Contents

Book 1

Soothsayer

Book 2

Oracle

Book 3

Prophet

This book is an Ace original edition, and has never been previously published.

SOOTHSAYER

An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author

PRINTING HISTORY

Ace edition / November 1991

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 1991 by Mike Resnick.

Cover art by Jim Burns.

This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part,

by mimeograph or any other means, without permission.

For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

200 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016.

ISBN: 0-441-77285-4

Ace Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.

The name “ACE” and the “A” logo

are trademarks belonging to Charter Communications, Inc.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

To Carol, as always.

And to Susan Allison and Ginjer Buchanan,

fine editors and fine ladies.

Contents

Prologue

Part 1

The Mouse’s Book

Part 2

The Iceman’s Book

Part 3

The Yankee Clipper’s Book

Part 4

The Mock Turtle’s Book

Part 5

The Soothsayer’s Book

Prologue

It was a time of giants.

There was no room for them to breathe and flex their muscles in mankind’s sprawling Democracy, so they gravitated to the distant, barren worlds of the Inner Frontier, drawn ever closer to the bright galactic Core like moths to a flame.

Oh, they fit into human frames, most of them, but they were giants nonetheless. No one knew what had brought them forth in such quantity at this particular moment in human history. Perhaps there was a need for them in a galaxy filled to overflowing with little people possessed of even smaller dreams. Possibly it was the savage splendor of Inner Frontier itself, for it was certainly not a place for ordinary men and women. Or maybe it was simply time for a race that had been notably short of giants in recent eons to begin producing them once again.

But whatever the reason, they swarmed out beyond the furthest reaches of the explored galaxy, spreading the seed of Man to hundreds of new worlds, and in the process creating a cycle of legends that would never die as long as men could tell tales of heroic deeds.

There was Faraway Jones, who set foot on more than 500 new worlds, never quite certain what he was looking for, always sure that he hadn’t yet found it.

There was the Whistler, who bore no other name than that, and who had killed more than one hundred men and aliens.

There was Friday Nellie, who turned her whorehouse into a hospital during the war against the Setts, and finally saw it declared a shrine by the very men who once tried to close it down.

There was Jamal, who left no fingerprints or footprints, but had plundered palaces that to this day do not know they were plundered.

There was Bet-a-World Murphy, who at various times owned nine different gold-mining worlds, and lost every one of them at the gaming tables.

There was Backbreaker Ben Ami, who wrestled aliens for money and killed men for pleasure. There was the Marquis of Queensbury, who fought by no rules at all, and the White Knight, albino killer of fifty men, and Sally the Blade, and the Forever Kid, who reached the age of nineteen and just stopped growing for the next two centuries, and Catastrophe Baker, who made whole planets shake beneath his feet, and the exotic Pearl of Maracaibo, and the Jade Queen, whose sins were condemned by every race in the galaxy, and Father Christmas, and the One-Armed Bandit with his deadly prosthetic arm, and the Earth Mother, and Lizard Malloy, and the deceptively mild-mannered Cemetery Smith.

Giants all.

Yet there was one giant who was destined to tower over all of the others, to juggle the lives of men and worlds as if they were so many toys, to rewrite the history of the Inner Frontier, and the Outer Frontier, and the Spiral Arm, and even the all-powerful Democracy itself. At various times in her short, turbulent life she was known as the Soothsayer, and the Oracle, and the Prophet. By the time she had passed from the galactic scene, only a handful of survivors knew her true name, or her planet of origin, or even her early history, for such is the way with giants and legends.

But she had an origin, and a history, and a name, and even a childhood of sorts.

This is her story.

PART 1:

The

Mouse’s

Book

1

Blantyre III was a world of tall towers and stately minarets, of twisting streets and pitch-dark alleyways, of large chimneys and narrow stairways.

In other words, it was a world made to order for the Mouse.

She stood on the makeshift stage at the back of Merlin’s wagon now, not quite five feet tall, barely eighty pounds, wearing a sequined tie and tails over her tights, smiling confidently at the assembled crowd as Merlin produced bouquets and rabbits out of thin air. Each of these he handed to her, and each she placed in a special container, since flowers and rabbits were difficult to come by out on the Inner Frontier, and they planned to make use of them a number of times before moving on to the next world.

Then came the cigarette trick. Merlin lit a cigarette, snuffed it out, magically produced four more lit cigarettes, threw them away, pulled yet another out of his ear, and so on, simple sleight of hand, but immensely pleasing to the spectators who had never seen any kind of magic show before.

Then there was the patter, which Merlin kept up incessantly. He told jokes, insulted braggarts, called forth the dark gods to aid him, even read an occasional mind.

And finally, forty minutes into the act, came the pièce de résistance.

Merlin had the Mouse climb into a large box, which he then bound with chains and secured with oversized padlocks. The box, he explained carefully, had a twenty-minute supply of oxygen in it, not a second more.

The Mouse was already out of the box and hiding in the back of Merlin’s wagon when he had two bystanders help him attach it to a pulley, raise it over a large tank of water, and submerge it, promising his audience that the Mouse had only nineteen minutes left in which to escape or die.

He then pulled out some of his more dazzling tricks, those with fires and explosions, which held the crowd captivated while the Mouse slipped into a black bodysuit, wriggled out the hole in the bottom of the wagon, and slunk off into the shadows.

A moment later she was clambering lithely up the side of an ancient building, hiding in the shadow of a turret until Merlin performed his next trick, and then she was inside a window and scampering lightly down a corridor. There was artwork to be had in this house, lots of it, but she decided it would be too hard to smuggle off the planet. Instead she kept racing from room to room until she finally found a woman’s dressing room, quickly scavenged through the drawers until she came to a jewelry chest, and plundered it, placing the contents in a leather pouch tied around her waist.

She checked her watch again. Eleven minutes. Time for at least one more house, possibly two.

She raced back to the window through which she had entered, clambered out and up to the top of a minaret, dove through space to the adjacent building, landed catlike on a ledge, and forced open the window of a darkened room.

She realized immediately that she was not alone, that someone or something was sleeping in a corner. She froze, half-expecting an attack, but then she heard a snore and she was across the room and into a corridor within five seconds.

She could tell by the numerals on the doors that she was in a rooming house rather than a private residence. It could be better; it could be worse. She could plunder four or five different rooms without having to leave the building, but residents of boarding houses rarely had anything worth stealing.

She checked the nearest room. It was empty, not only of people but of anything remotely valuable.

The second room was a little better. A man and a woman were asleep in a large bed, and the air smelled of alcohol and drugs. The Mouse found their clothing in a crumpled pile on the floor and extracted three one-hundred credit notes from the man’s wallet. A further search failed to turn up the woman’s purse or money, and the Mouse decided that she didn’t have enough time to keep looking for them.

She re-entered the corridor with eight minutes remaining on her watch, but just as she did so an elderly woman turned on the light and wandered out to use the only bathroom on the floor. She shot into the stairwell, heard voices coming up from the floor below and realized that at least one of the rooms had a door open, and crouched in the shadows, waiting for the stiff-limbed old woman to make her way down the corridor to the bathroom. It took the old woman almost two minutes, and the Mouse decided that it was time to start heading back. She found an unlit fire exit in the rear of the building, climbed down to the ground, kept to the shadows until she was opposite Merlin’s wagon, waited for him to captivate the crowd with one final trick that shot fireworks in every direction, then slithered under the wagon and entered it from beneath.

She placed her pouch carefully inside a production box, so that even if a policeman opened the top of the box he’d have a difficult time finding anything that was hidden in it. Then, with two minutes to go, she donned a black hood and insinuated herself onto the stage.

Merlin was toying with the spectators, half-convincing them that the Mouse was mere seconds from drowning or suffocating if she couldn’t escape, and finally he led them in a countdown. When they reached the instant when her oxygen was theoretically used up, Merlin and his black-hooded assistant pulled the box out of the water and hacked away its chains—and revealed not a dead Mouse, but an Antarean bird of many colors, which spread its wings, hopped out of the box, walked over to the Mouse, and pulled her hood off—its one and only trick.

The crowd applauded wildly, Merlin passed his hat for donations, and finally the audience dispersed, leaving them there in the middle of the now-empty street.

“Well?” asked the magician. “How did you do?”

“Some credits, some jewelry,” replied the Mouse. “Nothing special.”

“That’s the problem with this world,” said Merlin. “There is nothing special to it.” He stared contemptuously at the houses. “All these stately facades, and each boudoir with its own facade of costume jewelry. Six nights without a major score. I’m for calling it quits.”

The Mouse shrugged. “Suits me. Where to next?”

“Westerly is the next human world.”

“Westerly is an alien world,” she corrected him.

“It’s got about 20,000 humans living in a kind of Free Zone right in the heart of their biggest city,” said Merlin. “We can refuel there.”

“We can refuel right here.”

“We’re going to,” explained Merlin patiently. “But Westerly should make a nice one-day stop along the route. Who knows? Maybe we can pick up some fresh fruit. That’s something we can’t get on this particular dirtball.”

She shrugged again. “All right. Westerly it is.” Merlin began driving the show wagon back to the spaceport. “What do the natives call it?” continued the Mouse.

“Call what?” he asked distractedly.

“Westerly.”

“Well, the human natives call it Westerly.”

“Thanks a heap.”

“You couldn’t pronounce what the aliens call it. It’s listed on the star maps as Romanus Omega II.” He paused. “It’s an oxygen world, of course.”

“Any idea what the natives are like?”

“I imagine they breathe oxygen,” he said. “What difference does it make? We’re only going to perform for a human audience.”

“You don’t crawl down chimneys or through sewers,” she replied. “If I’m going to run into an alien in tight quarters, I want to know what my options are.”

“Same as always: run like hell.”

They rode in silence until they reached the spaceport, then loaded the wagon into Merlin’s brightly-decorated ship. Once they had taken off and laid in a course to Westerly, the Mouse relaxed with a beer while Merlin began running the gemstones she had stolen through the computer’s spectrographic sensors. When he finished he cross-checked them against his current jeweler’s reference guides, and finally placed tentative values upon them.

“Could have been worse,” he said at last. “I do wish you’d get over your compulsive urge to always grab the biggest stones, though. So many of them really aren’t worth the trouble.”

“What about the diamond bracelet and the sapphire necklace?” she asked without looking up.

“They were very nice pieces. But those beads that look like pearls—absolutely worthless.”

“You’ll find some pretty little girl to give them to, once we get back to the Frontier,” said the Mouse.

“I shall certainly try my utmost,” agreed Merlin. “But that in no way alters the fact that they won’t bring a credit on the black market.”

She sipped her beer thoughtfully. “We don’t want credits anyway, not the way the Democracy’s going these days. If I were you, I’d sell this stuff for Stalin rubles and Maria Theresa dollars.”

“Then we’re going to have to wait a few weeks. As long as we’re within the Democracy, people are going to want to pay us with credits.”

“Then you’d better charge more, because credits don’t spend very well out where we’re heading.”

“I don’t tell you how to steal them; don’t you tell me how to unload them.”

The Mouse stared at him for a moment as he practiced making the jewels appear and disappear beneath a colorful silken scarf, then went back to concentrating on her beer. It had been a long week, and she was tired, and her left knee was throbbing from where she’d banged it against a turret two nights ago. In fact, her whole body hurt from the chores she kept giving it. It really was time for a vacation, and as she sought out her bed and drifted off to sleep, she found herself hoping that they could make a big enough killing on Westerly so that she could afford to take a few months off.

Westerly, decided the Mouse, was like most alien worlds. At first glance it seemed to make perfect sense; it was only when you looked more closely that it seemed less and less reasonable.

“Well, what do you think?” asked Merlin as he drove the show wagon down the main street of Westerly’s human enclave.

“I don’t like it,” replied the Mouse.

“What’s the problem?”

“Look at the way the streets all twist and turn back into themselves,” she said. “There are some skyscrapers with no windows or doors at all, and some little one-story buildings that are all glass and have fifteen doors. I don’t know if I can figure it out in ten minutes.”

“Just stick to the human buildings,” said Merlin. “We don’t want any alien objects anyway.”

“It’s not that simple,” she said. “Which ones are the human buildings? If I pick the wrong one, I could get lost inside of it for an hour or more. I have a horrible feeling that every corridor ends in a blank wall, and that every staircase forms a continuous loop.”

“You’re overreacting,” said Merlin.

“I don’t think so,” she said, “and it’s my opinion that counts.” She paused. “Your information was wrong. This planet never saw twenty thousand men at one time. I’d be surprised if they’ve got a thousand in residence.”

“Let’s compromise, then,” said Merlin, bringing the wagon to a halt.

“How?”

He jerked his head at a large steel-and-glass building just across the street. “The Royal Arms Hotel,” he said. “Human-owned, human-run. We’ve got all day to study it. Let’s go in, have lunch, and walk around a bit. If you’re comfortable with it by nightfall, it’s the only place you’ll have to hit.”

She nodded her agreement. “Fair enough,” she said.

“I’ll join you as soon as I can find a place to leave the wagon.”

While she was waiting for him, she walked entirely around the hotel, and located what would be her means of ingress later that night: a ventilation shaft attached to a basement laundry. There was a grate covering it, and room enough to park the wagon right over it. She had already entered the lobby when Merlin caught up with her.

“Well?” he said. “Learn anything?”

“Two things,” she replied. “First, I know how I’m getting in.”

“Good.”

“And second,” she continued, indicating a Robelian and a trio of Lodinites, “they’ve got more than just men staying here.”

“They’ll have their own floors,” replied Merlin with a shrug. “It just means we have to be selective.”

“What about the locks?”

“They should be standard, keyed into the house computer so they can change combinations on a moment’s notice.” He paused. “If you forget half of what I’ve already taught you, it might take you 30 seconds to crack one of them.”

“You don’t mind if we check them out before tonight?”

He shrugged. “Whatever you wish.”

“Has it occurred to you that you could probably loot fifty guest rooms between now and dinnertime?” she suggested.

He shook his head. “We’ve been through all that before. The only reason we’ve never been arrested is because we do our looting only during the time we have an alibi.”

She made no reply, but kept looking surreptitiously into corners, down corridors, behind room dividers. From what she could tell—and she couldn’t be certain until she examined some of the rooms—it appeared that most or all of the human guests used the airlifts to the right of the registration desk, which put them on levels Four through Nine. Levels Two and Three were reached by gently-ascending ramps to the left of the registration desk, and seemed to be of interest only to Canphorites, Lodinites, and Robelians.

“Well, at least they’re all oxygen breathers,” she muttered. “I hate it when they change environments.” She turned to Merlin. “Have you spotted the service lifts yet?”

He frowned. “There don’t seem to be any.”

“There must be. They’d never let the maids go up in the same airlift as the paying customers.” She paused. “Maybe you’d better go tell the management that we’re here to put on a show for their customers tonight, before they think that we’re casing the premises.”

“And what will you be doing while I’m explaining away our presence?” asked Merlin.

“Casing the premises,” she replied with a smile.

Merlin approached the front desk, and the Mouse took an elevator to the seventh level, made sure that the locks were a type she could pick, tried to take the lift down to the basement to inspect the laundry, found that it stopped at the lobby, and finally rejoined the magician just as he was emerging from the day manager’s office.

“All set?” she asked.

“They won’t give us any problems, and it’ll justify our hanging around the hotel for the rest of the afternoon.”

“Good. Let’s start by having some lunch.”

He agreed, and a moment later they entered the main-floor restaurant. Only two other tables were occupied, and Merlin nodded toward the farthest one.

“See that alien over there?” he whispered, indicating the lone being at the table.

“The humanoid with the bad complexion?” she asked.

Merlin nodded. “The one who’s dressed all in silver. Steer clear of him.”

“Why?”

“Wait’ll he reaches for something and you’ll see.”

As if on cue, the alien signaled for a waiter, and she could see that he had once possessed four arms, but that one had been amputated.

“What kind of race does he belong to?” she asked.

“I don’t know—but unless I miss my guess, that’s Three-Fisted Ollie.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Just keep out of his way.”

“Outlaw?”

“Bounty hunter. They say he’s killed more than thirty men, and that he never takes contracts on his own race.” The magician paused thoughtfully. “I wish I knew why he was on Westerly; he usually operates on the Inner Frontier.”

“Unless he’s hunting for us.”

“Come on,” said Merlin. “There’s not a warrant out on us anywhere in the Democracy.”

“That you know of,” she said.

“That anyone knows of,” he replied confidently. “Anyway, if you run into him tonight, just apologize and get the hell out of his way quick.”

The Mouse nodded and punched her order into the small menu computer. A moment later Merlin prodded her with his toe.

“What now?” she asked.

“Don’t look turn around or pretend to notice him—but do you see who just joined the alien?”

She turned her head.

“I said don’t look directly!” hissed Merlin.

“All right,” said the Mouse, staring directly into Merlin’s eyes. “It’s a big bearded human with a small arsenal hanging down from his belt. I assume you know him, too?”

“It’s Cemetery Smith.”

“Another bounty hunter?”

Merlin shook his head. “A hired killer. One of the best.”

“So why are an alien bounty hunter and a professional assassin sitting fifty feet away from us?” asked the Mouse.

“I don’t know,” said the magician nervously. “They should both be on the Frontier, and they sure as hell shouldn’t be talking to each other.”

“Are they after us?” asked the Mouse calmly, even as she searched for exits and mentally calculated her chances of reaching them.

“No. These guys don’t fool around. If they wanted us, we’d already be dead.”

“What do you want to do about tonight?” she asked. “We can give the hotel a pass, and just take off.”

“Let me think about it,” said Merlin. He lowered his head and stared at his interlocked fingers for a long moment, then looked up. “No, there’s no reason to cancel out. They’re not after us, and we don’t represent any competition to them. We’re thieves, they’re killers.”

The Mouse shrugged. “Makes no difference to me.”

“I wonder who they’re after?” mused Merlin, as the human got to his feet, said something to the alien, and walked out into the hotel lobby. “Whoever it is, he must be damned good if it takes the two of them together to hunt him down.”

They ate in silence, and then, as twilight approached, the Mouse began passing out holographic flyers announcing the magic show that would shortly be performed on the street outside the hotel.

By sundown, when Merlin began producing bouquets and birds and rabbits with professional élan, they had attracted a crowd of about sixty, all but a handful of them humans. Merlin continued to bedazzle the crowd, the Mouse performed her two or three simple illusions to a smattering of applause, and then Merlin put her into the box and began securing the locks, even as she rolled out the false back. By the time he had maneuvered it into the water tank, she was beneath the surface of the street, crawling through the ventilation shaft into the laundry. There were two women on duty, and it took her a minute longer than she had anticipated to reach the enclosed fire stairs. She raced up the stairs to the fourth level, then emerged and began checking for unlocked doors. She found one, quickly looted the room of its few valuable items, and then broke into another room. This one provided even less booty, and she soon emerged into the corridor. According to her watch, she had time for perhaps two more rooms if she was fast enough, one more if she had to hunt for its treasures.

Then, suddenly, she heard a door open, and she shot into the stairwell. There was no reason to wait for the resident to traverse the corridor and reach the airlift, when all she had to do was climb another floor and loot two rooms on the fifth level—but some instinct warned her not to climb any higher. Perhaps it was the press of time, perhaps it was the possibility of running into Cemetery Smith, but whatever the reason, she found herself waiting for the fourth level corridor to become empty rather than ascending to the fifth.

“Goddamn it!” bellowed a voice, and she peeked into the fourth level corridor.

Evidently whoever had opened the door had managed to lock himself out of his room, because now he was cursing at the top of his lungs and pounding on his door. Other doors cracked open as curious residents sought the reason for the disturbance, and the Mouse pulled her head back into the stairwell, convinced that the fourth level wouldn’t be safe for her until long after she had to return to the magic show.

She took two steps up the stairwell, then heard still more noise on the fifth level, as the sounds of cursing and pounding rose through the building, and she immediately reversed her course, racing down to the second level, well below the noise.

She stepped cautiously into the corridor, which was a bit wider than the human section, and began checking the doors. The first two were locked, the third had a hideous growling sound emanating from behind it. It was as she approached the fourth door that she heard a sound that had no business being in the alien section of the hotel: the sobbing of a human child.

