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14.

Lizard Malloy looked up from his game of solitaire and saw Nighthawk and Father Christmas approaching him.

"Welcome back," said the leather-skinned little man. "Who's your friend?"

"Call me Kris," said Father Christmas.

Malloy suddenly stared at the Holy Roller. "You know you're being followed by something round and yellow?"

"Yeah."

"I assume it's alive, but I can't see any eyes or ears or anything like that."

"It's alive," said Nighthawk. "Where's the Marquis?"

"It's pretty late," replied Malloy. "I think he and the Pearl have gone off to bed."

Nighthawk tensed, but made no reply.

"Well, I'd like a drink," said Father Christmas. "You mind if we join you?"

"Ask him," said Malloy, indicating Nighthawk. "He's the boss."

"Sit," said Nighthawk, pulling out a chair and seating himself. The Holy Roller chirped happily and bounced up to his shoulder, where it settled down to do some serious purring.

"What the hell is it?" asked Malloy.

"Just a pet."

"Looks harmless," offered Father Christmas, suppressing a smile.

"Absolutely," said Nighthawk.

Malloy looked at it suspiciously for a long moment, then shrugged.

"When can we figure on meeting the Marquis?" asked Father Christmas.

"You know him, Kris?" asked Malloy.

"I know of him," replied Father Christmas. "I'd like to meet him. And I have a feeling that it's reciprocal."

"Well, once his lady is bedded down for the night, he usually comes back here for a nightcap," offered Malloy. "Stick around awhile and you'll probably run into him, or vice versa."

"Sounds good to me," said Father Christmas.

"And he'll probably want a report from you," added Malloy to Nighthawk. "Did everything go smoothly?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"Did you get the money, or did you have to kill him?"

"I've got his entire haul in my cargo hold."

"Then you killed him?"

"No."

Malloy looked puzzled. "I thought this Father Christmas was a big time Bad Guy. What kind of crook gives you everything he's got without a fight?"

"One who wants to live to see the next morning," suggested Nighthawk.

"I happen to know Father Christmas intimately," added Father Christmas, "and I guarantee that he would do almost anything to avoid a physical conflict with young Nighthawk here. Or with the Marquis, for that matter."

"Too bad," said Malloy. "The name was so interesting, I kind of hoped a really interesting crook went with it."

"Oh, he's fascinating beyond belief," said Father Christmas. "I never tire of talking about him."

"Well, you'll have to fill me in on him, Kris," said Malloy. "Only later."

"I'm happy to do it right now."

"I don't think so," said Malloy, looking across the huge casino toward the large man who was approaching him. "Here comes our lord and master. It'll have to wait."

"That's the Marquis?"

"Big, ain't he?"

The Marquis of Queensbury strode up to the table. "Welcome back, Widowmaker," he said. "I hear you had a little problem."

"No problem at all," answered Nighthawk.

"You shot the wrong man, you asshole!" bellowed the Marquis.

"I didn't shoot anyone, and he wasn't a man, he was an alien."

"All I know is that I told him to keep an eye on you, and suddenly he's dead and Father Christmas' ship is empty and you're sitting here with a stranger and some kind of idiot animal and telling me that everything is okay. So you'll have to excuse me if I seem a little out of sorts, but I don't think everything is okay."

"I've got Father Christmas' entire haul in my ship," said Nighthawk.

"Oh?" said the Marquis, genuinely surprised. "You killed him?"

"As a matter of fact, I didn't."

"You mean he just let you empty his ship and move all his cargo to yours?" asked the Marquis sardonically.

"No," said Nighthawk.

"I knew it."

"He helped me," continued Nighthawk.

The Marquis looked from Nighthawk to Father Christmas. Finally he turned to face the latter. "Father Christmas, I presume."

"You certainly do. Imagine trying to extort 50% for the privilege of refueling."

"What are you doing here?" demanded the Marquis.

"I wanted to see what kind of thief robs his fellow thieves," answered Father Christmas.

"You're looking at him," said the Marquis with no display of embarrassment. "And I'm looking at a man who robs the deeply religious. Which of us do you suppose has more demerits in the Book of Fate?"

"It'd be a close call," said Father Christmas.

"You'd win in a walk," said the Marquis firmly.

"I would, if it was written by the same hypocrites who wrote the bible and the church services," agreed Father Christmas. "Fortunately, they don't speak for God."

"And you do?"

"God doesn't need my help. I'm just a stopgap, until He Himself razes the temples to the ground."

"Temples? I thought you robbed churches."

"A poetic flourish," replied Father Christmas. "Actually, I rob any religious institution I come across."

"I know. And now you've presented me with a serious ethical problem," said the Marquis.

"I have?"

