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10.

Nighthawk lay on his back, head propped on a pillow. The bed floated a few inches above the floor, and constantly changed shape to mold itself to the forms of its occupants.

"That was great!" he said. Suddenly he grinned. "I'm glad I didn't have to wait twenty-three years for it."

"From now on, whenever you go to bed with a woman, you'll have me to compare her to," said Melisande, the Pearl of Maracaibo.

"What makes you think I want anyone else?"

"You're a man. If you don't now, you soon will."

"Not me," he said. "You're the woman for me."

She turned on her side and looked into his eyes. "But you're not the man for me."

He frowned. "I don't understand."

"I belong to the Marquis. You know that."

"But I thought . . ."

"You thought just because I went to bed with you once, I was prepared to leave him forever?" she asked with a smile. "You really are very young, you know."

"Then why did you go to bed with me in the first place?"

"Because you looked at me like a hungry puppy dog," she said. "And because I was curious to see what it felt like to have sex with a clone."

"And?"

She shrugged. "You've got a lot to learn."

"You can teach me."

"Teaching awkward young men is not part of my job," she said with a chuckle.

"I'm sorry the experience was so unpleasant," said Nighthawk bitterly.

"I didn't say it was unpleasant," she replied.

"Not in so many words."

"It was all right."

"But nothing more."

"That's right."

"Nowhere near as good as with the Marquis."

"Don't feel badly," she replied. "Most men do a lot worse their first time."

"I don't find that especially comforting."

"Would you rather I lied to you?"

"Much," said Nighthawk.

"But then you'd insist on doing it again."

"Why not?"

She shook her head. "Once was curiosity. Twice would be infidelity."

"You've got a funny notion of morality," said Nighthawk.

"I've developed mine over a period of thirty Standard years," she replied. "How long have you been honing yours?"

He made no reply, but swung his feet over the edge of the bed, stood up, and walked to the window that overlooked the frozen streets of Klondike.

"Notorious killers aren't supposed to sulk like spoiled children," she said.

"Look," he snapped, turning to her, "this is the first time I've been with a woman, and also the first time I've been rejected by one. Now, maybe the Widowmaker would know how to handle it, but I'm having a little trouble."

"You are the Widowmaker."

"I'm Jefferson Nighthawk."

"Is there a difference?"

"More than you can imagine."

"Well, whoever you are, do you know how silly you look, standing there without any clothes on?"

He walked over to the bed, ripped the covers off, and threw them on the floor.

"Now we're even."

"Do you feel better now?" she said.

"Not much."

She stood up, examined her image in the mirror with a critical eye, brushed a few strands of hair into place with her fingers, and started searching for her clothes.

"What are you doing?" he demanded.

"I'm getting dressed and leaving," she replied. "You stopped being fun a long time ago. Now you're not even interesting."

"And you're going right to the Marquis."

"That's right."

He walked over and grabbed her arm. "And what if I decide not to let you?"

She winced and pulled her arm loose. "That hurt! Keep your goddamned hands to yourself!"

"I didn't squeeze that hard," he said. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing," she said, turning away and picking up some clothing from the floor.

"Let me see your arm," he demanded, grabbing her by the shoulders and turning her around.

"Leave me alone!"

He took her arm in his hand and studied it carefully. "That's a hell of a bruise. I can't imagine how I missed it when you were dancing."

"I cover it with make-up."

"How did you get it?"

"None of your business," she said, trying to pull her arm loose.

"The Marquis gave it to you, didn't he?"

"I fell and bumped it."

"Not there you didn't, unless you fell with your arms splayed out. The Marquis did it."

"What if he did?" she said defiantly. "It has nothing to do with you."

"How often does he beat you?" demanded Nighthawk.

"I deserved it."

"For what?"

"For something a lot more serious than sleeping with a three-month-old," she said.

"He won't beat you for sleeping with me?"

"Who's going to tell him? You?"

"What kind of man beats a helpless woman?"

"What kind of man kills a woman?" she shot back. "Isn't that what you just came back from doing?"

"I'm not going to let him hit you ever again," said Nighthawk.

"I have no further interest in you," she said. "I want you to display none in me."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

He stared at her for a long moment. "I might be in love with you."

