The ship touched down in the city-state of New Siberia, which differed from its namesake only in that it was bigger, colder, and a few hundred thousand light-years away. Nighthawk and Malloy were about to exit the ship and take the heated tram to spaceport tower when a voice rang out through the ship.
"Passports, please?"
"When we get to Customs," answered Nighthawk, staring at the young woman's face that had suddenly shown up on all the viewscreens.
"This is Customs, sir," she replied. "So few people come and go here that we found it more convenient to clear you before you leave your ship, rather than set up a permanent booth in the tower."
The two men held up their titanium passport cards for scanning.
"Welcome to Yukon, Mr. Nighthawk. Welcome back to Yukon, Mr. Malloy. What is the purpose of your visit?"
"Tourism," said Nighthawk.
"We don't have a tourist industry, Mr. Nighthawk."
"That's hardly my fault," he said. "I plan to see such natural wonders as your lovely planet affords."
"I think you are here to gamble, Mr. Nighthawk," continued the woman, oblivious to his answer.
"You make it sound like it's against the law."
"Absolutely not. In fact, it is encouraged. I see that you have recently opened an account on Tundra. We can bill your account for a gambling license if you will give us permission."
"And you don't have tourist licenses, is that it?" asked Nighthawk with a smile.
"Verbal permission will be sufficient," she continued. "A holocopy of this conversation will be kept on file."
"You have my permission."
"I am sure you will enjoy your stay here, Mr. Nighthawk, and I wish you good luck at the gaming tables." Pause. "Your purpose for visiting Yukon, Mr. Malloy?"
"I'm with him."
"I cannot find any account bearing your name and voiceprint in either the Inner Frontier or the Oligarchy, Mr. Malloy," she said. "How will you pay for your gambling license?"
"Bill me," interjected Nighthawk.
"If you wish," she said. "However, the laws of Yukon require me to tell you that the purchaser of a license is responsible for all debts incurred on that license."
"I see," said Nighthawk. He paused for a moment. "Mr. Malloy will purchase his own license with cash when he finally reaches one of your casinos. Is that acceptable?"
"Quite," said the woman. "I should further point out that until he places a certain minimal amount on deposit here, any purchase he makes is payable in cash. In advance."
"He understands."
"I must hear him say it."
"I understand, I understand," muttered Malloy.
"Fine. You are each cleared to remain on Yukon for seven days. If you wish to go beyond the borders of New Siberia, the nation you are in, you will have to ask and receive permission from whichever country you plan to visit. If you wish to extend your vacations, please check in here again more than one Galactic Standard day before your current visa expires. Are there any further questions?"
"Yes. Where can I find a map of New Siberia?"
"Please wait . . . A map has just been transferred to your ship's navigational computer."
"And how does one get around on New Siberia?"
"There are powersleds for rent at the tower," was the answer. "They are heated, and come with radar, a radio, and a three-day supply of food for a crew of six men."
"Do I need a crew of six?"
"No. That is the maximum number a sled can transport at one time."
"Thank you," said Nighthawk. "You've been most helpful."
The screen deactivated.
"Bring up the map and find Spanish Lace," Nighthawk ordered the computer. "We might as well see exactly where the hell we're going."
The computer threw the map on a viewscreen, then cross-indexed it against the planetary census, and suddenly a tiny spot, some forty miles distant, began blinking brightly.
"Nearest city?" demanded Nighthawk.
There was a blinking right next to the spaceport.
"Nearest neighbor?"
Another spot, some fifteen miles away, began blinking.
"Off."
The screen went dark, and Malloy turned to Nighthawk. "She doesn't seem to like crowds."
"An understatement."
"So what do we do now?"
"We rent a power sled and pay her a visit."
"She's got to have defenses," said Malloy. "She'll know you're coming."
"Probably."
"Why not contact her from here? You could talk."
"I'm not being paid to talk."
"You're not being paid to get killed, either," said Malloy.
"I don't plan to."
"Neither did the three guys who went before you."
"If you're frightened—" began Nighthawk.
"Of course I'm frightened!" snapped Malloy. "Only a crazy man wouldn't be frightened!"
"Then stay here."
"What if she kills you?"
"You've got more chance to get away if you're here than if you're standing next to me."
"Too cowardly," said Malloy.
"But you are a coward," replied Nighthawk with a chuckle.
"But I'm not blatant about it."
"In other words, you want to stay here, but you want a good reason to—one that will keep your self respect intact?"
"Basically," admitted Malloy.
"All right. You don't know what powers she possesses, right?"
"Right."
"Does anyone?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"Then stay here and keep in radio and visual contact with me, and if she uses those powers to kill me, you can report what she's got to the Marquis. You might even get yourself a nice reward for that kind of information."
"You really think so?"
Nighthawk smiled. "Not a chance. But you will be bringing him information he needs."
"Well, that's all fine and well for you," said Malloy. "After all, you work for him. But I don't."
"Then don't go back to Tundra. Get as far away as you can and send him a subspace message offering to sell what you know."
"Now that makes sense!" said Malloy.
"And it's more in keeping with your character," added Nighthawk sardonically.
"We can't all be heroes and killers," said Malloy defensively. "Some of us are just normal men." He looked at his scaled hands and arms and smiled ruefully. "Well, maybe not exactly normal," he amended.
Nighthawk donned a spacesuit, then began going through the ship's minimal stores.
"What are you looking for?" asked Malloy. "You're already packing three different kinds of weapon."
"Four," corrected Nighthawk. "I'm looking for an eye."
"You leave your eyes lying around in cabinets?" asked Malloy, confused.
"A 360-degree camera," explained Nighthawk. Suddenly he reached out and picked up a small, circular object, less than an inch in diameter. "Got it."
"That must be spy gear," said Malloy. "I never saw anything like it before."
"I'll put it down on a chair or table," said Nighthawk, ignoring his remark. "It'll transmit a visual of the entire room it's in—walls, floor, ceiling, everything. The computer will receive the signal, sort out all the angles and images, and display something that makes sense to you."
"What if she's got a killer pet that eats it?"
"Then you'll see what the inside of its digestive system looks like, and you'll have to sell your information to a exoveterinarian instead of the Marquis." He paused. "I'll keep my communicator activated. If she hasn't got some way to nullify the signal, it should transmit everything we say."
"Are you sure you'd rather go alone?"
"As a matter of fact, I'd much rather have company," said Nighthawk, repressing a smile. "Give her two targets instead of just one."
"Damn it!" exploded Malloy. "You were supposed to say that you wanted to face her alone!"
"I do, really. I just wanted to see your reaction."
"Cold-blooded killers aren't supposed to have a sense of humor," muttered the little man.
"Then I must be a hot-blooded killer."
"Let's just hope you're a long-lived one."
"One of me is."
Nighthawk left the ship, found a waiting tram, and got off at the tower, where he rented a heated powersled. It was a type with which he was unfamiliar, so he had the saleswoman program it for him.
"You're sure these are the coordinates you want?" she asked.
"Why not?"
"I'll need a larger deposit," she said apologetically. "Lots of people go out to the Ice Palace. Almost none of them come back."
"What happens to them?"
"Beats me," she said. "I don't know. I don't want to know. I just want a bigger deposit."
Nighthawk pressed his thumb against a contract rider that she produced.
"You got any advice for someone going to the Ice Palace?" he asked while waiting for the thumbprint to be cleared and approved.
"Don't believe your eyes."
"I don't think I understand," said Nighthawk, as the computer approved his print.
"She looks human, but she's not."
"What is she?"
"If you survive and return the sled, maybe you can tell me," said the woman.