Constitution and the Bill of Rights, it never occurred to them that freedom of speech and of press and assembly would one day become meaningless. In those days you got up in the village square, or the town meeting, and stated your beliefs. If your program had merit, it was probably accepted. Starting a newspaper was in the range of almost any individual, or certainly of any small group. But today, unless you can get on Tri-Di, you simply aren't heard. Freedom of the press is fine; sure, you're perfectly free to get out a little magazine and circulate it as best you can. But who reads it? A few hundred people, most of whom already have the same beliefs you do. Freedom of speech is meaningless if all you can do is stand on the beach and shout your message to the wind.'
Forrest Brown thought about it, squinting through curls of smoke. He said finally, 'You've got to have enough money to buy Tri-Di time, but above all, you've got to be newsworthy. You've got to have something that makes people want to listen to you, watch you.'
'Great,' Roy said sarcastically. 'And how do I accomplish that?'
The newsman, half joking, said, 'Start a religion. Become a Tri-Di star. Take out a Deathwish Policy.'
The Wobbly organizer scowled at him. 'What for?'
'You'd have the credits to buy Tri-Di time. Deathwishers are news. Everybody'd be in a tizzy wondering how long it'd be before you got hit. There'd be standing room only at your hall lectures. You'd be out in the open and they'd come in hopes that they'd be there when the Graf's boys, or whoever, got to you. Something like in the old days in Spain and Latin
America, where they'd pony up for bullfight tickets in hopes they'd see the matador gored to death.'
'What the hell are you talking about?' Roy said. 'What's a Deathwish Policy?'
Forry grunted and dialed another two whiskeys before lighting a new smoke off the old. 'Oh,' he said, 'just a jargon term we use in the news game. You've probably never heard it. You have your life insured in return for having an international drawing account for a million pseudo-dollar credits continually at your disposal—for as long as you live.'
'Never heard of… oh, wait a minute. I guess I did. Something in the news about six months ago. Somebody was blown up with a grenade or something. His life had been insured for something like five million pseudo-dollars only a few days before. I forget the details. I don't usually follow crime news.'
'It's crime, all right,' Forry said, putting his thumbprint on the table's payment screen to pay for the new drinks. His credit card was still in the slot. 'The thing is, so far, the law hasn't been able to get at them. It's too complicated. Most of the insured are Americans. But you never sign the policy with an American company. The outfit that's going to collect the benefits is usually based in the Bahamas, or Malta, or Tangier, or somewhere else where practically anything goes. They shop out the deal to Lloyd's of London, where they'll insure anything— dancer's legs, a violinist's fingers. Hell, they'll insure an outdoor entertainment against loss due to rain. So you've got four countries involved: the insured is usually a citizen of the States, the beneficiary is in the Bahamas or wherever, Lloyds of London is in England, and your credits come from Switzerland. For that matter, you might say five different countries are involved, since it's said that the Graf has his headquarters in Liechtenstein.'
'Now, wait a minute,' Roy Cos said, taking up his new drink and swallowing part of it. For the first time in years, he felt the itch of intrigue. 'Start at the beginning.'
Forry shrugged thin shoulders. 'You sign a contract that grants you what amounts to an unlimited credit account for as long as you live. If and when you die, the beneficiary collects the benefits. The company you've signed with pays huge daily premiums. It's a gamble, as all insurance has always been since the days when Phoenician ships set sail from Tyre to Cadiz for a cargo of tin. The insurer was gambling that the ship would get back safely and the insuree was gambling that the ship would sink. Well, in this case, the insuree is gambling that you'll die before the premiums paid mount up to more than the benefits he'll collect when you kick off. Lloyd's is gambling the other way: that you'll live so long that the premiums accumulated are higher than the life insurance benefits.'
Roy looked at him blankly. 'But suppose you lived for years? And you have a million pseudo-dollar account to draw on to any extent you wish? Hell, the company that's the beneficiary would go broke paying the premiums plus your expenditures.'