It took her less than twenty seconds to pick the lock and leap into the darkness of the room before the door could slide shut behind her. She pulled out a tiny flashlight and began inspecting the premises. There was an oddly-shaped couch and chair that no human could ever sit in, a table on which were placed six bronze artifacts that were absolutely meaningless to her, and another table with the remains of an alien meal on it.

Then her light caught a slight movement in the corner of the room. She immediately turned and focused it, and found herself staring at a small blonde girl manacled to the heavy wooden leg of an immense chair.

“Help me!” pleaded the girl.

“Are you alone?” whispered the Mouse.

The girl nodded.

The mouse crossed the room and set to work on the girl’s manacles.

“What’s your name?” asked the Mouse.

“Penelope,” sniffed the girl.

“Penelope what?”

“Just Penelope.”

The manacles came apart and dropped to the floor, and the Mouse stood up and took her first good look at the girl.

Penelope’s blonde hair seemed to have been haphazardly cut with a knife rather than a shears, and it obviously hadn’t been washed in weeks, or perhaps months. There was a large bruise on her left cheek, not terribly miscolored, obviously on the mend. She was thin, not wiry and hard like the Mouse, but almost malnourished. She was dressed in what had once been a white play outfit that was now grimy and shredded from being worn for weeks on end. Her feet were bare, and both her heels were raw.

“Don’t turn the light on,” said Penelope. “He’ll be back soon.”

“What race does he belong to?”

Penelope shrugged. “I don’t know.”

The Mouse pulled a dagger out of her left boot. “If he comes back before we leave, I’ll have a little surprise for him, that’s for sure.”

Penelope shook her head adamantly. “You can’t kill him. Please, can’t we leave?”

The Mouse reached out a hand and pulled Penelope to her feet. “Where are your parents?”

“I don’t know. Dead, I think.”

“Can you walk?”

“Yes.”

“All right,” said the Mouse, heading toward the door. “Let’s go.”

“Wait!” said Penelope suddenly. “I can’t leave without Jennifer!”

“Jennifer?” demanded the Mouse. “Who’s Jennifer?”

Penelope raced to a corner of the room and picked up a filthy rag doll. “This is Jennifer,” she said, holding it up in the beam of light. “Now we can go.”

“Give me your hand,” said the Mouse, ordering the door to slide into the wall.

She stuck her head out into the hall, saw no movement, and quickly walked to the stairwell, practically dragging the weakened little girl behind her. Once there, they walked down to the basement level and made their way to the laundry room.

“Now listen carefully,” whispered the Mouse. “I want you to crawl on your hands and knees, just the way I’m going to do, behind this row of laundry carts, until we reach that vent. Can you see it?”

Penelope peered into the semi-darkness and shook her head.

“I’ll let you know when we’re there. Once we reach the vent, I’m going to boost you up inside it. It’s narrow and it’s dark, but you won’t get stuck, because that’s how I came in and I’m bigger than you are.”

“I’m not afraid,” said Penelope.

“I know you’re not,” said the Mouse reassuringly. “But you have to be absolutely silent. If you make any noise, the maids who are running the washing machines on the other side of the room might hear, and if they come over to investigate, I’ll have to kill them.”

“It’s wrong to kill.”

“Then don’t make any noise and I won’t have to,” said the Mouse. “Are you ready?”

Penelope nodded her head, and the Mouse began crawling toward the vent. When she reached it she turned to see how far Penelope had gotten, and was surprised to find the little girl almost beside her.

The Mouse made sure that the maids were still busily loading and unloading the washers and dryers, put a finger to her lips, then lifted Penelope into the vent. The little girl writhed and wriggled, and finally made it to the right angle where the vent left the building and went beneath the street.

The Mouse was about to follow her when she heard a plaintive whisper.

“I can’t find Jennifer!”

“Keep going!” hissed the Mouse. “I’ll find her.”

She waited for a moment until she could hear the child wriggling forward again, then climbed into the vent herself. She came upon the rag doll wedged into a corner as the vent turned out of the building, tucked it into her belt, then continued crawling until she caught up with Penelope, who had reached the grate beneath Merlin’s wagon and didn’t know what to do next.

The Mouse quickly removed the grate, boosted Penelope into the wagon, and followed her, leaning back down through the false floor to reattach the grate.

“Wait here,” she instructed the child. “And don’t make a sound.”

She donned her black hood and made it to the act’s finale with no more than ten seconds to spare. When it was over, and most of the crowd had dispersed, she led Merlin back inside the wagon.

“What kept you?” asked the magician. “You cut it awfully close.”

“I hired an assistant,” said the Mouse with a smile.

“An assistant?”

The Mouse pointed at Penelope, who had buried herself under a bag of props.

“Good God!” muttered Merlin, lifting the bag. “Where the hell did you find her?”

“Chained to a bed in an alien’s room.”

The magician squatted down next to the little girl and examined the bruise on her cheek. “You’ve had a hard time of it, haven’t you?”

She stared at him without answering.

“Has she got any family on Westerly?” Merlin asked the Mouse.

“I don’t think so.”

“What was she doing here?”

“I don’t know,” said the Mouse.

“Hiding,” said Penelope.

“He doesn’t mean now, Penelope,” said the Mouse. “He meant when I found you.”

“Hiding,” repeated Penelope.

“You mean the alien who stole you was in hiding?”

She shook her head. “He was hiding me.”

The Mouse nodded. “From your parents.”

Penelope shook her head again. “My parents are dead.”

“From the authorities, then,” said the Mouse.

“No.”

“Then from who?” asked the Mouse in mild exasperation.

Penelope pointed a thin, wavering finger out the wagon’s only window to the doorway of the hotel, where Cemetery Smith and Three-Fisted Ollie were speaking in loud angry voices to the doorman.

“From them.”

2

Penelope was sound asleep, clutching her rag doll to her chest, as the ship sped through the void to the dry, dusty world of Cherokee. The Mouse had fed and bathed her, and put a healing ointment on her feet, and had finally gone to the ship’s cluttered galley, where she found Merlin sitting at the dining table. He had a small mirror set up opposite his hands, and was studying it intently as he went through his repertoire of card tricks.

“Well?” he asked.

“Well what?”

Merlin put the deck of cards in his pocket. “Did she say anything?”

“Of course she did,” answered the Mouse. “She’s not mute, you know.”

“Anything useful?” he persisted. “Like why anyone would hire two such expensive killers to hunt her down?”

“We’ve gone over this before,” said the Mouse wearily. “She’s very young and very confused.” She commanded a cabinet to open, and withdrew a bottle and a glass. “It’s far more likely that they were after her abductor. Look at it logically: the alien kidnapped her, the family decided not to pay any ransom, and they hired a pair of killers to get her back.”

“If you’re right, we’ve got to unload her quick,” said Merlin. “If there’s a reward, we claim it on Cherokee. If there isn’t, we get rid of her before they send Smith and Ollie after us.”

“There aren’t any authorities on Cherokee,” she pointed out while pouring herself a drink. “It’s an Inner Frontier world. That’s why we chose it.”

“It’s got a post office covered with wanted posters, and it’s got a powerful subspace radio transmitter,” responded Merlin. “We can at least find out if a reward has been offered.”

“I don’t know if there will be a reward in the usual sense,” said the Mouse, “but someone is offering something, or Cemetery Smith and Three-Fisted Ollie wouldn’t have been after the kidnapper.” She paused. “If she’s valuable enough to interest professional assassins and bounty hunters, the family must be awfully rich. My guess is that they’re trying to keep it quiet. Maybe she’s got brothers and sisters; there’s no sense advertising that their security is flawed.”

“Then how will we find out who she is and who she belongs to?” said Merlin. “We can’t just post an advertisement that we’ve stolen this little blonde girl from an alien kidnapper. Smith and Ollie would be hunting for us five minutes later.” He stared thoughtfully at his lean, white fingers. “I don’t know. We may have bitten off more than we can chew.”

“What did you want me to do?” asked the Mouse irritably. “Leave her where she was?”

“No, I suppose not.” Merlin sighed deeply and lit a small cigar. “But I’m starting to get a very bad feeling about this.”

“I don’t see why,” said the Mouse, downing her drink.

“Because we’re a couple of small-timers. If Cemetery Smith and Three-Fisted Ollie are involved in this, then we’re in over our heads. And I have a feeling that there’s more to this than meets the eye.”

“For instance?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I can’t help remembering the look on her face when she pointed to those two killers—like she’d seen them before.”

“Perhaps she had,” agreed the Mouse. “So what? Maybe they took a shot at her captor and missed, and in her confused state she thought they were shooting at her.”

“That’s the problem,” said Merlin.

“What is?”

“Those guys don’t miss.” He paused and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “And there’s something else, too.”

“What?”

“Bounty hunters aren’t much for sharing. Do you know how much money someone had to put up to get them to work together?” He stared at her, a troubled expression on his face. “If she’s worth that much, why haven’t we heard about her before?”

“When you’re really rich, you don’t brag about it—you hide it.”

“I don’t know,” said Merlin. “You’ve got an answer for everything … but I still don’t like it.”

“I’ll tell you what,” she said. “When we set down on Cherokee, we’ll make some very discreet inquiries and see if we can find out who she is and who wants her … and we’ll keep doing it, carefully and discreetly, on every world we hit until we get an answer. In the meantime, she can shill for the act. Will that satisfy you?”

“I suppose so. The question is: will it satisfy her?”

“What do you mean?” asked the Mouse.

“What if she wants to go home right now—wherever home is,” said Merlin. “You told me that the alien kept her chained up. What if she tries to get away from us?”

The Mouse shook her head. “She thinks I saved her—which in fact I did. I can keep her contented.”

“I just don’t think of you as the motherly type.”

“Why don’t you let me worry about that?”

“As long as someone’s worrying about it,” said Merlin.

They sat in silence for half an hour, the Mouse reading a newstape, Merlin practicing his sleight-of-hand with a trio of coins. Then they heard Penelope moan, and the Mouse went to her cabin to check on her.

“What’s the matter?” she asked as she approached the girl’s bed.

Penelope looked confused. “I thought I was back where you found me.”

“It was just a dream,” said the Mouse soothingly.

“I’m frightened,” whimpered Penelope.

“There’s no need to be. You’re safe now.”

Penelope shook her head.

“But you are,” continued the Mouse. “Tomorrow we’ll be landing on a new world, and we’ve decided to let you start learning the act so you can help us. Won’t that be fun?”

“They won’t let me.”

“Who won’t let you?”

“Everybody.”

“No one on this world even knows you,” said the Mouse.

“Someone will. Someone always does.”

The Mouse frowned. “How many worlds have you been to?”

Penelope held up both hands, studied them, and then bent two fingers on her right hand.

“Eight worlds?”

Penelope nodded.

“And somebody always knew you on each of these worlds?”

“On most of them.”

“Who knew you?”

“Men.”

“Just men?”

“Bad men,” said Penelope.

“Men with weapons?”

“Some of them.”

“You’ve had a tough time of it, haven’t you?” said the Mouse. “Try to go to sleep now. Things will look better when you wake up.”

She gave the little girl a hug and then left the cabin.

“Well?” asked Merlin, when she had rejoined him.

“Bad dream.”

He shrugged. “I suppose she’s entitled to it.”

“She is. Do you know that they’ve been chasing her kidnapper across eight worlds?”

“She told you that?” asked Merlin.

“Yes.”

He frowned. “That’s another thing that doesn’t fit.”

“Why not?”

“If this alien was good enough to keep one step ahead of Cemetery Smith for eight worlds, how come you were able to just walk right in and grab her?”

“He didn’t know I was there. Nobody did.”

“And he didn’t take any precautions against an unknown bounty hunter coming in the back door? I find that just a little bit hard to believe.”

“He obviously didn’t have any confederates,” replied the Mouse. “Or else they were killed by bounty hunters. At any rate, he couldn’t watch her every minute of every day.”

“I gather he’d been doing just that on eight different worlds.”

She looked annoyed. “Why is it that whenever you find yourself in a new situation, you suddenly become the most paranoid man I’ve ever known?”

“New I don’t mind,” responded Merlin, waving his hand in the air and producing a bouquet of flowers. “I don’t even mind strange. But this situation feels more than new and strange: It feels dangerous, and that I don’t like.”

“Well,” said the Mouse after a moment’s silence, “I don’t know what we can do about it. She’s here, and until we can return her to whoever’s paying Cemetery Smith and Three-Fisted Ollie to find her, she’s staying here.”

“We’ll see.”

“I mean it, Merlin,” she said firmly. “After what she’s been through, I’m not about to abandon her on some Frontier dirtball with no friends or family to look after her.”

“All right,” he said resignedly. “I know that tone of voice. She stays until we find out who will pay to get her back.”

“You needn’t look so unhappy about it,” she added.

“Why not?” replied Merlin. “I’ve got the same questions now I had an hour ago; none of them have gone away just because you’ve always got a smooth answer for everything.” He paused. “The only thing that’s changed since this conversation began is that now we’ve got another mouth to feed.”

“A very little one.”

“A very well-traveled, very enigmatic little one,” he corrected her.

3

The ship touched down on a barren strip of ground a mile beyond Cherokee’s only Tradertown. Ordinarily Merlin and the Mouse would have taken a room at the local hotel, just to get away from the monotony of their cramped quarters, but they didn’t want to advertise the fact that a little blonde girl was traveling with them, so they decided to sleep in the ship.

They touched down in the middle of the night, and when the harsh yellow sun rose over Cherokee’s blood-red sand dunes and barren, rocky hills, they left Penelope behind and walked into town.

Like most of the Inner Frontier’s Tradertowns, this one had sprung up around the planet’s first bar and whorehouse. There were a pair of small hotels, a couple of restaurants, a second whorehouse and three more bars, a hangar for private spaceships, a post office that functioned not only for Cherokee but for every habitable world within five light years, a now-defunct government office for registering mining claims, a safari outfitter, seven import/export companies, a small brewery, two general stores, and perhaps fifty modular domed houses.

Once Cherokee had been a mining world, but after its limited supply of diamonds and fissionable materials had been exhausted, its primary reason for colonization had vanished, and it was now used mainly as a trading post and refueling depot for excursions to Far Hebrides, Oceana III, and other more interesting planets closer to the galactic core. A few thousand people had remained on Cherokee, but it was as close to being deserted as a planet could become while still inhabited by some sentient life forms.

The Mouse stopped at the post office and checked the various posters, hoping to find some mention of a missing blonde girl, but saw nothing but the holographs of wanted criminals. Finally she left and walked into the largest of the taverns, and waited for Merlin, who was trying to get some news concerning Penelope’s family from the subspace transmitting station.

The tavern was quite large. There was a long, hardwood bar running down one side of it, a handful of gaming machines in the rear, and a number of large round tables clustered in the middle. A trio of overhead fans spun lazily, recirculating the warm air. A holograph of a buxom nude brunette hung over the bar, punctured by hundreds of darts. The floor was covered with the omnipresent red dust of Cherokee, and traces of it seemed to hang in the still air of the tavern.

The clientele was similar to most of the Tradertowns that the Mouse had visited, a mixture of aliens and humans, some obviously wealthy, others just as obviously poor, all chasing the dream of instant riches that life on the Inner Frontier always promised and rarely delivered.

Two Lodinites, their red fur rippling despite the lack of air circulation, were seated at one table, playing jabob, a card game that was becoming increasingly popular on the Inner Frontier. There was a tall, emaciated Canphorite sitting alone in a corner, obviously waiting for someone to join him. The rest of the customers, clustered together in twos and threes, were Men. Some were garbed in silks and satins, with shining leather boots and sparkling new weapons; others, those who had not yet struck it rich, or, more likely, has squandered what they had earned, wore the dusty working outfits of prospectors. A couple of girls from the whorehouse next door were drinking at the bar, but by some sort of mutual understanding, none of the men approached them or even paid any attention to them while they were on their equivalent of a coffee break.

The Mouse sat down at an empty table, spent a few restless minutes waiting for Merlin, and finally ordered a container of the local beer. It tasted bitter, but it quenched the thirst she had built up walking through the hot dusty street, and she quickly finished it and ordered another.

A moment later Merlin entered and came over to join her.

“Any luck?” he asked, sitting down on a straight-backed chair.

“No. How about you?”

He shook his head. “Not a damned thing. What do we do now?”

“We do our act tonight, and then leave. This world’s only good for one day. Hell, I doubt that I’ll be able to steal enough to pay for our fuel.”

“And the girl?” continued Merlin.

“She can’t stay here,” said the Mouse adamantly. “She’ll come along until we can collect a reward or find a safe place to leave her.”

“It had better be soon,” said Merlin. He got up and walked over to the bar to order a drink. As he returned and sat down, a tall, slender man turned away from the bar and approached their table. His coal-black outfit was carefully tailored and remarkably free of dust, his boots were made from the pelts of some exotic white-and-blue arctic animal, and he carried a small hand-axe tucked in his belt.

“Mind if I join you?” he said, pulling up a chair, wiping a trace of red dust from it with a linen handkerchief, and sitting down.

“Do we know you?” asked Merlin suspiciously.

“I sure as hell doubt it,” said the tall man. “But I know you.”

“Oh?”

The man nodded. “You’re that magician who hits the Inner Frontier worlds, aren’t you?”

“Who wants to know?”

“My name’s MacLemore,” said the man. “Hatchet Jack MacLemore. Maybe you’ve heard of me?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Merlin.

“Well, it’s a big galaxy,” said MacLemore with an easy shrug. “No reason why you should have.” He paused. “And you’re Merlin the Magician, right?”

“Merlin the Magnificent,” the magician corrected him. “And this is my assistant,” he added, gesturing toward the mouse.

“I’m pleased to meet you,” said the tall man, smiling at her.

“Where was it that you saw me perform?” asked Merlin.

“Oh, I never saw you perform,” said MacLemore. “Magic doesn’t interest me much.”

“I must have misunderstood you,” replied Merlin. “I thought you said you had seen me.”

“I said I knew who you were,” said MacLemore. “That’s not the same thing at all.” He paused. “Anyway, I’d like to buy you a beer, and maybe do a little business with you.”

“What are you selling?” asked the Mouse, surreptitiously withdrawing her knife from her boot, but keeping her hands beneath the table.

MacLemore smiled. “I’m not selling anything, ma’am. Selling’s not my business.”

“All right,” she said coldly. “What are you buying?”

The smile remained in place. “Well, truth to tell, buying’s not my business either.”

“Just what is your business?”

“Oh, a little of this and a little of that.” He turned to Merlin. “You were on Westerly a couple of days ago, weren’t you?”

“What concern is that of yours?” demanded Merlin.

“Where you go makes no difference to me,” said MacLemore. “Westerly’s as good a world as any, and probably better than most.” Suddenly he leaned forward, staring intently at the magician. “But while you were there, you took something that didn’t belong to you.” He paused briefly. “And that’s my business.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Merlin.

“Oh, I think you do,” replied MacLemore. “I’m talking about something you took from an alien’s room.”

“I’m a magician, not a thief,” said Merlin. He paused and returned MacLemore’s stare. “But just out of curiosity, how much is this missing object worth?”

“I think you know, or you wouldn’t have taken it.”

“I didn’t take anything.”

“I thought we were talking business,” said MacLemore. “And here you go, insulting my intelligence. It’s enough to make a man take offense.” He smiled again, a smile that started and ended with his lips. His eyes remained cold and hard.

“I assure you that no offense was intended,” said Merlin. “As for talking business,” he continued carefully, “I haven’t heard any offers yet.”

“You’re still alive,” said MacLemore. “That’s not necessarily a permanent condition.”

Merlin looked more annoyed than frightened. “I’ve been threatened by experts.” He reached into the air, snapped his fingers, and suddenly he was holding a small laser pistol that was aimed between the tall man’s eyes.

“That’s very good,” admitted MacLemore. “Maybe I ought to take more of an interest in magic.”

“Maybe you ought to take less of an interest in other people’s affairs,” said Merlin.

“You might as well deal with me,” said MacLemore. “You’re going to have to deal with someone before you leave the planet.”

“Nobody else knows we’re here.”

MacLemore chuckled in amusement. “How do you think I knew it—or do you think I live on this dirtball?” He turned to the Mouse. “You’re going to run into a lot of people who aren’t as friendly and reasonable as I am, ma’am. Maybe you’d better tell your friend to deal with me while he can.”