The Marquis nodded. "I've never stopped you from practicing your profession. You've robbed churches on my worlds, and I've never lifted a finger against you. But now you've taken advantage of my hospitality on Aladdin without paying for it, and one of my most trusted employees is dead. Hell, for all I know, you've corrupted the Widowmaker here." He uttered a mock-theatrical sigh. "What am I to do with you, Father Christmas?"

"Well, the way I see it, you have three choices," answered Father Christmas. "First, you can kill me. That would unquestionably make you feel better—but I suppose it's only fair to tell you that I rigged the cargo hold on Nighthawk's ship, and if you try to remove any of my treasure without knowing the proper codes, you'll blow up the ship and everything in it. Second, you can let me go, but I don't want to go, and I probably wouldn't avail myself of the opportunity."

The Marquis stared thoughtfully at him, more amused than outraged.

"And third?"

"Third, you can use your brain and offer to become my partner. There are thousands of churches on the Frontier, millions back in the Oligarchy. We could die of old age before we've plundered two percent of them."

"Why should I want to rob churches?" asked the Marquis.

"Because you're a thoroughly corrupt man, and there's a fortune to be made," answered Father Christmas.

"I rule eleven worlds already, and I influence twenty more," said the Marquis. "That's thirty-one worlds under my sole control. Why should I need a partner?"

"Because you want what every corrupt man wants."

"And what is that?" asked the Marquis.

"More," said Father Christmas.

"True," admitted the Marquis. "But if robbing churches won't make me any less corrupt, then I'll always want more."

"You always will," agreed Father Christmas. "That's why men like us never retire."

"And you only rob churches, right?"

"Who else forgives you for your misdeeds and prays for your soul?"

"Do I detect a note of cynicism?" asked the Marquis with a grin.

"Absolutely not," said Father Christmas earnestly. "Back on Earth—and I have plundered some of its finest churches, including Notre Dame and the Vatican—there is an insect called the ant. It lives in colonies, and is very industrious. It builds small mounds and creates incredibly complex passageways and food chambers and nurseries just beneath the surface. It takes days, sometimes weeks, to create these anthills . . . and yet you can destroy them in seconds, with the toe of your boot. And do you know what the ants do then?"

"Attack you?"

"No," answered Father Christmas. "They go right back to work rebuilding the mound."

"And you're saying churches are like anthills?"

"Only in this respect: they don't seek revenge once you've plundered them. They rebuild with all the industry of ants. It is counter to their philosophy to blame the thief. They prefer to consider me an agent of God, Who for reasons unknown to them is punishing them. It would make much more sense to think of me as the devil incarnate, but they don't really want to believe in a devil. It's easier to blame God, and hence their own sinful lives, for what I do without conscience or ethical consideration. And when disaster—meaning myself—strikes, they go about their business like the ants, rebuilding so that I can plunder them again."

Suddenly a huge smile spread across the Marquis' face. "I like you!" he exclaimed.

"Why shouldn't you?" asked Father Christmas. "I'm very likeable."

"I think we can reach an agreement," continued the Marquis.

"Give me safe passage and asylum and I'll give you twenty percent," said Father Christmas.

The Marquis shoved Malloy out of his chair and sat down on it. "Take a walk," he said. "We're about to talk business."

Malloy, obviously feeling insulted, got up and left the table.

The Marquis turned back to Father Christmas. "Twenty percent isn't even worth talking about," he said. "Now, here's my proposal, my friend. You tell me what worlds you plan to hit. I'll supply you with all the firepower you need, and I'll give you safe haven on any world within my sphere of influence, for, shall we say, half?"

"I thought half was your criminal extortion rate, not your very best offer to possible partners," said Father Christmas. "I'll agree to it for, shall we say, a quarter?"

The Marquis turned to Nighthawk. "You brought back a good man, Jefferson Nighthawk. I really like him." He stared at Father Christmas. "In fact, I like you so much I'll do it for a third."

"Like me a little less and take thirty percent," said Father Christmas with a grin.

"What the hell, why not?" said the Marquis, sticking out his huge hand and shaking Father Christmas's much smaller one. "You've got a deal."

"Well, it's nice to be in business with you," said Father Christmas. "I think this calls for a little celebration. I'll treat for a bottle of your finest Cyngian cognac."

"I'll go get some from the bar," said the Marquis, getting up.

The Marquis of Queensbury returned a moment later with the bottle and some oddly-shaped glasses on a glowing tray. He opened the bottle with a flourish, and carelessly filled each of their glasses, splashing some of the expensive cognac onto the tray and table.

"To friendship, partnership, and success," he said in a loud voice.

"To friendship, partnership, and success," echoed Father Christmas.

"And to death," added Nighthawk.

"Death?" repeated the Marquis curiously.

"In our business, how else will you know you've succeeded?" asked Nighthawk.

"True," agreed the Marquis after a moment's thought. "To death."

"May it visit our enemies first, and ourselves not at all," intoned Father Christmas.

If I work it right, thought Nighthawk, that toast just may come true.

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