 Worried about the price of butter and eggs? Fed up with a housing shortage? Want to get away from it all? CBS offers you escape. You are alone and unarmed in the green hell of a Caribbean jungle. You are being trailed by a pack of fiercely hungry dogs and a mad hunter armed for the kill. A mad hunter who believes that you, a human being, are the most dangerous game. The Columbia Broadcasting System and its affiliated stations present Escape, produced by William M. Robson and directed tonight by Richard Sanville. Escape carefully planned to free you from the four walls of today. Free you for a half hour of high adventure. Tonight we escape to an island in the Caribbean and the weird sportsmanship of a madman as Richard Sanville tells it in his unforgettable story, the most dangerous game. My name is Rainsford. You may have heard of me. I make my living hunting big game for many of the major museums of the world, guiding parties of sportsmen on safari in Africa, Tibet and South America. Perhaps you've had occasion to run across some of my books, but even if you have, there's one incident you won't find described in them. The full story of my most terrible hunt. It all began on board a private yacht en route to Rio. Whitney, my host and I were smoking our pipes on deck, lounging back in steamer chairs, enjoying the sensuous drowsiness of the warm night. Good dinner, eh? Excellent. afraid I ate too much though. Care for some gin rummy? Oh no, I don't care to move. All right. There's a right of a large island off there that writes somewhere. It's something of a mystery. Really? I didn't know. What island is it? The old charts call it Ship Trap Island. Suggestive name, isn't it? Sailors have a curious dread of the place. Some superstition. I can't see it. Well, you have good eyes, but even you can't see four miles or so through a moonless Caribbean night. No, not even four yards. It is dark, isn't it? It'll be light enough in Rio. Well, by the way, I hope the guns have come from Purdy's. We should have some good Jaguar hunting up the Amazon. Great sport hunting. Best in the world. Yeah, for the hunter, not for the Jaguar. Why not? They've no understanding. Well, even so, I rather think they understand one thing. Fear. The fear of pain, the fear of death. Huh? Oh, Rod Whitney. Who cares how the Jaguar feels? Perhaps the Jaguar does. Oh, you're a big game hunter, not a philosopher. Look, the world is made up of two classes. The hunter, the hunted. We're lucky enough to be the hunters. Do you think we've passed that island yet? Can't tell in the dark. I hope so. Why? The place has a reputation. A bad one. Cannibals? Hardly. Even cannibals wouldn't live in such an isolated spot. But it's gotten into Sailor's legend somehow. Did you notice the crew seemed jumpy today? They were a bit strange now that you mentioned them. Yes, it's a sort of dread, a kind of mental chill. I'll be hanged if I haven't felt it myself. Oh, pure imagination. But one superstitious Sailor can infect a whole ship's company with his fear. Maybe. Well, sometimes Sailors have an extra sense which tells them when they're in danger. Well, enough of that. I think I'll turn in. I'm not sleepy. I'll just have another pipe. Well, good night then. See you in the morning. Yes. Good night, Whitney. It was very dark. So dark I could have slept without closing my eyes. The night would have been my eyelids. I puffed at my pipe, got drowsy. Then I was wide awake. A gun out there in the water, a gun. I sprang to the rail, strained my eyes in the direction of those shots, but I couldn't see a thing. I leaped up on the rail to get better elevation and my pipe striking a rope was knocked out of my mouth. I lunged for it and tight fingers closed around my heart as I realized I'd reached too far and lost my balance. The blood warm waters of the Caribbean closed over my head. When I came to the surface, the wash from the speeding yacht slapped saltwater into my mouth, making me gag and strangling me. I coughed and spat it out and found my voice. Help! Help! Help! The lights from the boat moved steadily away. They quickly became faint fireflies. Then they were blotted out by the night. I struggled out of my clothes and turned to the direction from which I'd heard those shots. I began swimming, slowly conserving my strength. For an endless time I fought the sea. Then I began to count my strokes. Thought I could possibly do another hundred before I... Someone was shooting game. Almost at my very elbow it seemed. Give me