“I still haven’t heard any offers,” said Merlin. “Either tell me what you’re after and how much you’re willing to pay for it, or go bother someone else.”

“I’ve already made you a handsome offer: you get to live.”

“You seem to forget who’s holding the gun.”

MacLemore shrugged. “It’s not the kind of thing I’m likely to forget,” he replied easily. “Hell, everyone in this tavern knows you’re pointing a laser pistol at me.” Suddenly he smiled. “But you don’t know which two of them are my partners.”

“Mouse?” said Merlin, never taking his eyes from MacLemore. “Any suggestions?”

“He doesn’t have any partners,” said the Mouse coldly. “Men like him always work alone.”

“My feelings precisely,” agreed Merlin.

“If he doesn’t get up and walk away, kill him,” said the Mouse.

“There are a lot of witnesses,” said MacLemore, suddenly tense.

“They don’t give a damn about any of us,” replied the Mouse.

“Forgive my saying it, but you’re a bloodthirsty little lady, ma’am,” said MacLemore, his right hand inching down to the hand-axe he had tucked in his belt.

Suddenly the Mouse stood up and threw her knife at him. It caught him in the right shoulder, and he shrieked in pain.

“Nobody does that to Hatchet Jack!” he bellowed, awkwardly trying to withdraw his hand-axe with his left hand.

There was a brief buzzing sound as Merlin fired his laser pistol, and MacLemore collapsed across the table, his head smoking and sizzling.

“Wonderful,” muttered Merlin, staring at the humans at the bar, who had all turned to see what was happening. “What now?”

“Now we get the hell out of here,” said the Mouse, retrieving her knife with a hard jerk.

“Start walking to the door.”

She nodded and did as he said, while he faced the assembled spectators.

Nobody moved. The silence was almost palpable, broken only by the creaking of the overhead fans as they continued to turn slowly.

“He threatened us,” said Merlin at last, starting to back toward the door. “It was self defense.”

The bartender, who had been totally motionless, picked up a glass and began wiping it absently. “No one’s prepared to argue that point while you’ve got a gun trained on us, Mister,” he said. “And no one’s going to weep bitter tears over Hatchet Jack’s grave, either.”

“I’m delighted you’re being so reasonable about it,” said Merlin, reaching the door.

“You got the gun.”

“Just remember that.”

“Got a bit of advice for you, though,” said the bartender.

“What is it?”

“I wouldn’t try using that gun on the next fellow who comes to talk to you. There won’t be enough of you left to bury.”

“Who else is looking for me?”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” said the bartender. “I don’t know what you’ve got, Mister, but some pretty dangerous people don’t want you to keep it.”

“Who?”

“You’ll know ’em when you see ‘em.”

“If you see them first,” said Merlin, “tell them that I’m a peace-loving man, and that anything I’ve got is for sale.”

“I’ll do that,” said the bartender. “Now you can do me a favor and get the hell out of here before they find you. I don’t want my tavern all shot up.”

Merlin waved his laser pistol in the air. “If anyone follows me, he’s going to wish he hadn’t.”

“You made your point,” said the bartender. “Just leave.”

Merlin backed into the street. “Did you hear all that?” he asked the Mouse.

“Yes,” she answered. “We’d better get back to the ship fast—if it’s still there.”

“Damn!” muttered Merlin. “I hadn’t thought of that. If we didn’t have the girl with us, of course they’d go to the ship!”

They began walking rapidly out of the Tradertown, keeping to the shadows cast by the buildings wherever they could, wary of any possible ambush.

“How did word of what we did get here so fast?” demanded Merlin, increasing his pace.

“Her family must be even richer than I thought,” said the Mouse.

“Right at this moment, anyone who wants her can have her, as far as I’m concerned,” said Merlin. “That’s the first time I’ve ever killed a man. I don’t care how big the reward is, she’s not worth the trouble.”

“The first time?” said the Mouse, surprised.

“Yes.”

“You handled yourself very well.”

“It was like some big game of upmanship until you threw your knife at him,” replied Merlin. “Then I just pulled the trigger without thinking.”

“That’s the best way,” said the Mouse. “Start thinking about what you’re going to do, and you start thinking about what might happen to you, and then you start hesitating, and before you know it you’re dead.”

“You talk about it like it was a daily occurrence. I’ve just killed a man!”

“He was going to kill us,” said the Mouse with a shrug.

“But—”

“Stop worrying about him. We may have to kill a few more before we get off this planet.”

“Let’s just give them the girl.”

“First they have to ask for her. Since they’ve probably figured out that she’s in the ship, they may not bother.”

“Wonderful,” muttered Merlin.

They reached the edge of town. Merlin looked back to make sure no one had emerged from the tavern yet, then peered off in the distance, where the sun was glinting off the ship.

“It’s still there,” said the Mouse, half-surprised.

“God!” he said. “It looks a lot farther away than it looked this morning.”

“One of the reasons I teamed up with you is because you’re good in a crisis,” said the Mouse. “But you approach one about as badly as any man I’ve ever known.”

Merlin made no reply, but merely glared at her for a moment and continued walking. When they were within 500 yards, he stopped again.

“I don’t like it,” he said. “We’re sitting ducks. There’s nowhere to hide, and the sand makes it impossible to move quickly if we have to.”

“The sooner we get there, the sooner you won’t have to worry about it,” said the Mouse.

“I’m not that anxious to get my head blown off.”

“Has it occurred to you that if someone at the ship was planning to kill us, they would have already done it? This isn’t beyond the range of any long-barreled weapon I know of: projectile, laser, sonic, or molecular imploder.”

Merlin frowned. “You’re right.”

“Feel better?”

“Less like a target, anyway. Whoever’s looking for the girl is at least willing to let us get close enough to talk to him.”

“And if we can get that close…” said the Mouse.

Merlin increased his pace. “Yes, I feel much better.”

“Somehow I knew you would.”

When they got to within 300 yards, the magician slowed down again.

“Now what?” asked the Mouse.

“I don’t see anyone.”

“So?”

“If they’re inside the ship, they’ve already got the girl, and they don’t need us anymore.”

“Then why haven’t they shot us?” she asked.

“Why take a chance of missing at a quarter of a mile, when they can wait for us to reach the ship and blow us away from ten yards?” he retorted.

“What do you propose to do, then—stand out here until you die of heat stroke?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, you can do what you want,” said the Mouse. “I’m going to the ship.”

Merlin, muttering to himself, fell into step beside her. Then, when they were 150 yards away from the ship, the Mouse stopped and, shading her eyes with her hands, she stared straight ahead.

“What now?” asked Merlin.

“I’m not sure. It’s so bright … but I think I see two bodies at the foot of the ship.”

“Are they moving?”

She shook her head. “They look dead.”

“That’s crazy,” said Merlin. “We haven’t got any guardian angels on this planet. On any planet, for that matter.”

“Maybe they had a falling out,” said the Mouse.

“Well, let’s find out.”

They approached the ship cautiously, but the Mouse had been right: two men, both heavily armed, lay dead at the base of the ladder leading to the entry hatch.

“That’s very strange,” said the Mouse. “Neither one of them tried to use his weapon.”

“What killed them?” asked Merlin.

“The one on the right looks like he broke his neck. There’s not a mark on the other one that I can see.”

“The hatch is unlocked,” said Merlin. “Do you suppose there’s another one in there?”

“There’s only one way to find out,” said the Mouse, climbing up the stairs and entering the ship.

“Penelope!” she called. “Are you all right?”

Suddenly the little blonde girl, her rag doll clutched in one hand, raced out of her cabin and threw herself into the Mouse’s arms.

“Please don’t leave me again!” she sobbed. “I was so frightened!”

“It’s all right now,” said the Mouse, stroking her hair. “Nobody’s going to harm you.”

“Is there anyone else aboard the ship?” asked Merlin, climbing through the hatch.

Penelope shook her head. “Just me.”

The Mouse set her down on the deck, and knelt down next to her. “Tell me what happened,” she said.

“Two very bad men came to the ship after you left,” said Penelope.

“I know.”

“I think they wanted to take me away.”

“I think so too,” said the Mouse.

“I’m glad they died.”

“So am I,” said the Mouse. “But how did they die?”

“After you left, I got lonely, so I took Jennifer outside to play, but there weren’t any other little girls around.” She looked as if she were about to burst into tears again. “There wasn’t anyone.” She paused. “Do we have to stay on this world?”

“We’ll be leaving in just a few minutes,” said the Mouse. “Now, what happened to the two men?”

“I saw them coming out to the ship and I got scared and ran inside, but I left Jennifer on the stairs to the door.”

“You mean the entry hatch?”

“The door,” repeated Penelope, pointing to the open hatch. “One of them started climbing the stairs, but he tripped on Jennifer and fell down and didn’t move.”

“And the other man?”

“He knelt down next to the first man to see if he was alive, and something bit him.”

“Something? What kind of thing?”

“I don’t know. It lives under the sand. He screamed and grabbed his hand, and then he died too.” She stared out the hatch. “They were very bad men.”

“Merlin,” said the Mouse, “check him out.”

The magician went back outside while the Mouse soothed the little girl, then re-entered the ship a moment later.

“He’s got some kind of bite on his hand, all right. It’s swollen up and miscolored. He was laying on it or we’d have spotted it right away.” He uttered a low whistle and shook his head in wonderment. “Boy! Talk about dumb luck!”

“I’m not dumb!” said Penelope heatedly.

“No,” said Merlin. “But you sure as hell are lucky.” He turned to the Mouse. “I recognize the one with the broken neck.”

“Bounty hunter?”

“From time to time. A killer, anyway.”

“We’ve got some serious planning to do,” said the Mouse.

“I agree,” said Merlin. “The next guy to come along isn’t going to trip on a doll or get bitten by some alien snake.” He locked the hatch, entered the control room, and activated the ship’s engines. “But before we talk, the first order of business is to get the hell off the planet before somebody else comes looking for us.”

“Right,” said the Mouse, strapping Penelope and herself down as the ship began climbing through the atmosphere. Once they were safely in space, Merlin set the controls on automatic and joined the Mouse in the galley.

“If they know we landed on Cherokee, they must know the ship’s registry number,” he said. “And if they know that, they’ll be able to find us wherever we go.”

“We can’t afford a new ship, and I don’t think trying to steal one would be the brightest thing we ever did.”

“I agree.”

“Then what did you have in mind?” asked the Mouse.

“Let’s go deeper into the Inner Frontier. I’ll touch down on five or six worlds and drop the two of you off on one of them.”

“And what about you?”

“I’ll lead them a merry chase while you try to find out who she belongs to.” The Mouse opened her mouth to protest, but Merlin held up his hand. “Look,” he said. “I’m happier running away from trouble and you’re happier confronting it. This makes sense all the way around.”

“How will we keep in touch?”

“We won’t,” said Merlin. “If they’ve got our registry number, they can monitor every message the ship sends and receives. We’ll chose a place to meet, say, thirty Galactic Standard days from now.”

“What if they catch you first?”

“Well, it’s not my favorite scenario,” he admitted, “but if they don’t blow the ship to hell and gone, they’re going to find out that I haven’t got the girl.”

“They’ll make you tell them where we are,” said the Mouse. “You’re not very good about pain, and even if you were, there are drugs that’ll make you tell them everything you know.”

“I know,” he said. “That’s why you’re going to catch the first ship off the planet I leave you on. What I don’t know, I can’t tell them.”

“You can tell them where we plan to meet thirty days from now,” the Mouse pointed out.

Merlin frowned. “I hadn’t thought of that.” He shrugged. “Well, I suppose I just can’t let them catch me.”

“Not good enough,” said the Mouse. She was silent for a moment. “I have it.”

“Yes?”

“I won’t meet you in thirty days—but if you’ll tell me where you’re going to be, I’ll see to it that someone you’ve never seen before, someone you don’t know, will find you and tell you where to meet us. But he’ll only approach you once he’s made sure you’re alone, and not being observed. If he’s not satisfied, he won’t make contact, and we’ll wait another thirty days before trying again.”

“I like to think of myself as ruggedly masculine and quite distinctive,” said Merlin wryly, “but the fact of the matter is that I look just like anyone else. How will you be sure he’ll be able to spot me?”

“You’re a magician. Put on a show.”

He grinned. “You know, it’s been so long since I did a legitimate performance, I never thought of that.”

“Well, it’s time we started thinking,” said the Mouse grimly. “Someone is sure as hell putting a lot of thought into hunting us down.”

4

Merlin touched down on Binder X, one of the more populous worlds of the Inner Frontier, just long enough to drop off the Mouse and Penelope, then headed toward the galactic Core.

Within three hours, the Mouse and Penelope were on their way to Evergreen, a lush jungle world which had been opened up only two decades earlier. They spent one night there, then boarded the next ship to Solomon, a mining planet that had yielded the three largest diamonds ever discovered. The spaceport was in the small but bustling city of Haggard, and by nightfall the Mouse had obtained a room in a nondescript hotel.

“How much longer do we have to keep running?” asked Penelope wearily, as the Mouse began unpacking their single piece of luggage.

“Until I’m sure no one is following us.”

“I’m hungry.”

“Wash your hands and face, and I’ll take you downstairs for dinner.”

The girl walked into the bathroom, did as she had been instructed, and then emerged, holding up her hands for the Mouse’s inspection.

“Very good,” said the Mouse.

“Good,” said Penelope. “I want you to like me.”

“I’d like you just as much if your hands were dirty,” said the Mouse. “After all, you’re a very likable little girl. I just wouldn’t shake hands with you.”

“Do you really like me?”

“Yes, I really do.”

“I like you, too.” The little girl paused. “Will you always be my friend?”

“Of course,” said the Mouse. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know,” said Penelope. “But lots of people pretend to be my friend, and then they aren’t.”

“Oh?” said the Mouse. “Who?”

“Lots of people.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Penelope shook her head. “I’m hungry. So is Jennifer.”

“Me, too,” said the Mouse. “Bring Jennifer along, and let’s go get some dinner.”

They left the room, took the airlift down to the lobby, and entered the restaurant. The Mouse scanned the faces of the diners, not quite knowing what she was looking for, but hoping she would be able to spot someone who was after Penelope, either by the telltale bulge of a weapon, or by some surreptitious look. But everyone carried weapons on the Inner Frontier, and nobody paid her or the girl the any attention.

They punched out their orders on a computer—the Mouse had to help Penelope read some of the dishes—and then settled back to await their meal.

“If we’re going to be friends forever,” said the Mouse, “I should know a lot more about you. We’ve been so busy running for the past few days that we’ve hardly had a chance to get to know each other.”

“And I should get to know more about you, too,” agreed Penelope.

“That seems fair enough.”

“Why are you called the Mouse?”

“Because I’m so small,” answered the Mouse. “And because I can go places where most people don’t fit.”

“Like the laundry vent?”

The Mouse nodded. “Exactly.”

“Why where you there?” asked Penelope.

“Because that’s where Merlin put on his magic show.”

“I like his tricks,” said Penelope. “They’re fun.” She paused. “Is he your husband?”

The Mouse chuckled. “No, thank God. He’s just my business partner.”

“Do you love him?”

“No.”

“Do you like him?”

“Yes.”

“More than you like me?”

“I hardly know you yet, Penelope,” said the Mouse. “But I’m sure that after we get acquainted, I won’t like anyone better than I like you.”

“I hope so,” said Penelope.

“Now it’s my turn to ask you some questions.”

“All right.”

“What’s your home world?”

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t mean the world you were born on. I mean the one you live on.”

“Oh. Solomon.”

“That’s the world we’re on now,” the Mouse pointed out.

“Then it’s my home world now.”

“Let me try it a different way. Where did you grow up?”

“All over.”

The Mouse frowned. “Where did your parents live?”

“With me.”

A waiter arrived with their dinners, and the Mouse put off further questions until they had finished eating. Then, while they were waiting for dessert, she tried again.

“Do you know why the alien kidnapped you?”

“What is kidnapped?” asked Penelope.

“Why he stole you from your family?”

“He didn’t. He stole me from Jimmy Sunday.” She paused, considering her answer. “He saved me from Jimmy Sunday,” she amended, “but he was very mean to me.”

“Jimmy Sunday?” repeated the Mouse. “He was a bounty hunter. I remember hearing that they found his body on Glennaris V.”

“Glennaris IV,” Penelope corrected her. “No one lives on Glennaris V.”

“And you say the alien stole you from him and killed him?”

“He saved me from him,” repeated Penelope. “Jimmy Sunday was going to hurt me.” She paused thoughtfully. “I don’t know who killed him.”

The Mouse looked puzzled. “Why would he want to hurt you?”

Penelope shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Maybe you just thought he was going to hurt you. He was probably a gruff man.”

“He was going to kill me,” said Penelope adamantly.

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Those two men on Cherokee were going to kill me, too.”

“No, they weren’t,” said the Mouse. “They were going to take you away from us and return you to your family.”

“I don’t have any family.”

“You must have someone—a cousin, an uncle, something.”

Penelope shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Anyway, they weren’t going to kill you. Someone has offered a lot of money for anyone who finds you and returns you to them. Nobody can collect it if you’re dead.”

“You’re not going to return me, are you?” asked Penelope fearfully.

“Of course not,” lied the Mouse. “But I have to find out who wants you back, so I can tell them that you’re safe and that you’d rather stay with me.” She paused. “Who do you think wants you back?”

“Everybody,” said Penelope. “Especially the Number Man.”

“The Number Man?” repeated the Mouse. “Who’s that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why do you call him the Number Man?”

“Because his name is a number.”

“It is?”

Penelope nodded. “32,” she said.

“Maybe it’s a code.”

“Everyone called him that.”

“Who is everyone?”

“Everyone in the building.”

“What building?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where was this building?” asked the Mouse.

“Far away,” said Penelope. “On a big planet with lots of buildings.”

“If I named the planet, would you know it?”

“Yes.”

“Earth?”

“No.”

“Sirius V?”

“No.”

“Deluros VIII?”

“That’s it,” said Penelope.

“You’ve been to Deluros?”

Penelope nodded. “It’s a big world.”

“The biggest,” agreed the Mouse. “Did you live there?”

Penelope shook her head. “The Number Man took me there.”

“Why would someone take you to the capital world of the Democracy?”

“I don’t know.”

“How long were you there?”

“A long time.”

“A week? A month? A year?”

Penelope shrugged. “A long time.”

“Did you like it there?” asked the Mouse.

“No. Everybody wore uniforms and they weren’t nice to me. They wouldn’t play with me.”

“How did you leave?”

“Somebody stole me.”

“Jimmy Sunday?”

Penelope shook his head. “No. Before him.”

The Mouse was silent for a moment, trying to understand what she had been told, and to determine how much of it was true.

“It’s my turn,” said Penelope.

“Your turn?”

“To ask you more questions.”

“All right,” said the Mouse.

“Were you always called the Mouse?”

“No. I had a real name once.”

“What was it?”

The Mouse smiled a bittersweet smile. “That was a long time ago, and I never think about it any more.”

“How long ago?”

“Very.”

“How old are you?” asked Penelope.

“Thirty-seven Standard years.”

“You’re much older than Merlin,” observed Penelope.

“Not that much,” said the Mouse defensively. “Six or seven years, that’s all.”

“What did you do before you met him?”

“All kinds of things,” said the Mouse.

“Were you ever married?”

“No.”

“Did you ever want to be?”

The Mouse shrugged. “I thought I did once. I was wrong.”

“Is that when you became the Mouse?”

The Mouse smiled. “Not quite.”

“How does Merlin do his tricks? Are they really magic?”

“No, not really; they’re just illusions. And he never tells me how they work.”

“But he’s your friend, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Then he should tell you.”

“But because I’m his friend, I never ask.”

“I don’t understand,” said Penelope.

“When you get a little bigger, you will.” Suddenly the Mouse became aware of a large man staring at them through the doorway that faced the lobby. When she met his gaze he looked away.

“Penelope,” said the Mouse softly, “I want you to turn your head very slowly and tell me if you recognize the man standing by the pillar just beyond the door. Not quickly, now; just casually, as if you’re bored and are looking around.”

Penelope did as she was instructed, then turned back to the Mouse.

“Have you ever seen him before?” asked the Mouse.

