Two cops began to check them out of the elevator, giving them bed numbers. Richards’s was 940. The cot had one brown blanket and a very flat pillow. Richards lay down on the cot and let his shoes drop to the floor. His feet dangled over the end; there was nothing to be done about it.
He crossed his arms under his head and stared at the ceiling.
MINUS 094 AND COUNTING
He was awakened promptly at six the following morning by a very loud buzzer. For a moment he was foggy, disoriented, wondering if Sheila had bought an alarm clock or what. Then it came to him and he sat up.
They were led by groups of fifty into a large industrial bathroom where they showed their cards to a camera guarded by a policeman. Richards went to a blue-tiled booth that contained a mirror, a basin, a shower, a toilet. On the shelf above the basin was a row of toothbrushes wrapped in cellophane, an electric razor, a bar of soap, and a half-used tube of toothpaste. A sign tucked into the corner of the mirror read:
Richards showered, dried with a towel that topped a pile on the toilet tank, shaved, and brushed.
They were let into a cafeteria where they showed their L D. cards again. Richards took a tray and pushed it down a stainless steel ledge. He was given a box of cornflakes, a greasy dish of home fries, a scoop of scrambled eggs, a piece of toast as cold and hard as a marble gravestone, a halfpint of milk, a cup of muddy coffee (no cream), an envelope of sugar, an envelope of salt, and a pat of fake butter on a tiny square of oily paper.
He wolfed the meal; they all did. For Richards it was the first real food, other than greasy pizza wedges and government pill-commodities, that he had eaten in God knew how long. Yet it was oddly bland, as if some vampire chef in the kitchen had sucked all the taste out of it and left only brute nutrients.
What were
Or maybe that was just a gimmick too, a flashy come-on. Maybe there wasn’t even any rainbow, let alone a pot of gold.
He sat staring at his empty plate until the seven o’clock buzzer went and they were moved on to the elevators.
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.
MINUS 092 AND COUNTING
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
“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
“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