fresh vitality. I swam toward the sound. Then I was in the breakers. In another moment I was dragging myself from the swirling waters, pulling myself hand over hand onto the narrow beach, gasping, panting for breath. I saw that the dense jungle came down to the edge of the cliff and I was on land, on blessed land, safe on the soft warm sand. I awoke late in the afternoon, a sharp hunger picking at me. As I slowly came to my feet I saw not far from where I'd been lying, signs of a terrible struggle in the underbrush that sloped so sharply to the beach. Some wounded thing, evidently a large animal, had thrashed about there in its death fight. Almost at my feet was a small glittering object, an empty cartridge from a .22. That was hard. The hunter had had his nerve to tackle a large brook with so small a gun. I examined the ground closely and found what I'd hoped for. The print of hunting boots. They pointed up toward a recess in the cliff and I hurried quickly after them. For night was beginning to settle on the island. It was already dark when I came upon it. First I thought it was a village. There were so many lights. But as I came closer I saw that all the lights were in one building, a chateau on a high bluff. In a few moments my bare feet were patting up stone steps and I stood in front of the massive open door. Good evening. Please don't be alarmed. There's no need for that gun. I'm no robber. It sounds silly but I fell off a yacht. My name is Sanger Rainsford of New York City. He was certainly not alarmed by me, this giant who stood facing me. The revolver in his hand continued to point steadily at my chest and the man behind it was solidly built and black bearded to the waist. In silent he waved me in with the gun and closed the door behind me. I was in a huge hall but there was no time to look around. Another man was coming down the broad marble stairs. An erect slender man in evening clothes. I stepped toward him. I've just been explaining to this chap that I've had an accident. My name is Sanger Rainsford. It is a great pleasure and honor to welcome Mr. Rainsford the celebrated hunter to my home. Well, thank you. I've read your book on hunting snow leopards in Tibet. I'm General Zarov. Believe me General, I'm very happy to see you. All right Ivan you can put down that gun. This gentleman is a guest. Ivan is an incredibly strong fellow but he has the misfortune to be a mute. A simple thing but a bit of a savage. I'm even happy to see him. Come we should not be chatting here. You want clothes, food, rest. You shall have them. This is a most restful spot. I can't tell you how grateful I am. It is my pleasure. Follow Ivan if you please Mr. Rainsford. I was about to have my dinner but it can't wait. I think my clothes will fit you. I followed the man into a huge beam ceiling bedroom with a canopy bed large enough for six men. Ivan silently laid out an evening suit and as I put it on I noticed that came from a London tailor. And Whitney'd call this place too isolated even for cannibals. I went downstairs and sat down opposite Zarov in a dining room that suggested a baronial hall of feudal times. The food was excellent. Perhaps you were surprised that I recognized your name. But I read all books on hunting published in English, French and Russian. I have but one passion in life and that is the hunt. Why, I notice you have some wonderful heads here. That Cape Buffalo over there is the largest I've ever seen. Well that fellow, yes he charged me, threw me against the tree, fractured my skull. But I got the brute. I've always thought the Cape Buffalo the most dangerous of all big game. No, the Cape Buffalo is not the most dangerous. No? Here in my preserve on this island I hunt more dangerous game. What is a big game on this island? The biggest. Really? Oh, it is not here naturally. I had to stalk the island. What have you imported General? Tigers? No, hunting tigers seems to interest me when I exhausted their possibilities. There is no thrill left in tigers. No real danger. I live for danger. Cigarette Mr. Enfer. Please. We will have some capital hunting you and I. But what game? I'll tell you. You will be amused I know. I think I may say in all modesty that I have done a rare thing. I have invented a new sensation. May I pour you another glass of pour? Thank you. I have been a hunter all my life. But after many years of enjoyment I found that the hunt no longer fascinated me. It had ceased to be what you call a sporting proposition. I always got my quarry, always. And