Penelope shook her head. “No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“I may be wrong, but I’ve got a feeling that he’s staring right at us.” She reached out and took Penelope’s hand in her own. “There’s no reason to be afraid. He won’t make a move while there are so many witnesses. We’re safe for the moment.”

“I knew it wouldn’t stop,” said Penelope unhappily.

The Mouse let go of Penelope’s hand and began checking her weaponry beneath the table: the knife in her boot, the acid spray in her pocket pouch, the tiny sonic pistol tucked beneath her belt. When she was sure everything was in order, she instructed the computer to bill her room, and then got to her feet.

“Well, we might as well find out if I’m right or wrong,” she announced. “Stay near me, but always keep me between you and that man, do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“And don’t be afraid. No one’s going to hurt you.”

“I won’t be afraid,” promised Penelope.

The Mouse took Penelope by the hand and walked out of the restaurant toward the airlift. The large man fell into step about forty feet behind them.

“Damn!” muttered the Mouse under her breath.

She pulled Penelope onto the invisible cushion of air and let it propel them to the eighth floor. The large man took the airlift just to the left, about ten seconds behind them.

They stepped off at the eighth floor and began walking toward their room. The large man remained some forty feet behind them.

The Mouse reached her door and began entering the computer lock combination, then felt a small hand on her wrist.

“Don’t,” whispered Penelope.

The Mouse turned to her.

“There’s someone inside.”

“How do you know?” asked the Mouse.

“I just know,” said Penelope with total conviction.

The Mouse took her at her word, grabbed her hand again, and began walking down the corridor, away from the large man.

“There’d better be a stairway!” she muttered.

They turned a corner and saw an exit sign above one of the doors.

“Faster!” said Penelope, breaking into a run, and the Mouse followed suit.

They entered the stairwell and the door slammed shut behind them, just as the large man reached the corner. The Mouse pulled her knife out and crouched in the shadows, waiting.

“That won’t work!” whispered Penelope.

“It’d damn well better work!” said the Mouse.

“It won’t,” she repeated. “Follow me.”

She darted down the stairs, and the Mouse raced after her. When she reached the fifth floor, they could hear the large man coming down the stairs behind them.

On the fifth floor, Penelope stopped and looked into the darkness behind the door for an instant, then reached into the shadows and grabbed a broom.

“You go first,” she said.

“Not a chance!” whispered the Mouse, tightening her grip on her knife.

“You can’t hurt him with a knife!” hissed Penelope. She held up the broom. “This will stop him.”

The Mouse stared at her as the little girl placed the broom on the stairs, then ran down to the next landing.

“Hurry!” urged Penelope, as the large man came into view.

The Mouse raced down to the landing, then turned and prepared to do battle.

The man had a sonic pistol in his hand, and as he surged down the stairs he was so intent upon his quarry that he didn’t see the broom until he tripped over it. He careened off a wall, grunted in surprise, then fell heavily down the stairs, bellowing in pain. As he rolled onto to the landing, the Mouse crouched down and expertly slit his throat.

Suddenly Penelope began crying, and wrapped her arms around the Mouse.

“Won’t they ever stop?” she whimpered.

The Mouse, breathing heavily, stroked Penelope’s blonde hair for a moment, then stepped back and held the little girl’s face between her hands.

“Don’t ever disobey my orders again,” she said. “I told you to keep me between you and him.”

“Now you’re mad at me, too!” wept Penelope. “I thought we were friends.”

“We are friends,” said the Mouse. “That’s why I’m mad at you. You might have been killed because you didn’t obey me.”

“But your knife wouldn’t have hurt him,” protested the little girl.

“Hurt him? It killed him.”

“But you wouldn’t have cut his neck. You would have stabbed his chest or his belly.”

“It would have killed him just as dead.”

Penelope shook her head. “It wouldn’t have hurt him,” she repeated stubbornly.

“Why do you keep saying that?” demanded the Mouse.

“Look,” said Penelope, pointing to the dead man.

The Mouse knelt down and examined him, then looked up, surprised.

“He was wearing body armor!” she exclaimed.

“That’s what I was trying to tell you.”

“But it was hidden under his tunic,” continued the Mouse. “How did you know it was there?”

“I didn’t.”

“But you said you did.”

Penelope shook her head again. “I said I knew your knife wouldn’t hurt him.”

The Mouse frowned. “But you didn’t know why?”

“No.”

“And how did you know there was a broom behind that door?”

Penelope shrugged.

“I thought we were friends,” said the Mouse. “Friends don’t keep secrets from each other.”

“I saw it,” said Penelope.

“You’ve never been in this stairwell.”

“I know.”

“Then how could you have seen it?” persisted the Mouse.

“I saw it”—Penelope pointed to her head—“in here.”

5

“Let me get this straight,” said the Mouse. “Are you telling me that you can see the future?”

“There are lots of futures,” said Penelope. “I don’t see all of them.”

“What do you see?”

“I see what’s going to happen next … sometimes.”

“But you were wrong,” said the Mouse. “You saw me stabbing the armored vest, and I didn’t.”

“I try to make the best future happen,” said Penelope. She frowned. “But it doesn’t always work. People still try to hurt me.”

“You mean you could see what would happen if I tried to stab him, and also what would happen if I didn’t?”

“It’s not like reading a book,” explained the girl. “I could see that if you stabbed him, he’d kill us. So I ran, and when we came to the fifth floor, I saw that if I picked up the broom and placed it a certain way on the staircase, he’d trip over it.”

“And what about our room?” continued the Mouse. “Did you see someone inside it?”

Penelope nodded. “There was a man there. If we had gone in, he’d have shot us.”

“How did you ever get captured by Jimmy Sunday or the alien or this man you call 32?”

Penelope shrugged. “Sometimes I can’t get away in any of the futures I can see.”

“How long have you been able to do this?”

“Do what?”

“See into the future.”

“Always, I guess.”

“How far ahead can you see?”

“It changes.”

“A minute? An hour? A week?”

“Not a week,” answered Penelope. “Usually just a few seconds. Sometimes maybe a minute.” She paused. “And I can’t always do it. Usually just when I have to.”

“Like when someone’s going to do something bad to you?”

“Yes.”

“How does it work?” asked the Mouse. “Do you read their minds?”

“No. I just see what’s going to happen, and then if I don’t like it, I try to change it.”

“That’s quite a gift,” said the Mouse. “Now I know why they want you back so badly.”

“I don’t want to go back,” whined Penelope. “I want to stay with you.”

“Nobody’s sending you back,” said the Mouse. She suddenly became acutely aware of the dead man at their feet. “We’ve got to get out of here.” She began walking down the stairs.

“What about our clothes?” asked Penelope.

“Is the man still in our room?”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s not worth the risk. We’ll buy some new clothes on the next world. Come on.”

They descended to the lobby, walked out the front door, and hailed a landcab.

As it approached the spaceport, Penelope tugged at the Mouse’s sleeve.

“We shouldn’t get out here,” she said. “It’s not safe.”

“You’re sure?”

Penelope nodded.

“But we have to get off the planet. Can you see how they plan to attack us?”

“No. I just know it’s not safe.”

“Then you don’t know if we can elude them?”

“What does elude mean?”

“It means to keep away from them.”

“I don’t know,” answered Penelope.

“All right,” said the Mouse. “We’ll play it safe.” She leaned forward and instructed the driver to take them to the vehicle rental section. Once there, she paid off the driver and rented a landcar.

They drove through the streets of Haggard, found an all-night grocery store, bought a dozen sandwiches and a few drink containers, and then headed out of town.

“Where are we going?” asked Penelope, hugging Jennifer protectively.

“Away from anyone who wants to hurt you,” answered the Mouse.

“Good,” said Penelope. “You’re my only friend.” She leaned against the Mouse, and was sound asleep a moment later.

The Mouse drove through the night. The vegetation became increasingly sparse, and by sunrise she found herself on the outskirts of a vast desert. She pulled off the road, brought the vehicle to a stop, and began sorting through maps on the viewscreen.

“Where are we?” asked Penelope, waking up and rubbing her eyes.

“I’m not sure,” said the Mouse, still going through maps. “Ah, here we are.”

“Where?”

“The Devil’s Anvil.”

“What’s that?”

“That’s the name of the desert.” She pointed to a tiny dot in the middle of it. “And this is a village called Ophir.” She hit two buttons on the vehicle’s computer, and the map was replaced by a readout. “One bar, one store, one hotel.”

“Why would anyone build a city in the middle of a desert?” asked Penelope.

“Good question,” said the Mouse. “Let’s find out.” She issued another command to the computer. “Hmm. We may be in luck.”

“Why?”

“Because there’s a diamond pipe about five miles from Ophir.”

“What’s a diamond pipe?”

“A mine,” replied the Mouse. “They’re still pulling diamonds out of it, or Ophir would be a ghost town.”

“Why does that make us lucky?” persisted Penelope.

“Because where there’s that kind of money, there’s usually a ship or two. No mine owner is going to drive 300 miles into the Devil’s Anvil to check on business.”

“He’d take a plane, not a spaceship.”

“Maybe,” said the Mouse. “But if he’s from off-planet, he’ll have a ship—and between you and me, I don’t know why anyone would choose to live on this ugly little dirtball if he could afford to live somewhere else.”

“And if he owns a diamond mine, he can afford to live somewhere else,” concluded Penelope, inordinately proud of herself for following the Mouse’s train of thought to its logical conclusion.

“Right,” said the Mouse. She sighed. “Well, there’s no sense wasting any more time. Let’s go.”

She pulled back onto the road and headed off across the Devil’s Anvil.

After about 65 kilometers the road vanished, and the Mouse immediately slowed down.

“You can keep going fast,” said Penelope. “The ground is hard here.”

“I know,” said the Mouse. “But if I don’t slow down, we’re going to leave a cloud of dust and sand, and that will make us easier to spot if anyone’s following us.” She turned to the girl. “Are they?”

Penelope shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Well, since we don’t know that they aren’t, we’ll do it the safe way.”

“But it’s hot.”

“The air conditioner can only do so much,” answered the Mouse. “The ground temperature must be close to 60 degrees Celsius. Just try not to think about it.”

Penelope was silent for a moment. Then she turned to the Mouse. “The more I try not to think about it, the more I do,” she complained.

“Then take a nap.”

“But I just woke up.”

“Then let’s talk,” said the Mouse. “Maybe that will take your mind off the heat.”

“All right,” agreed Penelope.

“Tell me about this man called 32.”

Penelope shook her head. “I don’t want to talk about people who were mean to me,” she said adamantly.

“Suits me,” said the Mouse. “Who hasn’t been mean to you?”

“You and Merlin.”

“There must have been someone else in your whole life.”

The little girl was silent for a moment, lost in thought. “Maybe my mother,” she said.

“Only maybe?”

“She let them take me away.”

“She may not have had a choice.”

“You had a choice,” Penelope pointed out. “You didn’t have to save me, but you did.”

“You’re not saved yet,” said the Mouse. “First we’ve got to get off this world, and then connect with Merlin again.”

“And then what?”

The Mouse shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“You won’t make me go back?”

“No, I won’t make you go back,” said the Mouse. “I already told you that.”

“Lots of people tell me things.” Penelope paused. “Most of them lied.”

“You’re too young to be that cynical.”

“What does that mean?” asked Penelope.

The Mouse sighed. “It means too many people have lied to you.”

“We’re talking about me again,” complained Penelope. “I thought we were going to talk about you.”

“I have a better idea,” said the Mouse. “Let’s talk about us.”

“Us?”

“You and me.”

“What about us?” asked the girl.

“Well, we’re a team now.”

“We are?” said Penelope, her face brightening.

The Mouse nodded. “We’re together, aren’t we?”

“Yes.”

“And the same men who want you are after me, right?”

“Right.”

“And if we get away, you’re going to work with Merlin and me, aren’t you?”

“I guess so.”

“That makes us a team.”

Penelope considered the statement for a moment, then smiled. “I like being a team with you.”

“I like it too,” said the Mouse. “And the first rule of being on a team is that you never keep secrets from your teammates.”

“I don’t know any secrets.”

“Everyone knows some secrets.”

“Not me.”

“Even you,” said the Mouse. “For example, you never told me where Jennifer came from.”

Penelope looked at the battered doll, which was propped up next to her.

“My mother gave her to me.”

“Where?”

“In the living room, I think.”

“I mean, on what world?”

Penelope shrugged. “I don’t remember.”

“How did she die?”

“Jennifer’s not dead. She’s right here with us.”

“I meant your mother.”

“I don’t know if she’s dead,” answered the girl.

“But you think she is.”

Penelope nodded.

“Why?”

“Because she would have saved me if she was alive.”

“Not if she didn’t know where you were.”

“You found me.”

“I wasn’t even looking for you,” said the Mouse. “It was just a lucky accident.” She paused. “If that’s the only reason you have, then your mother might very well be alive. How about your father?”

“They took him away.”

“They?” repeated the Mouse. “Who?”

“The men who came with 32. He didn’t want them to take me, so they took both of us.”

“And you haven’t seen him since?”

“No.”

“If your mother is alive, she must be looking for you.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“She’s afraid of me.”

“Of you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” asked the Mouse.

“Because I’m different.”

“You mean because you can see the future?”

Penelope nodded. “I used to think everyone could do it, so I talked about it. My mother didn’t believe me, so I showed her that I was telling the truth. Then she was afraid.”

“And your father,” said the Mouse. “Was he afraid of you, too?”

“No.”

“What did he do for a living?”

“I don’t know.”

“Was he rich?”

“I don’t know.” Penelope frowned. “We’re talking about me again.”

“We’re talking about secrets,” said the Mouse. “And now I’m going to tell you one.”

“What is it?” asked Penelope eagerly.

“Someone very rich is trying to find you.”

“You told me that already … but you didn’t tell me why.”

“Because you can see the future.”

“What good does seeing the future do?” asked Penelope. “Everybody keeps chasing me, and no matter how hard I try to get away, sooner or later they catch me.”

“Did you ever make a bet on anything?” asked the Mouse.

“No. My parents didn’t like betting.”

“But you know how it works?” continued the Mouse. “I say something is going to happen one way, you say it’s going to happen another, and whoever turns out to be right wins the bet.”

“I know.”

“A person who could see the future would know in advance which side to bet on.”

“It doesn’t work that way,” said Penelope.

“Oh?”

“When 32’s people were making me do all those things, they tried to make me say how a coin would land or what numbers would be on some dice after they rolled them.”

“And you couldn’t do it?”

“Sometimes I could.”

“Even if you just guessed like everyone else, you’d be right half the time on a coin flip,” said the Mouse.

“I mean, sometimes I could see in my mind how the coins or the dice would land.”

“But only sometimes?”

“Only sometimes.”

“Were you ever wrong?” asked the Mouse. “I mean, on those times when you could see the coins in your mind?”

Penelope shook her head.

“That’s why this rich person wants you,” said the Mouse. “You don’t have to know the right answer every time you tell him how to bet or invest. You just have to be right on those occasions that you do see the future.”

“I wish I couldn’t do it,” said Penelope, frowning. “Then maybe everyone would leave me alone.”

“But you saved my life by doing it,” noted the Mouse.

“They wouldn’t have been trying to kill you if I couldn’t do it,” said Penelope. “I wish I were just a normal little girl.”

“But then we’d never have met,” said the Mouse, offering her a reassuring smile.

Penelope sighed deeply. “I forgot about that,” she admitted. “But I wish everyone would leave us alone.”

The Mouse shrugged. “We’ll just have to find a place where they will.”

“Maybe we’ll be safe at Ophir,” suggested the girl.

“Nobody’s safe in a mining town,” answered the Mouse. “Everyone thinks everyone else is after their goods, and nobody ever trusts anybody. I’ll be happy if we just live long enough to borrow or steal a ship.” She paused. “God, it’s getting hot in here!” She slammed her hand against the vehicle’s air conditioner. “I wonder if this thing is still working.”

Penelope reached a small white hand toward one of the vents. “It is.” She paused. “Kind of,” she added.

“They must be pulling some damned big diamonds out of the ground to be worth living out here in this heat,” said the Mouse. She paused. “Well, we’ve each told the other a secret. Now I think we’d better invent one.”

“Invent a secret?” repeated Penelope uncomprehendingly.

The Mouse nodded. “We need a secret signal so I’ll know if someone wants to harm us.”

“Like a secret code!” said Penelope excitedly. “Like the stories I saw on the video!”

“Just like them.”

“How about if I do this?” suggested Penelope, screwing up her face in such a grotesque expression that the Mouse laughed out loud.

“It wouldn’t be secret for very long.”

“I could pretend to sneeze.”

“No,” said the Mouse. “We need something that doesn’t draw attention to you. Try scratching your chin.”

Penelope made a claw of her left hand and scratched her chin vigorously.

The Mouse shook her head. “Use one finger, and do it very gingerly.”

The little girl did as she was instructed.

“That’s it. If anyone is going to try to hurt us, that’s what I want you to do.”

“But what if I’m in another room, or you can’t see me?” asked Penelope. “Maybe I should whistle a song.”

“It will attract too much attention.”

“But if someone wants to kill us, shouldn’t we want to attract attention?”

The Mouse grimaced. “I’m not big enough to fight off an attacker; I just want a little warning so we can sneak out before they pounce.” She paused. “Besides, someone has offered an awful lot of money for you. Attract enough attention in a town like Ophir, and four out of every five men who figure out who you are will be more likely to kidnap you than save you.”

Penelope fell silent and practiced gently scratching her chin, and the Mouse increased their speed and tried to ignore the constantly increasing heat within the vehicle.

Two hours later they arrived at the tiny outpost of Ophir.

6

The Mouse walked into the bar, Penelope at her side, and breathed a sigh of gratitude as a wave of cold air swept over her. There were twelve large, well-worn tables made from a local hardwood, all of them empty at midday, and she collapsed into a chair at the closest one. The walls were covered with holographs of military heroes, sports heroes, and plump nude women, none of which particularly impressed her.

The bartender, a short, burly man with a noticeable limp and a sparse mustache that made his upper lip appear dirty rather than hairy, nodded a greeting to them.

“I don’t know how anyone lives out here,” said the Mouse. “I’ve felt cooler ovens.”

The bartender grinned. “We don’t reach the heat of the day for another couple of hours. You’ll get used to it.”

“Why would anyone want to?” replied the Mouse. She peered at his stock behind the bar. “What have you got to drink?”

“You name it, we’ve got it.”

“We’ll need a room, too.”

“It’s yours, gratis.”

“You don’t charge for your rooms?” said the Mouse, puzzled.

“The next room I charge for will be the first,” said the bartender.

“How do you make a living?”

“Oh, I manage,” said the bartender. “By the way, my name’s Ryan—Bannister Ryan.”

“Bannister?” repeated the Mouse. “That’s an unusual name.”

Ryan chuckled. “Oh, it’s not my real one. They gave it to me the first year I was here.”

“Why?”

He leaned forward, resting his large hands on the polished surface of the bar. “Some drunk was causing a disturbance, so I asked him politely to desist. He didn’t”—Ryan smiled at the memory—“so I ripped a banister off the staircase and cracked him over the head with it. I’ve been Bannister Ryan ever since.”

“How long have you been out here?” asked the Mouse.

Ryan paused long enough to do a quick mental computation. “Eighteen years. Bought the place seven years ago.”

“The bar?”

“The whole damned town—all three buildings’ worth.”

“Well, Bannister, that’s an interesting story, but we’re still thirsty.”

“What’ll you have?”

“I’ll have a tall, cold beer,” said the Mouse.

“The first one’s on the house,” said Ryan.

“You’re kidding!”

He shook his head. “One thing I never kid about is money.”

“Someday you must tell me how you stay in business.”

“Someday I will,” Ryan assured her.

“How about you?” said the Mouse to Penelope. “What’ll you have?”

“A glass of water, please,” said the girl.

“Right,” said Ryan. “That’ll be 300 credits.”

“What?” demanded the Mouse.

“300 credits,” repeated Ryan.

“For a glass of water?” said the Mouse incredulously.

“Nobody’s holding a gun to your head,” said Ryan cheerfully. “If you think you can get it cheaper somewhere else, go right ahead.”

“Now I see how you make a living,” said the Mouse irritably.