Forry Brown laughed shortly. 'Don't be a dizzard. From the moment that policy goes into effect, you're on the run. Some of the insured don't live the first day out.'
Roy stared, then tried a tenative smile. 'You're kidding, of course.'
'Yeah? The Grafs hit men are the best-trained pros in the world. He usually gets the contract, I understand.'
Roy slumped down into his chair. 'Jesus,' he said. 'Who'd be silly enough to sign up for that?'
The newsman let smoke dribble from his nostrils. 'Somebody who had already decided to commit suicide but couldn't bring himself to do it and decided he might as well go out in a burst of glory, living in one of the biggest hotels in one of the swankest resorts in the world, drinking champagne and gorging himself with caviar.''
'I can see that, but nobody else would sign.'
Forry finished his second drink and said slowly, 'You underestimate human desperation. Take some prole who's fed up with living right at the edge of poverty on GAS. He figures he might as well live it up for a few weeks, or hopefully months. Frankly, this guy's a dreamer. His chances of lasting for any length of time at all are just about nil. Most of them think they've figured out some dodge to beat the odds, some special gimmick. They haven't. They can't.'
'Now wait a minute,' Roy said, increasingly intrigued by one more example of the degeneracy of the present system. 'What you're saying is that an assassin…'
'More than one, I'd think,' Forry put in. '… is immediately sent after the person who's signed this contract. All right, what happens if the killer's caught?'
'He's arrested, of course, and they throw the book at him. But they can't prove anything except his own guilt. None of the advanced countries have capital punishment any more. If he's caught in America, he's subject to deportation. If they nail him in, say, Common Europe, he's thrown into the banger for, say, twenty years. But the Graf takes care of his own. Who ever heard of one of the Grafs boys spending much time in jail? One way or the other, he's soon out, usually legally, since the Graf keeps the best criminal lawyers in the world. But if not legally, then illegally. His escape is greased and he drops out of sight, possibly to Tangier, where there are no extradition laws. He remains on pension for the rest of his life, unless they get him some local job. One of the Graf's big centers is Tangier.'
'Who the hell's this Graf?' Roy Cos said. 'It's a German title, something like a British earl. He's the boss of Mercenaries, Incorporated,' the little man told him. 'Haven't you ever heard of the Graf?'
'No, I told you I didn't bother with crime news. But this thing fascinates me. What are some of the tricks the victims try to pull to remain alive?'
'Oh, I've heard of various scams. Often they'll try to hole up in some manner so that the hit men can't get at them. They'll rent the whole top floor of some luxury hotel and try to seal themselves in, like Howard Hughes in the old days. Bodyguards and all. But in those cases, the assassin usually bribes one of the poor bastard's hirelings to slip a cyanide mickey into one of his drinks, or whatever. Once or twice, it turned out that one of the bodyguards was a Graf man. Curtains.'
Roy Cos shook his head in amazement. 'A million pseudo-dollars, always available. But suppose he spent that much in one day, and then the next day spent that much again, and so on?'
'It'd be damned hard to do,' the newsman told him. 'There are clauses in the contract. He's not allowed to buy presents that cost more than two hundred pseudo-dollars. He's not allowed to donate to any cause. Once a crackpot religious fanatic decided to sign up and donate hundreds of thousands to the United Church, but that wasn't allowed. On top of that, the company becomes your heir. Everything you buy reverts to them, after your death. You buy something expensive, like a luxury car, or a big house, or jewelry, and they take it over when you die.'
Roy shook his head. 'I'd think the Lloyd's underwriters would get leery.'
Fony shrugged again. 'Like I said, it's a gamble. To keep it that way, the daily premium is sky high. If the insured lives more than a few days, Lloyd's wins. As usual, the computers of both the policyholders and the insurers have figured it out down to a hairline.'
Roy finished his drink, thought about it some more, shook his head again. Then he scowled and looked over at the other. He said, 'What was that you mentioned about my taking out one of these Deathwish Policies?'
And Fony Brown said softly, 'A million pseudo-dollars. Like I said, you'd have plenty to buy yourself premium
