about my kid dying of flu in a shitty threeroom Development apartment.”

He left her staring after him, white-faced.

His group of ten had been cut to six, and they trooped into the next room. It was one-thirty.

The doctor sitting on the other side of the table in the small booth wore glasses with tiny thick lenses. He had a kind of nasty, pleased grin that reminded Richards of a half-wit he had known as a boy. The kid had enjoyed crouching under the high school bleachers and looking up girls’ skirts while he flogged his dog. Richards began to grin.

“Something pleasant?” the doctor asked, flipping up the first inkblot. The nasty grin widened the tiniest bit.

“Yes. You remind me of someone I used to know.”