“Out here, water’s worth a hell of a lot more than a bed,” replied Ryan. “There’s none on the surface for 200 miles in any direction, and the miners use what little exists below the ground to extract their diamonds.”

“Can’t you recycle it?”

He shook his head. “Radioactive. Two glasses of it and you won’t need a flashlight when you go out at night.”

The Mouse pulled out a wad of credits and slapped them down on the table, and a moment later Ryan came out from behind the bar carrying a beer and a glass of water.

“I’ve sold water for a lot more than this from time to time,” he explained pleasantly. “You wouldn’t believe what a man with a pocketful of diamonds will pay to fill his canteen before he sets out for Haggard—especially if he hasn’t told his partners that he’s leaving.”

The Mouse looked out a dusty window at the vast expanse of sand and rock. “Yes, I think I would.”

“By the way, how long are you and the child going to be staying?”

“At 300 credits for a glass of water, not as long as I thought.”

“If you’re short of money, there’s work to be had,” said Ryan.

“I don’t know the first thing about mining.”

Ryan shook his head. “I didn’t mean that.” He paused. “I’ve got a little enterprise going on the top floor. I can always use a healthy woman … and the little girl could earn a bundle.”

“Not interested,” said the Mouse.

“You’d be surprised how generous some of these miners can be.”

“Forget it.”

Ryan shrugged. “Well, if you change your mind, let me know.”

The Mouse simply glared at him, and he walked back to his position behind the bar.

“Mind if I ask you a question?” he said as he watched her drain her beer.

“As long as it’s not on the same subject.”

“What are you and your daughter doing out here, anyway?”

“Maybe I’m married to one of the miners.”

“Maybe I’m the Sultan of Sirius V,” he shot back with a smile. “If you belonged to one of the miners, you’d have asked after him.”

“I don’t belong to anyone,” said the Mouse, objecting to his choice of words.

“That’s just what I meant,” agreed Ryan. “So why are you here?”

“I like the desert.”

“The police are after you, huh?” continued Ryan. “What’d you do back in Haggard?”

“Nothing.”

“No one comes to Ophir for the climate and the view. If you tell me who’s after you, maybe I can keep an eye out for them.”

“We’re looking for the man who robbed us,” piped up Penelope. “Someone said he was in Ophir.”

“I notice he left you enough money to rent a landcar and pay for your water,” said Ryan, highly amused. “Nice try, kid.”

“It’s true,” chimed in the Mouse. “My parents rented the car and loaned me the money.”

“And they live in Haggard?”

“That’s right.”

“What’s on the corner of 4th and Quatermaine?” asked Ryan.

“The Mayor’s office.”

“The Ophir Ballroom,” said Ryan. “That’s where we got the name for this place.”

“Not any more,” said the Mouse without missing a beat. “They tore it down three years ago.”

“I don’t believe you.”

The Mouse shrugged. “Believe anything you want.”

He stared at her for a minute, then matched her shrug with one of his own. “What the hell. It’s none of my business.”

“Right.”

“I’m just making conversation, lady. It gets lonely around here until dark.”

“Then the miners come?”

“That’s right.”

“How many of them?”

“It depends. Most of them have bubble modules out there, but you can’t really relax or socialize in one. We might get two dozen or so.”

“That many?”

“You look surprised.”

“I didn’t see any ships or landcars.”

“They wouldn’t leave ‘em here and then walk six miles to the mines,” replied Ryan. “Use your head, lady.” He paused. “If you really are looking for some guy, you could be in for a long wait if you expect him to show up here. There are more than eighty miners out there. You’d be better off taking your landcar to the mines and looking for him when they knock off at sunset.”

“Maybe I will,” said the Mouse. “What direction are the mines from here?”

“Northwest. Just follow the tracks.”

“Thanks,” said the Mouse. “I’m too tired, and it’s too damned hot to go out today. But if he doesn’t show up, we’ll head out there before sunrise and see if we can spot him.”

“And then what?” asked Ryan.

“I’ll go back to Haggard and get the police.”

Ryan laughed.

“What’s so funny?” asked the Mouse.

“They won’t come to this hellhole for a thief. It’d probably take a mass murderer to get them out here.”

“Then what will I do if I find him?” asked the Mouse, playing out her part and wishing that Penelope had kept her mouth shut.

“There’s a guy upstairs right now who might be able to help you,” said Ryan confidentially.

“I take it he’s not a miner?” answered the Mouse sardonically.

“Ever hear of Three-Fisted Ollie?”

“Everyone has,” said the Mouse uneasily. “Is he here?”

“Nope. This is the man who killed him a few months back.”

“He’s not dead,” blurted Penelope.

“Isn’t he now?” said Ryan with a triumphant grin. “And how’d you come to know that, little lady?”

Penelope, flustered, looked helplessly toward the Mouse.

“What’s this man’s name?” said the Mouse coolly, ignoring the girl’s gaffe.

“He claims his name is Bundy,” said Ryan, “but I recognize him from his posters: he’s the Forever Kid.”

“The Forever Kid?” repeated the Mouse. “That’s an odd name, even for the Frontier.”

Ryan nodded. “It fits, though. He’s some kind of sport or mutant. Grew up normal till he was 18 or 19, and hasn’t aged a day in the last couple of centuries.”

“What is he—a bounty hunter?”

“Wouldn’t do you much good if he was,” answered Ryan. “Unless there’s a price on your man’s head. No, the Forever Kid’s a killer. He hires out to anyone who can afford him.”

“What’s he doing here?”

“Some questions it just ain’t politic to ask.”

“But you brought him up.”

“I don’t mean you asking me,” said Ryan with a grin. “I mean me asking him.”

“When is he due downstairs?” asked the Mouse.

“Depends on how much fun he’s having,” answered Ryan. “But he’s rooming at the hotel, so he’ll be taking his meals here.”

“And he’s definitely a killer and not a bounty hunter?”

“Yep—not that it makes any difference to you. The child as much as said that you weren’t robbed.”

“Don’t believe everything you hear,” said the Mouse.

Ryan laughed again. “If I believed half of what I heard, I’d be dead and buried already.”

“We’re going to need a room,” said the Mouse, getting up from the table and signaling Penelope to do the same.

Ryan looked at his computer, which was behind the bar. “Room 203,” he said. “Two beds, with a view of the pool.”

“You’ve got a swimming pool out here?” said the Mouse disbelievingly.

“Yep. Ain’t got no water in it, but the pool’s there. Breaks up the landscape, anyway.” He paused. “You got a name?”

“You choose one,” responded the Mouse.

Ryan nodded, as if this was a daily request, then typed a code into his computer. “Okay, Miz Mother and Miss Daughter. The stairway’s off there to the left, behind the curtains, and the door’s unlocked. Once you’re inside, it’ll flash the lock and unlock codes on a panel over one of the beds. Dinner’s half an hour after sunset.”

“Thanks,” said the Mouse, leading Penelope to the curtain. “By the way, when did he get here?”

“The Kid? He showed up this morning.” Ryan pointed out the window. “That’s his vehicle a few yards to the left of yours.” He paused. “Probably he’s here on a job. Didn’t seem my place to ask.”

“It wasn’t,” said the Mouse, starting to climb the stairs.

They reached Room 203 a moment later. It was small and relatively clean, although even the sealed window couldn’t keep all of the dust out of the room. There were two airbeds, a holographic video and a computer (neither of which could be operated without inserting a personal credit cube into them), a desk, two rather stark wooden chairs, and a bathroom containing a chemical toilet and a dryshower.

The Mouse sat on the edge of her bed, and Penelope, after propping Jennifer up against a pillow, seated herself on her own bed.

“I’m sorry,” said the girl. “About Three-Fisted Ollie, I mean. I just blurted it out.”

“No matter. He knew we were lying anyway.”

“Will he report us, do you think?”

“To whom?” asked the Mouse with no show of concern. “He’s as close to being the law as you can get out here. Besides, he doesn’t know who we are.”

“He’ll find out.”

“You can see that in the future?”

Penelope shook her head. “No … but sooner or later they always find out.”

“Maybe not this time,” said the Mouse. “I want to have a little chat with the Forever Kid.”

“But he’s a killer!”

“But not a bounty hunter.”

“What’s the difference?” asked Penelope.

“There’s a difference between capturing you and killing you,” explained the Mouse. “Most of the men and women who are after you want you alive. This isn’t the kind of man they’d hire to find you. His specialty is death.”

“Maybe he was hired to kill whoever I’m with.”

“It’s a possibility,” admitted the Mouse. “That’s why I want to talk to him alone. If he’s available, I want to hire him to protect us until we can hook up with Merlin again.”

“What about me?”

“You’re going to stay in the room. I’ll bring your dinner back to you.”

“But I can help you,” protested Penelope. “If he wants to kill you, I’ll know.”

“Even if he wants to kill me, he won’t do it until he knows where you are.”

“The bartender will tell him.”

“Not unless he tells the bartender who he’s looking for, and why … and killers tend to be pretty close-mouthed, especially when there’s a reward for their victims.” The Mouse paused. “It’s a gamble, but we’ve got to take it.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s got to have a ship,” she explained patiently. “If I can hire him to protect us until we can connect up again with Merlin, it means we won’t have to drive out into the desert and try to steal a ship from one of the miners—and I’ve got a feeling they protect their ships as devoutly as they protect their diamonds.”

Penelope frowned unhappily. “I thought we were supposed to be a team,” she said.

“We are,” the Mouse assured her. “But different members of a team have different duties. I don’t perform Merlin’s magic tricks, you know.”

“What’s my duty?” asked the girl.

“For the next few days, it’s to warn me of danger,” said the Mouse. “But only if showing yourself doesn’t put us in even more danger.”

“All right,” said Penelope thoughtfully. “That seems fair.”

“Good.” The Mouse lay back on the bed. “I’m exhausted. That heat seems to have drained me. I’m going to take a nap.” She reached into her pocket, withdrew a credit cube that she had appropriated on Westerly, and tossed it to Penelope. “Why don’t you watch the video, and wake me at twilight?”

“All right,” said the girl.

Penelope shook the Mouse awake a moment later.

“What is it?”

“The cube doesn’t work,” said the girl.

“Hmm. I guess the owner reported that it was missing.” The Mouse dug into her pocket and withdrew three more cubes. “Throw that one away and try these. One of them ought to work.”

She lay back again, and a moment later heard Penelope giggling at something she saw on the holographic screen. Then she fell into a deep, exhausted sleep, and didn’t move a muscle until Penelope tapped her gently on the shoulder.

“Didn’t any of the cubes work?” asked the Mouse, momentarily disoriented.

“It’s almost dark out,” responded the girl. “You’ve been asleep all afternoon.”

The Mouse sat up, scratched her close-cropped hair vigorously, and then stretched her arms and looked out the window.

“I’ve got time for a dryshower,” she announced, and went off to the bathroom to cleanse the dirt and dried sweat from her small, wiry body. She wished that she had some fresh clothes, but she settled for tossing her outfit into the dryshower for a few minutes. It came out wrinkled but clean, and a few minutes later she walked out into the hall and down the stairs, after warning Penelope not to let anyone else into the room.

A handful of miners were seated at the table nearest the door. They were hard, grizzled men who quaffed their beer as if it meant the difference between life and death, and complained long and loud to each other about everything from the weather to the price of industrial and investment-grade diamonds.

Then the Mouse looked toward the far end of the room, and there, sitting in the shadows, his back to the wall, an expression of boredom on his handsome face, sat a young man with a shock of unruly blond hair who seemed scarcely old enough to shave. His clothes were sporty without being ostentatious, and bulky enough to hide half a dozen weapons. There was a container of water on the table in front of him.

The Mouse walked around the miners’ table, grateful that they were too absorbed in their conversation and their beer to offer any catcalls or whistles, and approached the young man.

“Good evening,” she said pleasantly.

“Is it?” he replied, looking up at her, and she was suddenly struck by how bored and ancient his blue eyes seemed.

“It might be, if you’d invite me to sit down.”

He nodded toward a chair opposite him. “Be my guest.”

“What’ll it be, Miz Mother?” Ryan called out from behind the bar. “Another glass of water?”

The Mouse shook her head. “Make it a beer.”

“Coming right up.”

“And a dinner menu,” she added.

Ryan chuckled. “You make it sound like there’s a choice.”

“Isn’t there?”

“Out here? We’re lucky to have any food to serve at all. I’ll bring you a plate when it’s ready. Be another five minutes or so.”

“Thanks.”

“How about the little girl?”

“She’s sleeping,” replied the Mouse, studying the young man to see if he reacted to the news that she was traveling with a child. His face remained expressionless. “I’ll bring a plate up to her when I’m done.”

Ryan approached the table, handed a glass of beer to the Mouse, and retreated to his station.

“Well, that’s over with,” said the young man with the ancient eyes. “Now what can I do for you?”

“That all depends,” answered the Mouse.

“On what?”

“On who you are.”

“My name’s Bundy.”

“I don’t care what your name is.”

The young man shrugged. “I don’t much care what yours is, either. Why don’t you just say what’s on your mind?”

“I need protection,” said the Mouse. “I think you can provide it.”

“So you can live another 50 years?” he asked. “Take my word for it—it’s not worth it.”

“I want your protection anyway.”

“Do I look like the protective type?” asked the young man. “Hell, lady, I’m just a kid.”

“A 200-year-old kid,” said the Mouse, staring into his clear blue eyes.

“223 years, to be exact,” replied the Forever Kid, displaying neither surprise nor anger that she knew who he was.

“That’s a long time to stay alive out here on the Frontier,” said the Mouse. “Especially for a man in your line of work.”

“Longevity is a greatly overrated virtue,” replied the Kid.

“I’m 37,” said the Mouse bluntly. “I stand a good chance of not reaching 38 if I can’t find someone to help me get away from here.”

“You have my sympathy,” said the Kid, his voice as bored as his eyes.

“I need more than your sympathy.”

“My sympathy is freely given,” said the Kid. “Everything else costs money.”

“How much?”

“How far away do you want to go?”

“Very far.”

“Then it’ll cost very much.”

“You haven’t named a price,” noted the Mouse.

The Forever Kid smiled for the first time. “You haven’t named the opposition.”

“I don’t know who it is.”

“Then I hardly see how I can help you.”

“But I’m traveling with someone who will know.”

“The little girl?”

“You know about her?”

The Kid nodded. “The bartender isn’t exactly close-mouthed. Who are they after, you or her?”

“Right now, both of us.”

“And you want my protection.”

“And your ship,” added the Mouse.

“That’s going to cost more.”

“I don’t know how much you cost to begin with.”

“I don’t come cheap,” said the Kid.

“I couldn’t use someone who did.”

He stared at her for a long moment. “100,000 credits a week.”

The Mouse took a deep breath. “That’s awfully high.”

“How highly do you value your life?”

“You’ll go wherever I tell you to?”

The Kid nodded.

“I might have to pay in some other currency.”

“New Stalin rubles or Maria Theresa dollars are acceptable. I won’t take Far London pounds.”

“Deal,” said the Mouse, wondering where she could get the money and what the Forever Kid might do to her if she didn’t come up with it.

“I’ll want a week’s pay in advance.”

“That’s out of the question.”

“How do I know you can pay me?”

“You’ll have to trust me.”

“I trusted someone two centuries ago,” said the Forever Kid, and suddenly his eyes briefly blazed to life. “She lied to me. I haven’t trusted anyone since.”

“But I haven’t got the money now,” protested the Mouse.

“Then you’ll have to get it before I leave.”

“When is that?”

“I have a little business to transact later tonight. I plan to leave in the morning.”

“You’re here on a contract?”

The Kid almost looked amused. “Nobody comes to Ophir for his health.”

“A miner?”

“Why do you care?”

“Because you’ve been hired to kill someone, not rob him,” said the Mouse. “Let me come along with you. If he’s got 100,000 credits worth of diamonds, we can still make a deal.”

“What makes you think I won’t appropriate his diamonds myself?” asked the Kid.

“You’re a killer, not a thief,” she said adamantly.

The Kid actually smiled at her. “What makes you think the two are mutually exclusive?”

“Because I am a thief, and if I was a killer too, I wouldn’t need you.”

He stared at her for a long moment, and she shifted uncomfortably on her chair. “You amuse me,” he said at last.

“I assume that means it’s no deal?” said the Mouse dejectedly.

“I haven’t met an amusing woman since before you were born,” continued the Forever Kid. He paused and stared at her again, then nodded his head. “Okay, we’ve got a deal.”

The Mouse extended her hand. “Shake.”

The Kid stared at her outstretched hand. “I never shake hands.”

“Have it your way,” said the Mouse with a shrug. “When do we leave?”

“Another hour or so. I want to give them time to relax.”

“Them?” said the Mouse.

The Kid nodded.

“Just how many miners do you plan to kill tonight?”

“Eight.”

“Eight?” she repeated incredulously.

“Don’t look so upset,” said the Kid. “You’ll have that much more opportunity to raise some capital.”

“Eight,” said the Mouse again. “That’s awfully high odds.”

“I charge awfully high prices.”

“If you waited until midnight or so, you might be able to sneak up on them,” suggested the Mouse.

“I doubt it.”

“Why?”

“I sent them a message this afternoon that I was coming,” said the Kid.

“You sent them a message? Why?”

“There’s always a chance,” he said almost wistfully.

“A chance they’ll kill you?” she asked, not quite understanding.

He stared off into the distance for a long moment. “No,” he said at last. “No, they won’t be that lucky.” He sighed. “And neither will I.”

Ryan arrived just then with the Mouse’s dinner. Suddenly she found that she no longer had an appetite.

7

Most deserts are cold at night, but this one, decided the Mouse as she and the Forever Kid drove across the sand in an open vehicle, was merely less hot.

“You’ve been very quiet since dinner,” remarked the Kid. “Is anything wrong?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“I gave up kidding more than a century ago.”

“Well, to tell you the truth, I was wondering if I’d be able to find my way back to Ophir in the dark, after they kill you.”

“You won’t have to,” replied the Kid. “I’m not going to lose.”

“Are you saying that you can’t be killed?”

“I’ve been cut up pretty bad on occasion,” he replied. “I can be killed, all right—but not tonight, not by these men.”

“There are eight of them waiting for you out there,” she said, waving a hand in the general direction they were headed. “They’ll probably have taken up defensive positions all around the area. Hell, for all you know, one of them might be just a couple of hundred yards ahead of us, waiting to take a shot at you as you drive by.”

The Kid shook his head. “They’ll all be in their camp, taking comfort from each other’s presence.”

“How do you know that?”

He turned to her. “I’ve been doing this for two hundred years. I know how hunted men act.”

“Maybe these men are different.”

“I hope so,” he said earnestly.

“Why?” she asked, honestly curious.

“Because it’s been a long time since I’ve seen anything new.”

“That’s a hell of an answer.”

“You think it’s easy to be the Forever Kid?” he asked. “To know that when everyone now living in the whole galaxy has been dust for millennia, I’ll still look the same? To eat the same meals, and fly to the same worlds, and do the same thing day in and month out, year in and century out?” He paused. “Everyone wants to be immortal, but let me tell you, lady, it’s not really a consummation devoutly to be wished. Why do you think I got into this line of work? Because sooner or later someone will put me out of my—”

“Your misery?” she suggested.

He shook his head. “My boredom.”

“Maybe it’ll be tonight,” said the Mouse. “That’s why I’m wondering if I can find my way back.”

“It won’t be tonight,” he replied with conviction.

“What makes you so sure?”

“I know how good I am.”

“Maybe you exaggerate how good you are. You told the bartender that you killed Three-Fisted Ollie, but I know he’s alive.”

“I never said that I killed him,” answered the Kid. “I said that I could kill him.”

“Not from what I hear.”

The Forever Kid shrugged. “Believe what you want.”

They drove another two miles in silence, and then they saw the lights of a small camp off in the distance.

“That’s it,” said the Kid, nodding toward the lights.

“Then shouldn’t we stop the landcar?”

“Soon,” he said, starting to decelerate. “They don’t have any weapons that are accurate at more than 300 yards.”

“You hope.”

“I know,” he replied, finally coming to a stop.

“I thought I saw some movement behind that boulder, to the left of the last bubble,” whispered the Mouse.

“You did.”

“Well, what are you going to do about it?”