there is no greater bore than perfection. Then you were a very good hunter, General. No, no. I had merely discovered that the animal has nothing but his legs and his instincts. Instinct is no match for reason. When I realized this it was a tragic moment for me. As I told you I love to hunt. And then it came to me as an inspiration what I must do. And that was? I had to invent a new animal to hunt. A new animal? Oh, you're joking. I assure you I am not sir. A new animal and so I found one. I bought this island, built this house and here I do my hunting. The island is perfect for my purpose. There are jungles with a maze of trails in them, hills, swamps. And the animal generals are? It supplies me with the most intense excitement of all. I never grow bored now for I have a quarry with which I can match my wits. An ideal quarry with courage, cunning and above all reason. But no animal can reason? My dear fellow, there is one that can. I can't believe you're serious. But there's some grisly joke. Of course I'm serious. I'm speaking of hunting. You're speaking of murder. Surely your experience isn't the war. Did not make me condone cold-blooded murder. Well, Wager, you forget your notions when you go hunting with me. You've a genuine new thrill in store for you, Mr. Reigns. Thank you. I'm a hunter, not a murderer. Oh, dear me, that unfortunate world again. But I hunt the scum of the earth. Sailors from tramships, laskars, mongrels. Where do you get them? This island is called Ship Trap. There is a row of lights out there on the reef, which indicate a channel where there is none. Only rocks. I control the lights from my tower. You wreck their ships and then you shoot down the men. But I treat my visitors with every consideration. They get plenty of good food and exercise. They get into splendid physical condition. You shall see for yourself tomorrow. Would you like some more pork, please? What shall I see tomorrow? We'll visit my training school. It's in the cellar. I have about a dozen there now. Sailors, in theory a lot I regret to say. More accustomed to the deck than the jungle. Ivan, we'll have our coffee now. Thick Turkish coffee, Mr. Reigns, for very good. No. Is your appetite quite gone? No coffee, thank you. Just one, Ivan. It is a game, you see. I suggest to one of them that we go hunting. I give him three-hour start. I am to follow armed only with pistol of smallest caliber and range. My quarry eludes me for three whole days. He wins the game. If I find him, he loses. And if he refuses to be hunted? I give him the option. If he won't hunt, I turn him over to Ivan here. Ivan once served as official executioner to the great White Tsar and he has his own ideas of sport. Invariably they choose the hunt. And if they win? To date I have not lost. I don't wish you to think me a braggart. Once did almost win. Eventually I had to use the dogs. The dogs? Just step over here to the window a moment. I want you to see my courtyard. Go ahead, Mr. Reinford. Open the window, please. And I have a dozen, as you can see. They are let out at seven every night. If anyone should try to get into my house or out of it, well, it would be regrettable. And now I want to show you my new collection of heads. Will you come with me to the library? I hope you'll excuse me tonight. I'm really not feeling at all well. Oh, I am sorry. You need a good restful night's sleep. Tomorrow you'll feel like a new man and then we'll hunt. I won't allow the promising prospects. But I was already hurrying from the room and up the marble stairway. I heard him calling after me. Sorry you can't go with me tonight. I expect rather fair sport, a big strong native from West Coast of Africa. He looks resourceful. The bed was good. I was tired, but I didn't sleep. I didn't toss or turn. I didn't move. I just lay rigidly in one spot, my eyes on the ceiling, my arms tight against my side, my breathing slow and heavy, my mind empty, waiting, waiting. The inky black was just beginning to dissolve. A thin line of gray was just beginning to seep in citylessly into my room when Zorov found his quarry. Then I suppose I slept. When I awoke, the sunshadows were already slanting through my room. Must have been well after noon. I came down to find General Zorov pouring himself a glass of brandy by the sideboard. Mr. Rainsford, feeling better, I trust? Yes. Wish I could say the same. No, I'm not well. Hunting was no good last night. He made a stray trail, offered no problems at all. General, I want to leave the