"'Might'?" she repeated.

"I don't know. I've never been in love before."

"You're not now. You had a good time in bed; let it go at that."

"I don't like to think of you going back to him."

"Fine. Think of something else."

She finished dressing and walked to the door. "I have every intention of forgetting tonight. I'd strongly advise you to do the same."

"Not a chance."

"That's your problem," she said, walking out as the door sensed her presence and dilated.

Nighthawk walked back to the window and stared out at the frozen landscape for a long moment. Then he slowly climbed into his clothes, no longer interested in sleeping. Finally he walked over to a mirror to comb his hair, but as he looked into the glass, it seemed to him that the reflection he saw was that of a horribly disfigured old man, his eyes sunken, his cheeks hollow, the bones of his face sticking out through his rotting flesh.

The Widowmaker.

"What would you have done?" demanded Nighthawk bitterly.

I'd never have gotten into such a situation. I never let my libido rule my mind.

"How can you say that? I've been to bed with a woman exactly once."

You haven't been able to think of anything else since you saw her.

"You wouldn't have, either."

Never tell me what I would or wouldn't have done. You are the student here, not me.

"All right, then. What would you do now?"

Forget her.

"I can't."

She's just a woman. You're just a man. The only difference is she's had enough experience to know she can forget you. Sleep with a few more women, and you'll find her face harder to remember after each time.

"Is that what made you such a killer? The fact that no one ever meant anything to you?"

I never said that no one meant anything to me. I said that you can't let your gonads rule your mind.

"I'm tired of hearing that. Say something else."

Don't give me orders, son. I'm the Widowmaker. You're just my shadow. My surrogate.

"Then help me, damn it! I'm out here on the Frontier trying to help you!"

Why do you think you're seeing me? You're better start taking the help you can get. Don't hold out for the advice you want.

"What are you talking about?"

You want me to tell you how to win the blue-skinned girl. I'm not going to. Forget her.

"Maybe you could. I can't."

Then be prepared to kill the Marquis.

"I'm ready to do it tonight."

I know. And once you do, who's going to finger President Trelaine's assassin? Or have you forgotten why you were given life in the first place?

"The Marquis has got to be worth over five million credits. Why don't I just kill him, confiscate what's his, and send it back to Deluros?"

Because all you really want to confiscate is the girl. And because the Widowmaker has a code of honor. If he said he'd accept an assignment, he always kept his word.

"But I'm not the Widowmaker."

You will be, one day.

"No! I'm Jefferson Nighthawk!"

So am I—and I was Jefferson Nighthawk first.

"I'm my own man! I'm not you, and I don't take orders from you!"

You are more me than you can imagine.

"No!" shouted Nighthawk furiously.

Oh, yes, flesh of my flesh and blood of my blood. You don't really think I'm here in the mirror, do you? This is just your mind's way of rationalizing my presence. I'm your conscience. More than that, I'm your essence. We are intertwined mentally, physically, every possible way. You fall and I hurt, you laugh and I rejoice, you reach for your weapon and I aim the gun and pull the trigger. There's no getting away from yourself, son, and that's what I am: your true self. I'm the man you are striving to become. I'm the ideal you strive to achieve, and I'm always out of reach. No matter how hard you try, you'll always know in a secret chamber of your mind that I am the better man with any weapon, or a woman.

"The hell you are!"

The hell I'm not. I'm thirty percent man and seventy percent disease, and I'm frozen away like a piece of leftover meat, but you're still afraid of me, still jealous. I haunt your dreams, young Jefferson; you don't haunt mine.

"I don't have to listen to this!" yelled Nighthawk. He pulled out his sonic pistol and pulled the trigger. The beam of sound shattered the mirror into a thousand pieces.

He calmed down as suddenly as he had become enraged, and realized that he still hadn't settled on a course of action. He walked into the bathroom and stood, contritely, before the mirror.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I lost my temper. Probably you went forty years without losing yours."

A handsome young man stared out at him.

"I said I'm sorry," he repeated. "And I still don't know what to do next."

It seemed to him that the face in the mirror turned rotten with disease just long enough to say, "Of course you do," before reverting to the handsome young man whose uncertainty and indecision showed in his every expression and gesture.

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Framed