The Kid got out of the vehicle and stretched lazily. “I’m going to go to work.”

“What about me?”

“You stay here until it’s over.”

“A stationery target in a parked vehicle?” said the Mouse, getting out her side of the landcar. “No, thank you.”

“You’d be safer in the car.”

“You worry about your safety and I’ll worry about mine,” she shot back.

He shrugged. “As you wish.”

He began walking off into the shadows.

“Let me follow you,” said the Mouse, suddenly very uneasy about remaining behind.

“You’d just be in the way.”

“There must be something I can do.”

“There is.”

“What?”

“Go into their camp under a white flag and tell them they’ve got five minutes to make their peace with whatever god they worship.”

“Me?” repeated the Mouse incredulously.

The Forever Kid chuckled. “You see anyone else out here?”

“Not a chance,” said the Mouse vehemently.

“It’s up to you. I’ll call to you when it’s over.”

“You know,” said the Mouse, “there’s a very fine line between confidence and madness.”

There was no answer, and the Mouse realized that she was talking to herself. The Kid had gone.

She stood beside the vehicle, squinting into the darkness, trying to spot the other seven miners in the dim illumination 300 yards ahead.

After a few minutes, she heard a single piercing scream, and then a number of rifle shots and the buzzing from laser pistols. She ducked down behind the vehicle, just in case the Kid had been wrong about the accuracy of the miners’ weapons, but after a few moments of total silence she peeked around the side.

Three bodies, two of them grotesquely contorted, lay in the small pool of light beside the camp, and she could see the motionless bare foot of a fourth sticking out of the darkness.

Then came a high-pitched shriek, unmistakably feminine, and an instant later a woman staggered out of one of the survival bubbles, clutching her abdomen, and collapsed a few yards away from the men.

“Enough!” cried a man. “I give up.”

“This isn’t a child’s game,” replied the Kid from some distance. “You’re not allowed to quit just because you’re going to lose.”

Three rifles—two projectile and one laser—tore into the spot where the Kid’s voice had come from, and then all was silent again. After a tense moment, two women and a men emerged from their bubbles and cautiously approached the spot when the gunfire had converged. Suddenly one of the women screamed and fell to the ground, and the two remaining miners turned and began firing wildly into the darkness.

“Come out and face us, damn you!” hollered the man.

The Forever Kid stepped out of the shadows.

“Whoever paid you for this, I’ll pay you more to go away,” said the woman.

“I’m afraid that’s not a viable option,” said the Kid. There was a sudden movement of his right hand, and both miners keeled over.

The Kid spent the next few moments inspecting each of his victims, making sure they were dead. Then, satisfied, he turned toward the vehicle.

“You can come out now!” he shouted into the darkness.

The Mouse, still stunned by the ease with which he had dispatched his opponents, approached the camp gingerly.

“What the hell did you use on them?” she asked as she reached the first of the corpses.

“Something very small and very sharp,” replied the Kid. “Eight somethings, actually.”

“Amazing!” muttered the Mouse, stepping around two more bodies.

“Go gather your plunder and let’s be going,” said the Kid.

“You’re not even breathing hard,” noted the Mouse.

“Should I be?”

“Most people would work up a sweat after killing eight innocent miners,” she replied caustically.

He stared curiously at her. “Innocent of what?”

“Whatever they did, they didn’t deserve to die like this.”

“Who knows?” said the Forever Kid with a shrug.

“You mean you don’t even know why you killed them?” she demanded.

“Of course I do,” answered the Kid. “I killed them because I was paid to kill them.”

“But you don’t know what they had done?”

He shrugged again. “That’s none of my business.”

“Don’t you even care?”

“Not really,” he answered. “Most people deserve killing for one reason or another.”

“Have you always felt this way?”

Suddenly the Kid grinned. “Puberty must have made me cynical.” He nodded toward the self-contained protective bubbles. “My business here is done. It’s time you went about yours.” He headed off toward the vehicle. “I’ll get the landcar,” he said, “while you pick up the spoils of conquest.”

“You wouldn’t be planning on leaving me behind, would you?” she said suspiciously.

He chuckled. “Not while you’re here with all the money.”

She began going through the bubbles, collecting uncut diamonds and rolls of credits, and a few minutes later she emerged from the last of the bubbles.

He was waiting there for her with the landcar, and fifteen minutes later she was shaking Penelope awake.

“Come on,” she whispered. “It’s time to go.”

“Go where?” asked Penelope sleepily.

“I don’t know,” admitted the Mouse. “But away from here, anyway.”

“Did you buy a ship?”

“Even better,” said the Mouse. “I bought a man who owns a ship.”

“What did you pay him with?” asked Penelope, sitting up and rubbing her eyes.

“Diamonds,” said the Mouse, holding out a small bag filled with dull, uncut stones.

Penelope peeked into the bag.

“There’s a gun there,” she noted.

“I picked it up the same place where I got the diamonds,” answered the Mouse.

“Why?”

“Just in case you decide that the Forever Kid wants to hurt us.”

“How long will he stay with us?”

“Until we put down on a safe planet,” said the Mouse. “Or until we run out of money. Whichever comes first.”

“Are there any safe planets for us?”

“There’s one,” said the Mouse reluctantly. “I hadn’t wanted to go there, but I don’t think we have much of a choice. Word of our being here has got to leak out: this place is going to be crawling with killers by tomorrow night, or the next morning at the latest.”

Penelope began getting dressed.

“What is the name of this world?” she asked.

“Last Chance.”

“Have you ever been there before?”

The Mouse shook her head. “No, I haven’t.”

“Then why are you so sure that you don’t want to go there?” persisted Penelope. “It might be very pleasant, with lakes and streams and green things.”

“Because I don’t like the man who runs it,” replied the Mouse.

Penelope considered the Mouse’s answer for a moment. “If you don’t like him, why do you think we’ll be safe there?”

“He owes me an awfully big favor.”

“Has he agreed to pay you this favor?”

The Mouse grimaced. “I don’t think he even knows I’m alive.”

“How long has it been since you’ve seen him?” asked Penelope, picking up Jennifer and walking to the door.

“A very long time.”

“He might not even remember you,” suggested Penelope.

“He’ll remember,” said the Mouse grimly.

PART 2:

The

Iceman’s

Book

8

They called it Last Chance, and it had been well named.

It was (currently, at least) the last populated planet on the way to the Galactic Core, the last source of nuclear fuel, the last place to fill up a ship’s galleys, the last place (as far as anyone knew) to see another sentient being.

Last Chance, except for its location, was in all other respects unremarkable. It was small, but the gravity was within the normal range for human beings. It was hot, but not so hot that life couldn’t exist. It was dry, but not so dry that water couldn’t be coaxed up through the red clay that covered most of the surface. Its year was very long (4623 Galactic Standard days), but its days and nights were within acceptable bounds: fourteen Galactic Standard hours each. Its seasons were mild, but distinguishable. Its native life, primarily avians and marsupials, was unique but not plentiful.

It boasted a single community, a rustic Tradertown known, also appropriately, as End of the Line. End of the Line consisted of two hotels, a rooming house for more permanent visitors, a series of small spaceship hangars, a post office, a whorehouse, three empty buildings whose purposes were long since forgotten, an assayers’ office, a general store, and the End of the Line Bar, which was also a restaurant, a book and tape store, a subspace transmitting station, a gambling parlor, and a weapons shop.

The End of the Line Bar was the Iceman’s, and he ruled it as completely as he ruled the rest of the planet. Not a ship landed without his permission. Not a ship took off without his knowledge. Not a man or woman entered the Tradertown without his consent. If, for reasons of his own, one of those men or women never left, there was no one to call him to task for it, nor would anyone who lacked a serious death wish have wanted to.

Nobody knew exactly why he was called the Iceman. His true name was Carlos Mendoza, but he hadn’t used it in more than a decade, during which time he had had many other names, changing them to suit each new world the way some men changed their clothes. The Iceman wasn’t even a name of his own devising, though it suited him well enough, and he elected to keep it.

He was physically nondescript. He lacked Undertaker McNair’s terrifying gaze, or the awesome height and bulk of ManMountain Bates, or even the Forever Kid’s shock of thick blond hair. He was an inch or two below normal height, and he had the beginning of a belly, and his brown hair was thinning on top and greying at the sides, but people tended to remember him anyway. Especially people he didn’t have much use for.

The Iceman’s past was murky, his future not clearly defined, his present an intensely private matter. He was friendly enough: he’d talk to anyone who cared to pass the time of day, he’d tell an occasional joke, he’d sleep with an occasional woman, he’d play an occasional game of chance, when properly drunk he’d even read an occasional poem of his own creation—but even those people who thought they knew him or understood what motivated him were wrong. Only one person had ever gotten that close to him.

And now she was orbiting Last Chance, asking for permission to land.

9

The Mouse entered the End of the Line Tavern, spotted a table in the corner, and turned to the Forever Kid.

“Would you get a room for Penelope and me, and one for yourself?” she asked. “I’ll be along in a little while.”

The Kid looked around the enormous tavern and over at the gaming tables in the casino. “There’s five bounty hunters here that I know of,” he replied in low tones.

“I’ll be all right,” the Mouse assured him.

“You’re paying me to protect you.”

“I paid you to get me to Last Chance. I’m here now.”

He shook his head. “You paid me for a week. You’ve still got four days coming to you.”

“Just return half the money and we’ll call it square.”

“I don’t make refunds.”

“And you’d love to take on all five of them at once,” said the Mouse with a knowing smile.

“I wouldn’t be adverse to it,” he admitted, trying to keep the eagerness from his boyish face.

“Nobody’s going to bother me here,” said the Mouse.

“What makes you so sure?”

“Penelope would have warned me.”

The Forever Kid stared down at the little girl. “Yeah?”

The Mouse smiled, reached out a hand, and tousled Penelope’s hair. “She’s my partner. You’re just the hired help.”

“That’s right,” said the little girl. “We’re partners.”

“How do you know who’s likely to cause trouble?” the Kid asked her.

“Just be grateful that she does know,” said the Mouse.

The Kid continued staring at Penelope. Finally he sighed. “Just my luck,” he muttered.

“What are you talking about?” asked the Mouse.

“The last thing I need is an edge. Now it looks like I’ve got one whether I want it or not.”

“Just for four more days,” answered the Mouse. “Then you can take on 300 killers all at once if that’s what you want.”

The Kid shrugged, took Penelope by the hand, walked back out into the dusty street, and headed over to the nearer of the two hotels. The Mouse noticed that, despite his obvious death wish, he nonetheless held Penelope with his left hand while his right swung to and fro just inches from his sonic pistol.

The Mouse walked over to the corner table, and a moment later a redheaded waitress approached her.

“What’ll it be?” asked the girl.

“A beer,” said the Mouse. It seemed foolish to ask for brand names; for a world this close to the Core to have any beer was accomplishment enough.

“Right,” said the waitress, starting to turn away.

“And I want to see Carlos Mendoza.”

“Who?”

“He’s called the Iceman these days.”

“You will.”

“When?”

“When he’s ready,” said the waitress. “He knows you’re here. Your drink’s on the house. So’s your room.”

Yes, thought the Mouse grimly. He knows I’m here, all right.

“He’ll stop by your table when he’s ready,” continued the waitress.

The waitress walked back to the bar, returned with her beer, then vanished through a doorway. The Mouse stared at her glass for a moment, then lifted it to her lips and took a long swallow. When she put it back down on the table, she found the Iceman sitting opposite her.

“It’s been a long time,” he said.

“Yes, it has.”

“I thought you were dead. I’m glad to learn I was wrong.”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence.

“How have you been?” he asked.

“Well. And you?”

“I’m getting by.”

“When did you leave the service?” asked the Mouse.

“Nine years ago,” replied the Iceman. “I figured fifteen years was enough for anyone.”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

Another silence.

“I wouldn’t have thought you’d want to see me,” he said at last. “I thought you’d be too bitter.”

“I am bitter, Carlos. But I need a favor.”

“Oh?”

She nodded. “I’m in a little bit of trouble.”

“Judging from the way some people in here are staring at you,” he said, indicating the bounty hunters, “I’d say you were in a lot of trouble.”

“They say you run this world,” she continued, ignoring his comment, “that nothing happens here without your permission. Is that true?”

“Essentially.”

“I need a safe place to stay for a few weeks.”

“Just a few weeks?”

“Within a month there’ll be so many bounty hunters here you couldn’t call them off even if you wanted to.”

He smiled a humorless smile. “You’d be surprised what I can do on my world.”

“Just the same, we’ll be gone within a month, probably sooner. But I need some time to plan my next move without ducking at every shadow I see.”

“What makes you think all these bounty hunters won’t follow you?”

“If you can arrange for us to have a ten-hour head start when we leave, that’s all we’ll need.”

“That can be arranged.”

“Then we have your protection?”

“One of you doesn’t need it,” said the Iceman. “And from what I hear, he probably doesn’t want it.”

“So you know the Forever Kid?”

“I know of him.” He paused. “Why is he traveling with you?”

“I hired him … but I can only afford him for a few more days.”

“Who are you paying him to kill?”

“I don’t know,” said the Mouse. “Anyone who tries to kill me.”

The Iceman paused thoughtfully, then spoke: “If that little girl is who I think she is, the job’s too big for him.”

“Who do you think she is?”

“Penelope Bailey.”

The Mouse nodded.

“How did you … ah … acquire her?” asked the Iceman.

“I freed her from an alien who had her back on Westerly.”

“You should have stolen a negatron bomb from the Navy,” said the Iceman wryly. “You’d be in less trouble.”

“I didn’t know who she was,” said the Mouse. “I just saw this little girl chained in an alien’s room and decided I couldn’t leave her there.” She paused. “We’ve been on the run ever since. I think there may be as many as thirty or forty men out after us.”

“Thirty or forty?” repeated the Iceman, amused.

“It’s possible.”

“You still don’t know what you’ve done, do you?”

She frowned. “What do you mean.”

“There are three governments trying to find that little girl, and close to two hundred very motivated men and women are out to claim the reward.”

The Mouse looked her surprise. “Three governments?” she repeated.

“At least.”

She considered what he had said. “I didn’t think there were two hundred bounty hunters on the whole Inner Frontier.”

“There are now.”

The Mouse shook her head in bewilderment. “All because of Penelope?”

“That’s right,” said the Iceman.

“And what about you?” she asked sharply.

“What about me?”

“Are you interested in the reward, too?”

He shook his head. “I’ve got enough money—and I’ve done enough favors for the Democracy, too.”

She stared at him. “You’re the last man I want to ask for a favor, but we need your protection.”

“We?”

“Penelope and me.”

“She doesn’t need protection,” said the Iceman. “You do, but not her.”

“I’m not going to let anyone take her away and stick her in some laboratory somewhere.”

“Most of them don’t want to.”

“A man called 32 does.”

He stared at her intently. “What do you know about 32?”

“Just that he had her once and probably wants her back,” replied the Mouse. “What do you know about him?”

“More than you,” said the Iceman. He frowned. “How did he ever let her get away? He’s the most careful, thorough man I know.”

“How do you know him?”

“I’ve dealt with him in the past.”

“During your master spy period?” she asked sardonically.

“A master spy is nothing but an employer of spy labor,” replied the Iceman.

“I know. Like you hired me.”

“Precisely.”

“Did you hire him, too?”

The Iceman shook his head. “We worked for different agencies. Now and then our paths would cross.” He paused. “He’s the best I ever knew. I can’t imagine that he could be so careless as to let the girl escape. She must be everything they say she is.”

“What she mostly is is a lonely, frightened little girl who doesn’t even know what world she was born on.”

“She’s also the most potentially powerful weapon in the galaxy,” said the Iceman.

“She’s just a little girl.”

“Little girls grow up.”

“And her abilities are very limited.”

“Abilities can mature, too.”

The Mouse shook her head. “All she can do is tell when someone is about to hurt her.”

“And you don’t think someone with precognition, whose abilities may very well be embryonic at the moment, poses a danger?”

“To who?” demanded the Mouse. “To bounty hunters who want to harm her?”

“To anyone or any world she decides she doesn’t like.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“Is it? From what I hear, you’re traveling with a little child who can cause grown men to drop over dead.”

“It doesn’t work like that,” said the Mouse.

“Are you saying she can’t make people die?”

“It isn’t that simple.”

“It sounds precisely that simple to me.”

The Mouse shook her head. “She possesses a form of precognition.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“She can see a number of possible futures, and sometimes, by her actions, she can affect which potential future becomes a reality.”

“As I said, you need protection. She never did.”

“She can’t always choose a future in which she’s safe. Sometimes there are no alternatives to being captured.”

“Has it occurred to you that as she becomes more mature, more alternatives will manifest themselves to her?”

“I hope so,” said the Mouse. “She’s suffered enough for one lifetime.”

The Iceman shook his head impatiently. “I don’t mean that she’ll see futures in which she’s not threatened.”

“Oh?”

“If there are an infinite number of possible futures, and she becomes more and more adept at visualizing and manipulating them, what makes you think that the day won’t come when she can see a future in which she rules the entire galaxy with an iron hand—or that she won’t be able to manipulate events to make that particular future come to pass?”

“My God, Carlos—she’s just a frightened little girl! You make her sound like some kind of monster.”

“I’m sure that Caligula and Adolf Hitler and Conrad Bland were once frightened little boys. They grew up.” He paused. “Are you sure you want her to grow up?”

She glared at him furiously. “You really are a bastard. You didn’t help me eleven years ago; I should have known better than to expect you to help me now.”

“You knew the risk you were taking,” said the Iceman. “When I heard that you had been captured, I tried to work out an exchange, but they weren’t interested.”

“So you just wrote me off.”

“Everyone was expendable.” He stared at her dispassionately. “That’s the nature of the game.”

“It doesn’t seem much like a game when you’re stuck in a cell on an alien world.”

“No, I suppose it doesn’t.”

Another silence followed, during which the Mouse stared at the Iceman and tried to reconcile what she saw with her memory of Carlos Mendoza.

“You chose your new name well,” she said at last. “You were never the warmest or most demonstrative man, but you’ve become cold as ice.”

“Being warm and demonstrative never solved anything,” he replied. “In the long run they just bring you pain.”

“I find it hard to believe I ever cared for you,” she said. “It’s like it was some other man.”

“It was. His name was Carlos Mendoza, and he doesn’t exist any longer.”

“Probably just as well,” said the Mouse, getting to her feet. “I guess we’ll have to take our chances elsewhere. I’m sorry I bothered you.”

“Shut up and sit down,” said the Iceman. He didn’t raise his voice, but his tone carried so much authority that the Mouse, to her surprise, found herself obeying him.

“That’s better,” he continued. “You and the girl are safe for as long as you remain on Last Chance. I owe you that much.” He paused. “My protection doesn’t extend to the Forever Kid. Now go to the hotel and stay there for half an hour. That’ll give me time to pass the word.”

“What about the Kid?”

The Iceman shrugged. “He can stay or leave as he pleases—but if he’s looking for someone to put a permanent end to his boredom, he’s as likely to find him here as anywhere.”

“You mean you?”

He shook his head. “He’s got no reason to want to kill me, and I’ve got nothing to prove.”

“If I’m still here in three weeks,” said the Mouse, “someone will be joining me—an illusionist named Merlin. I want him protected too.”

He stared at her, and finally nodded his assent.

She pushed her chair back from the table and got to her feet.

“I’ll see you around,” she said.

“I imagine you will.”

“The waitress told me that I wasn’t being charged for my room or my drink. Is that right?”

“Your meals are on the house, too.”

“They’d damned well better be,” she said. “It’s a small enough price to pay to sooth a guilty conscience.”

“I don’t feel any guilt,” he replied. “But I do feel a certain obligation.”

“You may just overwhelm me with the force of your emotion,” said the Mouse sardonically.

“I am glad you’re still alive.”

“Next you’ll be telling me that you still love me,” she replied sardonically.

“No, I don’t.”

“Or that you never did.”

“I did, once.” He paused. “It was a mistake. You can’t send someone you love into danger.”

“So you stopped sending people into danger.”

The Iceman shook his head sadly. “No. I stopped loving them.”