island at once. Mr. Rainsford, tonight we will hunt. You and I. No, General. I've told you I will not hunt. I beg you to reconsider. My idea of sport is much more diverting than Ivan. You mean that? Yeah. You and I. It's really an inspiration. A foreman, worthy of my steel at last. You'll find this game worth playing, Rainsford. Your brain against mine. Your woodcraft against mine. Your strength and stamina against mine. Outdoor chess. And the steak is not without value, eh? And if I win? If I do not find you by midnight of the third day, then I'm defeated. My slope will place you on the mainland, nearer town. Oh, you can trust me. I give you my word as a gentleman and as a sportsman. Of course, you in turn must agree to say nothing of your visit here. I'll agree to say nothing of the kind. Well, in that case, why discuss it now? Three days from now, we can chat about it over a bottle of Verve Cliqueau. Unless... And listen, Rainsford, Ivan will supply you with hunting clothes, food and knife. I suggest you wear moccasins. They leave a poorer trail. I suggest, too, you avoid the big swamp in the southeast corner of the island. There's quicksum there. And now you'll want to start. No doubt. I shall not follow until dusk. Hunting at night is so much more exciting than by day, don't you think, Mr. Rainsford? Good hunting. I kept telling myself through tight teeth that I had to keep my head, keep my head. My first idea had been to put distance between myself and Zorov. And so I'd plunged into the jungle in a blind panic. Before long, I shook it off and stopped. Straight flight was futile, but only bring me out to the sea. Then I hit upon the idea of giving him a trail to follow. I would begin our dangerous game by playing the fox. For more than two hours, I went through the trackless wilderness, executing a series of intricate loops, doubling again and again on my trail. Night found me legwary, with hands and face lashed by the branches. I needed rest badly. And having played the fox, I decided now to play the cat. I climbed into the crotch of a huge tree. An apprehensive night crawled slowly by like a wounded snake. Then at dawning, a startled bird suddenly screamed, and I flattened against the bow. Through a screen of leaves as thick as tapestry, I saw the general. Came slowly. His eyes fixed on the ground. Almost beneath my tree, he paused and went down on one knee studying the ground. I would have gone for him leaping the way a panther does. Except for the small automatic in his right hand. After a seemingly endless time, he came back to his feet. His eyes left the ground and traveled inch by inch up the tree. I froze. Every muscle tensed for a spring. But the hunters, I stopped just before they reached the limb on which I lay. A slow smile spread over his brown face. Oh, Rainsford. Where can you have gone? Wherever are you, you clever dog? I simply must go home and lie down a bit to think this over. The pent-up air burst hotly from my lungs as he turned back and disappeared. So the general was playing with me. Was saving me for another day's sport. Zaraf was the cat and I was the mouse. In that moment, I knew the real meaning of terror. I slipped from the tree and set off into the woods. I'd only gone a few hundred yards when I found a huge dead tree leaning against a smaller living one. I pulled my knife from its sheath and set to work. When the job was finished, I threw myself down behind a log a hundred feet away. How long I waited? I don't know. It seemed like days. It was probably only a few hours. Then it was coming again with the sureness of a bloodhound. Nothing. Nothing escaped those searching black eyes. No crushed blade of grass, no bent twig, no mark, however faint in the moss. It was so intent on his stalking, it was upon the thing before he saw it, his foot touching the protruding branch that was the trigger. The dead tree delicately adjusted to rest on the cut living one, crashed heavily to the earth. And I waited yet another moment, not daring to look up and see if it really had done its work. Rainford, if you're within the sound of my voice, let me congratulate you. There aren't many men who know how to make a male layman catcher. I am a lucky man, Rainford. My reflexes are still good. Did you see me spring back even while it was falling? Rainford, can you hear me? You are proving interesting. I'm going back now to have my wounded. Don't be alarmed. It's only a slight one. I shall be back. I shall be back. It was dark and I'd been going for