Players at the Game of People (24 page)

"Slow down!" Barbara shrieked. "You crazy fool -- you can't crash their
barricade!"
It was a source of relief to him that that was all she thought he was
doing. But in the same moment the implication of that concept
long
occurred to him, and had he been able he would have slapped his forehead
with annoyance at his own stupidity.
Long! Not in space, but in time! Of course! He ought to have worked that
out about the owners years ago. From the viewpoint of a dog, say, must
not a human seem effectively immortal? Scarcely changing, while his pet
progressed from puppyhood to adulthood to old age, and more puppies came
on to take their parents' place . . .
And what sensation would be most fascinating to the owner of a human,
who stood in the same relationship?
Acts of slow self-destruction, obviously. Drug addiction. Drunkenness.
The stress of driving at the limit of one's reflexes, tight-bellied,
dry-mouthed, moist-palmed, with a heart going like a crazy hammer. Long
hours and late nights in the hive of a great city. Plus acts of strange
private significance involving more than one participant. How much
would an immortal care about the pleasure of the reproductive act? But
he might very well be curious . . .
It all came plain to God in the tick of a clock, and along with it
another, yet more terrible understanding.
After any given pet had yielded the full range of sensations of which
he or she was capable, there must always remain one other, necessarily
fascinating to immortal beings.
Death.
And ideally it should be death in full knowledge of what was being done.
His right foot stamped -- no: was stamped -- so hard on the Urraco's
accelerator he felt a tendon tearing.
The car leaped forward like a pouncing lion.
Until it was too late the gang in ambush assumed that like every other
vehicle on the road this one would stop beneath the muzzles of their
guns, or maybe swing around and head illegally the other way, giving
them sport in pursuit.
When it was too late they screamed and tried to scatter, but it plowed
among them at a hundred miles an hour, smashing their lamps and flares,
felling the flag-post like a giant axe, killing nine in a single
scythe-sweep as it twisted broadside and turned their bodies into greasy
lubrication for its final skid. Then it rolled and rolled and rolled
and came crashing to a halt against the V-shaped point of the dividing
barriers where lines of traffic were to separate. And then caught fire.
There was no pain, even though his body was crushed and twisted and he
knew he could never draw another breath because his lungs were already
too full of blood. He had the impression that it was being greedily
drawn off -- sucked away -- by the creature which possessed him.
The flames were like the flames of the Blitz. They showed him Barbara's
face, tilted to an impossible angle on her neck but quite unmarked
except for a smear of blood at the corner of her mouth. Her expression
was flawlessly calm, and all the marks of age had gone from it. She
looked so like the ten-year-old he had rescued, he believed she was for
a moment and wondered why he could not carry her to safety.
There were noises: shouts, screams, moans, curses, and the roaring
of fire.
It didn't matter. The fact that he was dying didn't matter, either.
Perhaps Barbara's death mattered, but not to him; why should it?
He had seen what he had made of his life, and as a result he despised
himself. That was a good enough reason to make an end. In a remote,
passionless way he was rather glad.
There was a sort of hesitation. Then he felt the great gray wispy presence
slither away from him, leaving behind a sensation as of disappointment and
another trace of its presence which was foul as sputum.
Pain happened.
Then finally he was allowed to close his eyes. With the last consciousness
remaining to his ruined brain, he wondered what would now become of Gorse.
And did not know whether to pity or envy her, with life before her.

About the Author
John Brunner was born in England in 1934 and was educated at Cheltenham
College. He sold his first novel in 1951 and has been publishing sf
steadily since then. His books have won him international acclaim from
both mainstream and genre audiences. Players at the Game of People
is the eighth book by Brunner in print with Del Rey Books. His most
famous novel, the classic Stand On Zanzibar , won the Hugo Award for
Best Novel in 1969, the British Science Fiction Award, and the Prix
Apollo in France. Mr. Brunner lives in Somerset, England.

FIRST BOOK PUBLICATION!
Cover printed in USA