10

That afternoon the Mouse stopped by the assayer’s office and cashed in her diamonds for the standard 33% of market value. She walked out with 165,000 credits, and after she paid the Forever Kid for his entire week, she went to the room she was sharing with Penelope and hid the remaining money in the little girl’s pillow, along with the 20,000 credits in cash she had removed from the miners’ bodies.

“Is the money safe here?” she asked.

Penelope, who was playing with her doll, shrugged. “I suppose so.”

“But you don’t know for sure?”

“Nobody wants it right now.”

“Will they want it tonight, when they think we’re asleep?”

“Probably not,” said Penelope.

“Why ‘probably not’?” asked the Mouse. “Why not ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ or ‘I don’t know’?”

“I can’t see all the futures that far ahead. In the ones I can see, nobody tries to take the money away.” She paused. “Well, all but one, anyway.”

“And what happens in that one?”

“The man you call the Iceman kills the woman who tries to sneak up here to rob you.”

“He’ll actually kill her?”

“Only if she tries to come up here. In the other futures I can see, she doesn’t stop by the assay office, or if she does, the man who works there doesn’t tell her about your money.”

“It must be very confusing for you sometimes, trying to separate the present from the future, or the real future from all the imaginary ones.”

“They’re all imaginary until one of them happens,” answered Penelope, carefully straightening her doll’s dress. “It used to be more confusing. I’m learning how to sort them out better.”

“Do you ever see a future in which someone isn’t trying to hurt or rob us?” asked the Mouse.

“Hardly ever.”

“Well, I suppose there’s a certain twisted logic to that,” admitted the Mouse. “I have a feeling that half the galaxy wants to hurt us, and most of the other half would love to rob us.” She sighed and eased herself onto her bed. “At least we’re safe for the time being.” She chuckled briefly. “Hell, with the Forever Kid and Mendoza both protecting us, it’s probably the safest we’ve been since we met.”

“Mouse?” said Penelope after a lengthy silence.

“What?”

“How long until dinner?”

“I thought you just had lunch an hour ago. Are you hungry again?”

“Not really,” admitted Penelope. “But there’s nothing to do here, and the Forever Kid told me I couldn’t leave the room except to eat, and that when I did he had to come along.”

“Well, that’s what we’re paying him for.”

“I know … but I’m still bored.”

“Play with Jennifer,” said the Mouse, indicating the doll.

“She’s bored too.”

“Then try watching a holo.”

“There’s only one frequency, and I’ve already seen what they’re showing.”

The Mouse sat up. “Okay. Find us a deck of cards and I’ll teach you how to play Dubai gin.”

The little girl pulled open two dresser drawers with no success, then walked over to the nondescript desk by the door, rummaged through it, and finally withdrew a deck of cards. When she took them out of their container she found to her delight that each card sported some artist’s holographic treatment of humanity’s most famous mythic figures. There were Paul Bunyan and Billybuck Dancer, Tarzan and Santiago, Bigfoot and Geronimo, Saint Nicholas and Saint Ngani, all in heroic poses.

The Mouse briefly explained the rules of Dubai gin, then shuffled the deck and began dealing.

“Don’t forget to deal to Jennifer, too,” said Penelope, propping the doll up into a sitting position.

“I won’t forget,” said the Mouse, dealing nine cards face down in front of the doll.

“These are lovely,” commented Penelope, as she began sorting the cards the Mouse had dealt her.

“You think so?” replied the Mouse. “When Merlin joins us, I’ll have to have him show you a deck that he picked up on Sirius V. It has portraits of 52 extinct mammals from Earth, and he’s got a matching deck with 52 extinct raptors.”

“What’s a raptor?”

“A bird that eats meat.”

“Don’t they all?”

“Hardly any of them do,” answered the Mouse. Penelope fell silent, studying the holographs on the cards, and the Mouse waited another minute before speaking. “If you’d rather just look at the cards, we don’t have to play.”

“No,” said Penelope. “I want to play, really I do.”

“All right,” said the Mouse. “You have to pick a card from the pile, and then discard one over here.” She indicated where the discard pile would be built.

Penelope did as she was told.

“Now it’s Jennifer’s turn,” she announced.

She picked a card without looking at it, placed it in front of the doll, and discarded a four.

“Perhaps it might be better if you looked at Jennifer’s cards before you played them,” suggested the Mouse.

“That wouldn’t be fair,” said Penelope. “I should only look at my own cards.”

“Then Jennifer’s going to lose,” said the Mouse.

“Oh?” said the little girl, looking concerned. “Why?”

“She discarded a very low card, a four. Sometimes that’s a wise move, but in general you always want to rid yourself of the high cards first.”

“Jennifer knows that.”

“Evidently she doesn’t, because she didn’t do it.”

“She was going to put the ten in the pile next time,” explained Penelope.

“What ten?”

“The one she just picked.” She reached over and held up the ten of hearts, which sported a holographic illustration of the goddess Pallas Athene. “It’s so pretty she just wanted to keep it for a few minutes.”

“How did you know that it was a ten?” asked the Mouse sharply. “I was watching you. You never looked at it.”

“I knew that it had a picture of a pretty lady on it,” said Penelope guiltily. “I didn’t care that it was a ten.”

“But you knew what it was,” persisted the Mouse.

“I just wanted Jennifer to see the picture,” said Penelope, who was close to tears now. “I wasn’t trying to cheat, honest I wasn’t.”

“I know you weren’t,” said the Mouse soothingly.

“You’re not mad at me?”

“How could I ever get mad at my partner?” said the Mouse, forcing a smile to her lips to mask her eagerness. “I wonder…” she said, allowing her voice to trail off.

“About what?”

“Was it just because you wanted to see this picture that you knew what the card would be, or could you do it again?”

“Promise you won’t get mad if I tell you?”

“Cross my heart.”

“The next card is a picture of a man dressed in black, with a black and red cloak.”

“Can you see what value the card is?”

“Value?”

“Its number and suit.”

“It’s the king of spades.”

The Mouse turned over the card. It was the king of spades, with a rather frightening representation of Count Dracula staring out at her.

“Do you know what’s in my hand?” asked the Mouse.

Penelope described the holographs, then, with far less interest, identified the accompanying values and suits.

“Very good,” said the Mouse.

“Will you still play cards with me, now that you know?” asked Penelope. “I can try to forget what they are when we’re playing.”

“I don’t want you to forget a thing,” said the Mouse.

“But if I don’t, I’ll win most of the time.”

“Why not all the time?” asked the Mouse curiously. “Can’t you choose a future in which you always get the best cards?”

The little girl shook her head. “In some of the futures, you don’t shuffle them right. Besides, that would be cheating.”

The Mouse considered this information for a moment, then shrugged. “What the hell—we don’t want to win every hand anyway. It would just frighten people off.”

“We?” repeated Penelope. “I thought I was playing against you.”

The Mouse shook her head impatiently. “We’re through with that game.”

“But you promised!” said Penelope, suddenly on the verge of tears again.

“We have a more important game to play,” said the Mouse.

“What game?”

“A game in which we can be partners instead of opponents.” The Mouse paused. “And you’ll get to give me secret signals, too, just the way we talked about before.”

“Really?” asked Penelope, her enthusiasm returning.

“Really.”

“But won’t we be cheating someone else? If I help you, I mean?”

“We won’t be cheating anyone who doesn’t deserve it,” answered the Mouse. “And we’re stuck here on Last Chance until Merlin shows up or I can put together enough money to buy a ship.”

“Why can’t we just tell the Forever Kid to take us with him?” asked Penelope.

“Because he doesn’t do favors—he sells them. And I haven’t got enough money to hire him for a second week.”

“You’re sure it’s all right?” persisted Penelope, a worried expression on her face.

“I’m not only sure it’s all right,” answered the Mouse. “I’m sure it’s the only way we’re ever going to get off this dirtball.” She paused, then added: “And it’s not safe for us to stay on any one planet for more than a few days; too many people want to take you away from me.”

“I know,” said Penelope glumly. “I keep trying to choose a future in which they all forget about me, but I don’t know how.”

“Just pick one in which we win lots of money at End of the Line’s card table.”

“I’ll try,” promised the girl.

“All right,” said the Mouse. “Let’s spend the next couple of hours making sure you know the rules. First comes a pair, then two pair, then three of a kind, then…”

11

The End of the Line was crowded. Its lights, glowing circular globes floating weightlessly near the ceiling, shone down on traders, prospectors, adventurers, bounty hunters, whores, gamblers, all the flotsam and jetsam of the Inner Frontier, as they gathered around the burnished chrome bar and the gaming tables. Here and there an occasional alien mingled with the mass of humanity, testing its luck at the tables, imbibing one of the special fluids that the Iceman supplied to his non-human customers, or selling black market commodities that weren’t obtainable on the worlds of the Democracy.

The Mouse walked slowly through the mass of human and alien bodies, holding Penelope by the hand. The little girl drew some curious stares from brilliantly-clad gamblers, some disapproving glances from provocatively-dressed whores, some avaricious looks from the bounty hunters, but the Iceman’s word had gone out, and nobody said a word or made a motion in their direction.

The Mouse was uncomfortably aware of the lean and hungry faces of the bounty hunters, and was almost awed by the power the Iceman seemed to wield. These were cold, hard men, men who backed down from no one—and yet a single command from the Iceman had gone out on the grapevine, and none of them seemed willing to cross the line he had drawn.

“You going to be drinking or gambling?” asked a soft voice behind her, and she turned to find herself facing the Forever Kid.

“Gambling,” she answered.

“You sure? There are a lot of pros here tonight.”

“I’ll be all right,” she assured him. “And besides, if I’m going to be able to hire you for another week, I need to raise some money.”

He shrugged. “That’s up to you. Once you settle down at a table, I’ll move to where I can keep an eye on you.”

“Thanks,” she said. “The Iceman has passed the word that no one is to bother us while we’re on Last Chance, but there’s always a chance that not everyone has heard.” She felt a sudden surge of bitterness. “Besides, I counted on him once before and he failed me.”

She walked past some of the alien games and the dice tables, and finally came to a hexagonal table where three men, two women and a Lodinite were playing poker. The dealer stood out even in this crowd of bejeweled gamblers: the prismatic cloth of his garments changed colors with every motion he made, his fingers were covered with rings of bloodnight and sheerstone, his boots were made from the glowing skin of some alien reptile. He wore a monocle of plain glass, attached to his tunic by a gold chain, and on his shoulder perched a tiny alien bird, its orange eyes staring intently at his shining rings, as if it might leap to his hand and gobble them up at any instant.

The Mouse stood behind the player with the smallest pile of chips, a woman dressed in such worn, plain leather that she actually stood out more in this crowd of gamblers and gadflies than the dealer did. After a few moments the woman rose from her chair, gathered up her few remaining chips, and walked off.

“Is this a private game?” inquired the Mouse.

“No,” replied the dealer. “But it’s an expensive one.”

“How much?”

“Ten thousand to buy in. A thousand is the minimum bet.”

“Fine,” said the Mouse, seating herself opposite the dealer and placing thirty thousand credits on the table. Once her money was on the table, the Forever Kid seated himself at an adjoining table that was not currently in use.

“I see you’ve come to play,” said the dealer approvingly. “Banker!” he called out. “Get the lady some chips!”

The casino banker walked over, picked up her money, and replaced it with thirty elegant chips carved from the pink-hued bone of some alien animal.

“What about the child?” asked the dealer as the banker answered a call at another table.

“She doesn’t play,” replied the Mouse.

“She also doesn’t walk around looking at anyone’s cards,” explained the dealer.

“Are you accusing me of cheating before I’ve even played a hand?”

“Not at all,” said the dealer. “I’m just making sure I won’t have to accuse you later.”

The Mouse turned to the little girl. “Penelope, go sit over there”—she pointed to the Forever Kid’s table, which she could see without having to turn her head—“and wait for me.”

“Can I have a deck of cards?” asked the girl. “So I can play solitaire?”

The dealer withdrew a sealed deck from his pocket and slid it across the table. “Give her these.”

“Thank you,” said the Mouse, picking up the deck and handing it to Penelope. “Now go over there and wait for me.”

Penelope thanked the dealer for the cards and walked over to the table.

“Got a name, ma’am?” asked the dealer.

“Lots of them,” replied the Mouse.

“Any particular one I should call you?”

“Whatever you like.”

The dealer smiled. “I’ve always been partial to Melisande, myself.”

The Mouse considered it, then frowned. “My name is Mouse.”

The dealer shrugged.

“What’s yours?” she asked as she picked up her cards and studied them.

“Well, when I’m passing through Customs back in the Democracy, it’s Valente, ma’am, Riccardo Valente. But out here, where I make my living by courting the goddess of chance, it’s King Tout.”

“Do I call you King or Tout?” asked the Mouse.

“Call me anything that suits your fancy, ma’am,” replied King Tout.

“How about if we play some poker while I think about it?” said the Mouse, pushing two chips to the center of the table.

The Lodinite and the two men matched her bet, the woman dropped out, and King Tout surveyed his cards again.

“See you and raise you a thousand,” he said, picking up three chips and placing them next to the others at the table’s center.

The Mouse held her cards up, appeared to be studying them, and took a quick peek over the top of them at Penelope. The little girl rubbed her nose once, the sign that the Mouse was going to lose the hand, then went back to deciding which card to play in her solitaire game.

The Mouse considered tossing in her cards and minimizing her losses, but decided against it: having opened, it would look strange if she folded immediately, so she regretfully met King Tout’s bet, drew two cards, and then refused to match the five thousand dollars he bet after drawing a single card.

“Poor luck, ma’am,” he said with a smile as he reached out and collected the pile of chips. He passed the deck to her. “I believe it’s your deal.”

“Same game,” said the Mouse, pushing another chip to the center of the table.

She dealt out the cards, then picked up her hand. She had three queens, a five, and a four, and when none of the others chose to open, she was about to bet five thousand credits … but first she glanced at Penelope, whose hand seemed inadvertently to brush by her nose again as she looked down at the cards that were spread out before her.

The Mouse sighed, studied her cards for another moment, and then regretfully tossed her hand onto the table.

She won two small pots, dropped out of another one early on, and then it was King Tout’s turn to deal again. As the Mouse picked up her hand, she took a quick peek at Penelope, who seemed to be paying absolutely no attention to her at all.

The Mouse held a deuce, a five, a six, a nine and a queen, three of them red, two of them black, and she opened with a single chip. So did the next four players. King Tout pushed five chips to the center of the table.

The Mouse frowned and pretended to study her cards, again glancing surreptitiously at Penelope. As before, the child seemed immersed in her game of solitaire, and sat rigid and motionless.

“I’ll see you,” said the Mouse, matching King Tout’s bet and hoping that Penelope’s lack of a negative sign was purposeful and not merely neglectful.

“I’m out,” said the Lodinite into its translating mechanism.

“Me too,” chimed in one of the men.

The remaining man stared at his hand for a long time, finally sighed and pushed a little pile of chips next to King Tout’s.

“How many cards, ma’am?” asked King Tout pleasantly.

“Three,” said the Mouse, tossing in the deuce, the five and the six.

“One for me,” said the man.

“Dealer stands pat,” announced King Tout.

The Mouse slowly picked up her cards, and found that she had drawn two nines and a queen.

“Check,” she said.

“Same,” said the other woman.

“Well,” announced King Tout, “I’m afraid it’s going to cost you five thousand credits to see what I’ve got.”

The Mouse stared at him and resisted the urge to grin.

“I’ll see you,” she said at last, “and raise you five.”

The man dropped out, and King Tout stared at his cards, fanning them so that he could see the edge of each in turn.

“You took three cards, right?”

“That’s right,” said the Mouse.

He look at his hand once more and sighed deeply, as if he’d finally made his decision.

“See your five thousand,” he said, pushing a large pile of chips to the center, “and raise you another five.”

My God, thought the Mouse. When I think of the walls I’ve climbed and the ventilation shafts I’ve wriggled through for a twentieth of this amount!

“Right back at you,” she said aloud, pushing ten chips of her own up against the rapidly-growing pile between them.

Deep in his heart, King Tout had a feeling that he was beaten, that no one bluffed a pat hand to the tune of twenty thousand credits—but he’d invested so much money already that he felt he had to at least pay to see what the Mouse was holding, and so he did, tossing five more chips onto the table but declining to raise her again.

She laid out her full house—three nines and a pair of queens—and he folded his flush, tossed it face down on the table, and with a nod indicated that she had won the hand.

“That was very bold of you, matching my opening bet while you were sitting there with just a pair of nines … or was it queens?” remarked King Tout.

The Mouse allowed herself the luxury of a smile. “Nice try, King Tout,” she said. “But if you want to know what I bet with, it’ll cost you another twenty thousand.”

He matched her smile with his own grin. “I think I can live in ignorance.”

She purposely lost five and seven thousand credits on the next two hands, then struck again and won a fifty thousand credit pot, most of the money coming from King Tout.

That set the pattern for the next ninety minutes. Within an hour the other players had all quit, and it was just her against King Tout. She never folded a poor hand at the beginning, but always lost just enough to encourage him to keep trying her … and then, when Penelope stared at her solitaire game, seemingly oblivious to the rest of the world, the Mouse would invariably win the larger pots.

Finally King Tout pushed his chair back.

“You’re quitting?” asked the Mouse politely.

“I know when the cards are running against me,” he said. “Will you be back here again tomorrow night?”

“I imagine so,” she answered, deciding that whether she bought a ship or an extension of the Forever Kid’s services or both, she was going to need more money.

“I’ll be back,” he promised, getting to his feet, offering her a low, courtly bow, and walking out the door.

“It won’t do him much good, will it?” said a low voice at her side.

She turned and found herself staring at the Iceman, who had seated himself next to her. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I mean that my protection doesn’t extend to people who cheat my customers—not even you.”

“It’s hardly my fault if he doesn’t know how to bet his cards,” said the Mouse defensively.

“Would he have known how to bet them if the little girl had stayed in her room?” replied the Iceman. He paused. “You may not know it, but you’ve made yourself a powerful enemy tonight.”

“I’ve had enemies before.”

“Your courage does you no credit,” said the Iceman. “It’s the result of ignorance.” He paused. “If I were you, I’d quit while I was ahead.”

“I need the money, if I’m ever going to get off this dirtball.”

“If I were you, I’d find some other way to make it.”

“I can get what I need in one more night,” she said. “Will you extend your protection for forty more hours?”

He paused, considering her request.

“I’ll let you know,” he said, getting up and walking away.

As soon as he left the table, Penelope got up and approached the Mouse.

“Did I do good?” whispered the little girl.

“You did great,” the Mouse assured her. “Do you think you can do it again tomorrow?”

“I suppose so,” said Penelope.

“You suppose so?” repeated the Mouse. “What does that mean?”

“Just that I can’t see that far ahead.”

The Mouse relaxed. “You’ll be just fine, partner,” she said, tousling Penelope’s blonde hair. “Now let me cash in my chips, and then let’s go to bed.”

She summoned the banker, converted her chips into cash, and then, taking Penelope by the hand, she began winding her way in and out of the tables and walking to the door, with the Forever Kid following a few paces behind.

“Had a good night, I see,” said the Kid when they were out in the street.

“Yes, I did.”

“Got enough money to leave now, or are we going to stick around?”

“I want to play one more night,” answered the Mouse.

“Good.”

She stopped and looked at him curiously. “Why should you care one way or the other?”

“Because that was King Tout you beat tonight,” said the Forever Kid. “He’ll be back.”

“With more money, I hope,” she said, trying to ignore a growing feeling of uneasiness.

“If you’re lucky.”

“And if I’m not?” asked the Mouse.

The Forever Kid’s eyes brightened with anticipation.

“Then I’ve got a feeling I’ll be lucky,” he said.

12

The Mouse slept late the next morning, and spent most of the day loafing in her room and watching the holovision with Penelope, who was willing to watch the umpteenth rerun of anything as long as she didn’t have to do it alone.

She had their meals sent to their room, and at sunset she took a long shower, dressed in a new outfit she had bought during a brief tour of End of the Line’s shops (and which was still dull in comparison to those she knew she would see at the casino), and spent a few minutes brushing Penelope’s ragged hair and giving her some last-second instructions. Then accompanied by the little girl, she descended to the street and walked the short distance to the tavern and casino.

