THE GETAWAY

People curse him. They call him the devil, and accuse him of thinking he is God. And El Rey will nod to either charge. "But is there a difference, senor? Where the difference between punishment and reward when one gets only what he asks for?"

Most immigrants to the kingdom come in pairs, married couples or simply couples. For the journey is an arduous one, and it can seldom be made without the devoted assistance of another. In the begi

And whoever is the survivor, and thus has the account at his disposal, will not be alone long. He will be encouraged to seek out another partner, or one will seek him out. And when their association terminates, as it must, there will be still another.

The process goes on and on; inevitable, immutable. As simple as ABC.

Mention was made of El Rey's police; the protection they provide the populace. But this is a word of broad implications. If one is to protect, he may not a

Sluggings are unheard of in El Rey's dominion. No one is ever shot, stabbed, bludgeoned, strangled, or brought to death by the usual agencies of murder.

In fact, there are no murders. Officially, there are none. The very high death rate derives from the numerous suicides and the immigrants' proclivity for fatal accidents.

The fine swimming pools of the various villas are rarely used. The horses in the public stables grow fat for want of exercise, and the boats stand rotting in their docks. No one fishes, no one hunts, no one plays golf, te

Doc hardly knew what to do with himself. One day, a few months after his arrival, he took a walk up into the hills; and there, nestled in a pleasant valley and hidden from the city, he came upon a village. The one street was attractively cobblestoned; the buildings were freshly whitewashed. Drifting to him on the breeze came the smell of roasting peppery meat. The only people in sight were two men down near the end of the street, who were sweeping the cobblestones with long-handled brooms. Doc recognized them; he had nodded to them a time or two in the city. He raised his hand in a half-salute. But not seeing him apparently, they finished their sweeping and disappeared inside a building.

"Yes, senor?" A blue-uniformed carabinero stepped out of a nearby doorway. "I may be of service?"

"Nothing," Doc smiled. "I thought for a moment that I recognized those two men."

"The streetsweepers? They are friends of yours?"

"Oh, no. Not at all. Hardly know them as a matter of fact."

"I see. Well, they are newly arrived, those two. They will live here now, in case you should wonder about their absence from their usual haunts."

Doc looked around; commented on the pleasing appearance of the place. The carabinero agreed that everything was indeed well kept. "It is required. Each resident contributes such labor as he is able to."

"Uh-huh," Doc nodded. "It's a cooperative, right? The labor is contributed in lieu of money."

"That is right, senor."

"Mmm-hmm." Doc took another appreciative look around. "Now,! was wondering. My wife and I have a very nice villa in the city, but…"

"No, senor. You would not be eligible for admittance here."

"Well, now, I don't know about that," Doc began. But the officer cut him off.

He was sure that Doc was not eligible. When he became so, he would be notified. "You may depend on it, senor. Meanwhile, perhaps you would like to walk around-see what your future home will be like."

Doc said that he would, and they started down the wide, sparkling street. Smoke rolled up from the chimneys of the houses, but no one stood in their doorways or looked out their windows, and hardly a sound came from any of them. The high dry air seemed unusually warm, and Doc paused and mopped his face. "Where's the cantina? I'll buy the drinks."

"There is none, senor. You can buy no drinks here."

"Well, some coffee then."

"That neither, senor. No drink or food of any kind."

"No?" Doc frowned. "You mean everything has to be brought out from the city? I don't think I'd like that."

The officer slowly shook his head. "You would not like it, senor. But, no, that is not what I meant. Nothing is brought from the city. Nothing but the people themselves."

The words seemed to hang suspended in the air, a brooding message painted upon the silence. The carabinero seemed to study them, to look through them and on into Doc's eyes. And he spoke gently as though in answer to a question.

"Yes, senor, that is the how of it. No doubt you have already noticed the absence of a cemetery."

"B-but-" Doc brushed a shaky hand across his mouth. "B-but…"

_That smell that filled the air. The odor of peppery, roasting flesh. Peppers could be had anywhere, for the picking, the asking, but the meat_

"Quite fitting, eh, senor? And such an easy transition. One need only live literally as he has always done figuratively."

He smiled handsomely, and the gorge rose in Doc's throat; it was all he could do to keep from striking the man.

"Fitting?" he snarled. "It-it's disgusting, that's what it is! It's hateful, hideous, inhuman…"

"Inhuman? But what has that to do with it, senor?"

"Don't get sarcastic with me! I've taken care of better men than you without…"

"I am sure of it. That is why you are here, yes? But wait-" he pointed. "There is one who knows you, I believe."

The man had just emerged from one of the houses. He was well over six feet tall, some five or six inches perhaps. And his normal weight should have been- indeed it had been-no less than two hundred and fifty pounds. But what it was now could not possibly be more than a third of that.

His eyes were enormous in the unfleshed skull's head of his face. His neck was no larger than Doc's wrist. It was incredible that he could be alive; but, of course, the climate is very healthy in El Rey's kingdom and many people live to a hundred years and more.

He staggered toward Doc, mouthing silently in his weakness. In his helpless silence, the exaggerated slowness of his movements, he was like a man caught up in some terrifying nightmare.

"Pat-" Doc's voice was a sickened whisper. "Pat Gangloni." Automatically, he recoiled from the apparition; and then, bracing himself, he stepped forward deliberately and took Gangloni into his arms. "It's all right, Pat. Take it easy, boy. You're okay now." He patted the skeleton's shoulders, and Gangloni wept silently.

The carabinero watched them, an unaccustomed sympathy in his eyes.

"A sad case," he murmured. "Oh, but very sad. He is unable to resign himself. Already he has been here far longer than many."

"Never mind that!" Doc turned on him angrily. "Can you get me a car-a cab? Something to get him out of here?"

"We-el, yes. It will take a little time, but I can do it."

"Well, do it then! Go on!"

"Your pardon, senor." The carabinero didn't move. "You would take him out of here, you said. Out of here to where?"

"Where? Why, to my home, naturally! Someplace where I can take care of him. Get him back on his feet."