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167
The Status Civilization
·
Robert Sheckley
21
Barrent
looked
wildly
around.
Store
fronts
here
were
all
locked
and
shuttered.
There
was
nowhere
he
could
climb
to,
no
place
to
hide.
And
then
he
saw
an
open
door
halfway
down
the
block
in
the
direction
of
his
pursuers.
He
had
run
right
by
it.
A
sign
protruding
from
the
building
above
the
doorway
said
THE
VICTIM'S
PROTECTIVE
SOCIETY.
That's
for
me,
Barrent
thought.
He
sprinted
for
it,
running
almost
under
the
noses
of
the
startled
Hadjis.
A
single
gun
blast
scorched
the
ground
under
his
heels;
then
he
had
reached
the
doorway
and
flung
himself
inside.
He
scrambled
to
his
feet.
His
pursuers
had
not
followed
him;
he
could
still
hear
their
voices
in
the
street,
amiably
arguing
questions
of
precedence.
Barrent
realized
he
had
entered
some
sort
of
sanctuary.
He
was
in
a
large,
brightly
lighted
room.
Several
ragged
men
were
sitting
on
a
bench
near
the
door,
laughing
at
a
private
joke.
A
little
further
down,
a
dark-haired
girl
sat
and
watched
Barrent
with
wide,
unblinking
green
eyes.
At
the
far
end
of
the
room
was
a
desk
with
a
man
sitting
behind
it.
The
man
beckoned
to
Barrent.
He
walked
up
to
the
desk.
The
man
behind
it
was
short
and
bespectacled.
He
smiled
encouragingly,
waiting
for
Barrent
to
speak.
"This
is
the
Victim's
Protective
Society?"
Barrent
asked.
"Quite
correct,
sir,"
the
man
said.
"I
am
Rondolp
Frendlyer,
president
of
this
nonprofit
organization.
Could
I
be
of
service?"
"You
certainly
could,"
Barrent
said.
"I'm
practically
a
victim."
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