hours. The vegetation became rancor. Insects were biting me savagely. And when mud began sucking viciously at my feet like giant leeches, I knew where I was, about to enter the death swamp with its quicksand. However, the softness of the earth gave me an idea. I stepped back about a dozen paces out of the quicksand and began to dig. When the pit was above my shoulders, I climbed out. And from some hard saplings, I cut steaks, sharpening them to a fine point. I planted the steaks at the bottom of the pit with their points up. With flying fingers, I've overruffed carpet of weeds and branches. With it, I covered them out of the pit. Then wet with sweat and aching with tiredness, I crawled behind the stump of a lightning blasted tree. I heard the padding sound of feet on the soft earth. I knew he was coming. The night wind brought me the perfume of the general's black cigarette. Although I could see nothing, seemed to me that he was coming with unusual swiftness. That he was not feeling his way along foot by foot. In one brief moment, I lived an entire year. Then I heard the sharp crackle of breaking branches. The cover of the pit gave way. You've done well, Rainsford. Very well. Where did you get the tie? Your Burmese tiger pit has claimed one of my best dogs. And so you score again. I must see what you can do now against my whole patch. You went away again. But I just lay there in the swamp that night. At daybreak, I was awakened by a distant sound, faint and wavering. The baying of a pack of hounds. I went up into a tree. Down a watercourse, not a quarter of a mile away, I could see the bush moving. I strained my eyes and saw the lean figure of General Zarov. Just ahead of him, I made out the gigantic Yvonne, holding the pack in leash. I prepared for the native trick I've learned in Uganda. I slipped from the tree, caught hold of a springy young sapling, and to it fastened my knife. It's blade pointing down the trail. With a bit of wild grapevine, I tied back the sapling and ran for my life. The hounds hit the fresh scent and raised their voices, and I knew how an animal at bay must feel. Even as I ran, the clamor of the hounds suddenly ceased, and with it my heart stopped. For that meant they'd reached the knife. I climbed excitedly up a tree and looked back, and hope died in my brain. The general was still on his feet, even however was not. The knife driven by the recoil of the springing tree had done its work. Then the dogs took out the cry again, and I was on the ground once more. Nerve, nerve! I panted the words over and over as I fled headlong. A blue gap showed through the trees dead ahead. I forced myself up on towards the gap and reached the sea. I laid 20 feet below me rumbling and hissing. I stood a moment, poised over the edge. I heard the hounds. I knew it was the end. Then I leaped far out into the water. It's been a busy day, Adam. A busy day. Oh, down, Adam, down. What's the matter, my boy? Hungry? All right, catch. It's quiet today. Not perfect, of course. Two slight annoyances. One is it will be difficult to replace even. And the other, well, how quarry escaped us, didn't he, Adam? Then, of course, the American didn't really play the game. So we won't count it. We won't count it at all. All right, my boy, that's enough for now. Out you go with the rest. Better luck in the other time. Rainfall. Good evening, sir. How did you get here? I swam. I found that quicker than walking through the jungle. I congratulate you. You have won the game. No, General. It is, of course, you have. I'm still a beast at bay. Get ready, General Zarov. I see. Splendid. One of us is to furnish a meal for the hounds. The other will sleep in this very excellent bed. Good, Rainfall. Good. Unger. The general was right. Never before in my life that I slept in a bed of bed. Escape is produced by William N. Robeson and was directed tonight by Richard Sanville. You have escaped tonight in the Richard Connell story, the most dangerous game adapted for radio by Irving Ravich with Paul Fries as Sango Rainsford and Hans Connery as General Zarov. The special musical score was conceived and conducted by Cy Fuhrer. Next week, you're sitting at the throttle of a speeding locomotive screaming around the curves of a mountain wards racing against time with death at your shoulder. Next week, you're the engineer of the yellow male. Next week, CBS offers you a escape with Frank H. Spearman's exciting story of re-eroding the run of the yellow male until the same time next week then. Good night.