The Iceman was waiting for her, as she had suspected he would be. He stopped her before she could walk across to the table where King Tout, dressed even more splendidly that the previous evening, his tiny alien bird again perched on his shoulder, was dealing cards to a trio of men whose blue-tinted skin proclaimed them to be some of the mutated colonists from Kakkab Kastu IV.

The Mouse spotted the Forever Kid sitting by himself at a table that was midway between the tavern and casino areas, then turned to Penelope. “Go and sit with the Kid,” she said.

Penelope nodded, stopped by the bar to borrow a deck of cards, allowed the bartender to fill an elegant cocktail glass with fruit juice, then joined the Forever Kid at his table.

The Mouse turned to face the Iceman.

“What’s your decision, Carlos?”

“If you insist on using the little girl, I’m withdrawing my protection.”

“I’ve got to have more money,” said the Mouse. “I’ll have to count on my other protector.”

“Him?” said the Iceman, jerking his head in the Forever Kid’s direction. “Forget about it. He couldn’t protect you for five seconds in here.”

“He’s managed to protect people for more than two centuries,” said the Mouse.

The Iceman shook his head. “He’s been killing people for more than two centuries. There’s a difference. And the only reason he’s still alive is because he protects himself first and his clients second.” The Iceman looked around the bar and the casino. “There are six men and three women here, each of whom is pretty damned good as his job. Any of them would kill you and steal the child the second my protection was lifted. Even the Forever Kid can’t save you from all of them.”

The Mouse surveyed the interior of the building, trying to spot the nine people in question. Two or three she knew from their holographs, another from his weapons … but she realized that more than half of them were unknown to her.

“It’s your decision,” said the Iceman. “You do what you think best.” He paused. “But remember what I said. If you use the little girl against King Tout, I’m—”

Just then a man and an alien entered the End of the Line, and the Iceman frowned.

“What is it?” asked the Mouse anxiously.

“Nothing,” said the Iceman.

“Don’t tell me it’s nothing, Carlos,” she admonished him. “I’ve seen that expression before.”

He turned to her. “You know what I told you about not using the girl?”

“Yes.”

“Forget it.” He nodded his head almost imperceptibly toward the two newcomers. “Your friend just evened the odds.”

She turned until she could just see them out of the corner of her eye.

“Who are they?” she asked.

“The man is called the Golden Duke. Ever hear of him?”

She shook her head.

“Well, take a good look at him,” said the Iceman softly, “and if you ever see him anywhere but on Last Chance, run like hell.”

“A killer?” she asked.

“A little bit of everything,” replied the Iceman, staring at the tall, almost skeletal human. The Golden Duke obviously possessed some Oriental ancestry, which was apparent in the shape of his eyes, the tint of his skin, the prominence of his cheekbones, his straight black hair. He moved with the smooth grace of an athlete, as if he was prepared to change directions and speeds instantly. He carried no weapons, but his right arm ended in a prosthetic hand made entirely of gold, a hand that hid four lethal, retractable knives, one in each long, lean, golden finger.

“He’s been known to run drugs back in the Democracy,” continued the Iceman, “and he’s also done a bit of arson.”

The Golden Duke and his companion seated themselves at King Tout’s table, and suddenly the other players all seemed to remember that they had pressing engagements elsewhere and made a mass exodus to neighboring tables or the long chrome bar.

“A gambler, too?” asked the Mouse.

“Not much of one,” replied the Iceman.

“Then why is he sitting at the card table?”

“I imagine that King Tout has invited him to play cards with you.”

“But you just said—”

“I said he wasn’t a gambler.” The Iceman paused. “If he helps King Tout cheat you, it isn’t gambling, is it?”

“How do you think they’ll try to cheat?” asked the Mouse.

“They’ll probably whipsaw you,” replied the Iceman.

“Whipsaw?” she repeated, puzzled.

“They’ll have some way of signaling each other which of them has the best hand. The other two will drop out early, so if you win, it’s a much smaller pot, but if you lose, you’re going to have to pay just as much to see the winning hand, because the one holding it will keep raising like there’s no tomorrow.”

“I see,” said the Mouse. She nodded to the alien. “Who’s that one?”

“Her?” said the Iceman, looking at the humanoid alien with wide-set orange eyes, broad nostrils, a reddish wig that barely covered her gaping earholes, and a body suit that kept recirculating a clear fluid across her torso and legs. “They call her September Morn. She is a gambler, and a damned good one. She’s King Tout’s shill on alien worlds.” He continued to stare at her. “She doesn’t actually breathe the liquid through gills or anything like that, but she’s got to keep her body moist. If that suit stops running water over her for more than a couple of minutes, she curls up and dies … or at least goes into some kind of catatonic state that’s just about the same as being dead.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve seen the suit malfunction on a member of her race,” answered the Iceman. “Not a pretty sight.” He paused. “Not a pretty smell, for that matter.”

They were both silent for a moment, and then the Mouse turned to him.

“What would happen if King Tout tried to kill me at the table? You’re not even carrying a weapon.”

“This is my world: I don’t need one. And he won’t try anything.”

“But if he did.”

“Then he’d have eleven holes in him before he could aim his pistol.”

“You have eleven men watching him?”

“Twelve,” answered the Iceman. “I assume one will miss.”

“Where are they?”

“Around.”

“They’re very well-hidden,” said the Mouse, scanning the tavern and casino.

“They’re supposed to be.”

“How many are behind that mirror?” she continued, nodding her head toward the huge mirror behind the bar.

“A few.”

“It’s a one-way mirror, isn’t it?”

The Iceman almost smiled. “They wouldn’t be much use to me there if it wasn’t, would they?”

“No, I suppose not,” she answered. “Well,” she added, looking across the room, “I suppose I’d better go over to the table and let King Tout and his friends do their worst.”

“Just remember: they’re not stupid.”

She smiled with more confidence than she suddenly felt. “It’s only money.”

“You have something more valuable than money, and you’re taking a chance on losing it,” said the Iceman, glancing across the room at Penelope. “King Tout and his friends don’t know who or what she is yet, but if either of you screw up, he’ll figure it out pretty damned quick.”

“We’re still under your protection,” she reminded him.

“I thought you were playing to raise money for a ship,” he replied. “Once you take off from Last Chance, you’re on your own.”

She stared at him for a moment, looking for some sign of emotion—annoyance, jealousy, anything—but finding none. Then she turned and walked rapidly across the tavern into the casino, approached King Tout’s table, and seated herself where she could watch Penelope without making it too obvious.

“Good evening, ma’am,” said King Tout. “I trust you’re ready to give me a chance to win some of my money back?”

“If you can,” said the Mouse.

“It looks like a small game tonight,” said King Tout. “Just the four of us.”

“Suits me,” said the Mouse.

“Fine. This gentleman on my left is called the Duke”—she smiled politely at the Golden Duke, who stared impassively at her—“and this charming lady is September.” The alien called September Morn inclined her head slightly and briefly contorted her face into a smile.

“Same game as last night?” asked the Mouse.

“That’ll be just fine, ma’am,” said King Tout.

The Mouse signaled to the banker, who opened the safe and brought a number of thousand-credit chips to the table, placing them down in three neat stacks directly in front of her.

“Shall we raise the ante to two thousand tonight?” suggested King Tout.

“It sounds like you’re in a hurry to get your money back,” said the Mouse.

He shrugged. “If you’d rather not…”

She stared at him. “No, two thousand is fine—if you’ll get an unopened deck from the bar.”

“That’s shows a serious lack of trust, ma’am,” said King Tout, though he looked unsurprised.

“We’re playing for a serious amount of money,” she answered.

He shrugged, then called for a fresh deck. He had the Mouse open it, then shoved two chips to the center of the table and shuffled the cards with an easy precision while the other three players placed their chips atop his.

The Mouse won the first hand, then lost three small pots in a row. The Golden Duke seemed totally uninterested in the game, dropping out of each hand early and never taking his dark, piercing eyes from her. September Morn played her hands with more skill and more subtlety, and won two of the pots.

Then the Mouse hit big, winning sixty thousand credits when her four jacks beat King Tout’s full house. After that the whipsawing began, with the Golden Duke, King Tout and September Morn began taking turns riding out each hand; the one with the poorer cards always folded early, leaving the other to bet against the Mouse. The Mouse couldn’t quite tell how they were signaling each other, nor did she particularly care.

The game went on for another hour, the Mouse gradually accumulating more money, until at last, as the deal came around to King Tout once more, he stopped shuffling and stared at her for a long moment.

“You’re a very lucky card player, ma’am,” he said at last.

“Maybe I’m just talented,” she replied.

He shook his head. “No, I’d have to say that you’re lucky.”

She shrugged. “Have it your way: I’m lucky.”

“Very lucky.”

“Are you accusing me of cheating?” asked the Mouse.

“I would never accuse you of cheating without knowing how you did it.”

“You know, it doesn’t sound any better that way.”

“How could you be cheating?” asked King Tout with an expression that belied his words. “Why, if my friend the Duke thought for even a moment that you were cheating, he’d cut your heart out right here at the table. If there’s one thing the Duke hates, it’s a cheater.”

“Yeah, well, your friend the Duke could use some lessons in poker,” said the Mouse.

“Poker’s not really his specialty,” said King Tout meaningfully.

The Mouse looked briefly at the Golden Duke. “I can believe that.” She pushed her chair back. “This is becoming rather unpleasant,” she announced. “I think I’ve had enough for tonight.”

“How much have you got in your pile there?” asked King Tout.

“I don’t know,” said the Mouse.

King Tout stared at her chips. “Looks to be about two hundred thousand.”

“If you say so.”

“I’ll tell you what, ma’am,” said King Tout. “I’ll cut you for it.”

“For the whole pot?”

He nodded.

The Mouse took a quick glance in Penelope’s direction, but the little girl was seemingly involved in her solitaire game. Which makes sense, decided the Mouse; she can’t tell me if I’ll win or lose until I decide whether or not I’ll even agree to play.

“What if I declined?” asked the Mouse. “Respectfully, of course.”

“I think my friend the Duke would take it as a personal insult,” answered King Tout.

The Mouse returned his smile. “My friend the Iceman might not like that.”

“Then let’s leave our friends out of it,” said King Tout. “Let’s make it just you and me. We’ll cut for the whole pot.” He pulled an unopened deck out of his pocket. “And we’ll use a fresh deck.”

“I kind of liked the one we were playing with.”

“For this kind of money, we should use a brand new deck.”

The Mouse considered asking him to get a deck from the bar, but decided to look at Penelope first. She saw no negative signal, and she finally nodded her agreement.

“Okay,” she said. “You match what I’ve got here and we’ll cut just once for it.” She paused. “If you lose, you lose. We don’t go double or nothing. You could keep that up all night until you finally won.”

“Agreed,” said King Tout. He broke open the deck and shuffled the cards, then placed them on the table.

“Be my guest,” he said.

“You go first,” she replied.

“I’d really prefer that you cut first.”

She shook her head. “It’s my money. If you want a chance at it, you cut first.”

“As you wish,” he said. His hand reached out, caressed the deck swiftly, and then cut to a king.

The Mouse looked at Penelope, who seemed oblivious to anything but her solitaire game. Finally Mouse cleared her throat, reached out, paused hesitantly for a moment, and placed her fingers carefully on the sides of the deck.

And then Penelope spilled her glass of fruit juice, and made a distracting clatter as she jumped back from the table to avoid getting it on her clothes.

“Are you all right?” asked the Mouse, her hand once more poised above the deck.

“I’m sorry,” said Penelope, starting to wipe her table with a napkin. “I was just clumsy. Are you mad at me?”

“No, of course not,” said the Mouse.

“Ma’am,” said King Tout impatiently. “We’re waiting on you.”

The Mouse stared at the deck, then took a deep breath and cut the cards—and came away with an ace.

“My congratulations, ma’am,” said King Tout, getting to his feet and bowing deeply. “I guess tonight just wasn’t my night.”

September Morn also arose, but the Golden Duke remained seated, still staring impassively at her. Finally, when King Tout and the alien reached the door, he stood up and walked silently after them.

As she had the previous evening, Penelope walked over and joined the Mouse, while the Forever Kid remained at his table.

“Well, we did it!” whispered the Mouse, trying to control her excitement and elation. “What was that business with the spilled glass?”

“I saw that if you cut the cards, you’d draw a three, so I tried to see how to change it,” explained Penelope. “If I shrieked and you looked up, you’d draw a jack, and if I did other things you’d draw other cards … but I saw that if I spilled the juice, you’d draw an ace. It all depended on how startled you were and how much you moved your hand.”

“Remarkable!” said the Mouse. “Just remarkable!” She summoned the banker, changed her chips into credits, and carried the cash over to the Forever Kid. “Here,” she said, handing him the money. “You can probably protect this better than I can.”

The Kid placed the wad of bills inside his tunic.

“Why the long face?” asked the Mouse. “I won. I can afford you for another week or two.”

“They just walked out,” said the Kid unhappily.

“What did you expect them to do?”

“I know what I wanted them to do,” he replied. “I’ve heard about the Golden Duke. I never thought he’d walk away from a fight.” He shook his head in abject disappointment.

“Look, I’m sorry you didn’t get to die on this godforsaken planet,” said the Mouse with false sympathy. “But look at the bright side: You’ll have two more weeks of opportunities to toss your life away. In the meantime, do you mind taking Penelope back to the hotel?”

“I’m supposed to be keeping an eye on both of you,” noted the Forever Kid.

“I’ll be all right,” said the Mouse. “Besides, everyone just saw me give you the money. Don’t get your hopes up too high, but if anyone’s going to be in danger, it’ll be you.”

That seemed to raise the Kid’s spirits, but Penelope suddenly looked unhappy. “Can’t I stay with you?” she asked.

The Mouse shook her head. “I have to talk to the Iceman.”

“I’m not afraid of him.”

“I know,” said the Mouse with a smile. “But I have a feeling that he’s afraid of you.”

“Him?” said Penelope unbelievingly.

“Him,” repeated the Mouse. “Now go on over to the hotel. I’ll join you in a few minutes.”

The Kid got to his feet, took Penelope by the hand, and walked unhappily into the cool night air.

13

The Mouse saw the Iceman staring at her as he leaned against the long bar. She beckoned him to join her with a motion of her head, and he carried his drink past half a dozen gaudily-dressed miners and traders, giving a wide birth to the huge alien Torqual who seemed to have no interest in drinking either whiskey or any of the exotic alien concoctions, but insisted on standing at the bar anyway. A striking redheaded woman stopped the Iceman to whisper something to him; he looked across the tavern, seemed to consider whatever it was he had heard, then nodded his head and, without another look at the woman, walked the rest of the way to the Mouse’s table.

“You won a lot of money tonight,” he noted, seating himself and placing his drink in front of him. “Would you like me to keep it for you until you need it?”

“The Forever Kid won’t let anyone take it away from him,” she replied. “And I’m going to need it tomorrow morning.”

“Oh?”

She nodded. “I need to buy a ship.”

“I thought the Forever Kid had a ship.”

“He does, but I can’t keep paying him 100,000 credits a week. Sooner or later I’m going to need my own—probably sooner.”

“How big?”

“Big enough for three people,” said the Mouse. “No, make that four, in case the Kid’s still with us when we join up with Merlin.”

The Iceman arched an eyebrow at the mention of Merlin’s name, but didn’t ask any questions about him.

“Well?” said the Mouse.

“Well what?”

“Can I get a ship tomorrow?”

“Go over to the hangar. They usually have a few for sale, or, if not, they’ll know where you can get one.” The Iceman paused. “You’re definitely leaving tomorrow?”

She nodded. “Too many people know she’s here already. The longer I wait, the more of them we’ll have chasing us when we finally leave. Now that I have the money, there’s no reason to stay.”

“She’s in no danger,” said the Iceman.

“Are you kidding?” she demanded. “Look around you. Not everyone is here just to drink your booze and play at your tables.”

“You’re in plenty of danger,” replied the Iceman, gazing casually at a pair of bounty hunters who were pretending that they had no interest in the Mouse. “But you still don’t seem to know what you’re traveling with.”

“I’m traveling with the best damned gambling partner anyone ever dreamed of.”

The Iceman shrugged and took a sip of his drink. “Do what you want. It’s none of my business.”

“I don’t know why you persist in thinking of her as dangerous,” continued the Mouse. “I keep telling you: she’s just a very tired, very frightened little girl.”

“A little girl who has had 200 professionals looking for her for the better part of a year, and who’s still free,” said the Iceman. “Doesn’t that suggest something to you?”

The house banker caught the Iceman’s eye, made some brief signal with his hand, and the Iceman shook his head. A moment later the banker was explaining to an annoyed customer that New Kenya shillings were not acceptable currency on Last Chance.

“She was an alien’s prisoner when I found her,” answered the Mouse. “I told you that.”

“Is she an alien’s prisoner now?”

“No. She’s just damned lucky that I found her.”

“Do you make a practice of entering the alien sections when you’re looting a hotel?” asked the Iceman.

“No.”

“How many rooms were there in that hotel?” he continued.

“I don’t know.”

“A few hundred?”

“Probably.”

“Haven’t you wondered how you wound up in the one alien room where she happened to be?”

“I told you how it happened,” said the Mouse irritably.

“I know how it happened.”

“You haven’t changed at all, Carlos. You never trusted anyone or anything.”

“Maybe that’s why I’m still alive.” He paused. “But let me give you one piece of advice.”

“What?”

“Don’t ever get her mad at you.”

“I’m the only friend she’s got.”

“She didn’t do that badly when she had no friends at all,” he noted.

“What would you have me do?” demanded the Mouse. “Desert her? Return her to your friend 32?”

The Iceman stared at her for a long moment.

“If it was me,” he said at last, “I think I’d kill her while I had the chance.”

She stared at him for a long moment.

“No,” she said distastefully, “you haven’t changed.”

She got up and walked out the door, then crossed the street and entered her hotel. She got on the airlift, ordered it to elevate her to her floor, then rode the corridor to her door. Just as she turned the corner leading to her room, she found herself face to face with the Golden Duke. He held a sonic weapon in his hand, and silently directed her into a darkened room three doors down from her own.

“Lights,” commanded a low voice, and suddenly the room was bathed in illumination.

“Good evening, ma’am,” said King Tout, as the Golden Duke stationed himself in front of the door. She looked around desperately, silently cursing her stupidity for not keeping Penelope with her, and saw September Morn smiling at her from her position by the room’s only window.

“What do you want?” demanded the Mouse. “If it’s money, I don’t have it with me.”

“Oh, we’ll get around to talking money in a while, ma’am,” said King Tout. “Right now I think I’d like to talk about luck.”

“Luck?” repeated the Mouse.

“Luck.” He stepped forward and pointed to a small scar above his temple. “Do you see this, ma’am?”

The Mouse nodded, but said nothing.

“Do you know what it is?”

“No.”

“It’s a surgical scar.”

“Somebody you tried to whipsaw shot you in the head?”

He chuckled. “No, ma’am, I’m afraid not.” Suddenly his smile vanished. “It’s where I had a silicon bubble implanted. A Steinmetz/Harding 90347 bubble.”

“Should that mean something to me?”

“It’s the most powerful mathematics bubble ever invented,” explained King Tout. “I can do eleven million calculations before the card you see registers on your retina.” He paused. “Do you see my left eye, ma’am?”

“It looks just like the right one,” answered the Mouse.

“It’s supposed to. But it’s artificial, ma’am. It can see into the infrared spectrum, just as this artificial digit”—he raised the index finger of his left hand—“can produce a mark that can only be seen by this eye.” He paused again. “That’s why I know you were lucky these last two nights, ma’am. Do you know how lucky?”

“Why don’t you tell me?” said the Mouse.

“Well, in the beginning, I had a nine-to-one chance of winning, just because of the bubble. But when I started losing, I started cheating. By the end of the evening, you’d beaten odds of more than six thousand to one. That was impressive enough. But tonight,” he continued, “tonight I was dealing seconds and we were whipsawing you and I knew I was going to cut to a king, because I marked it when I opened the deck. The precise odds of your coming out ahead tonight, ma’am, were 53,024 to one.” He paused again. “That’s so lucky it’s almost unbelievable … so you’ll have to forgive me if I don’t believe it.”

The Mouse made no reply, and King Tout continued speaking.

“You know, ma’am, for almost two nights I couldn’t figure out how you were doing it. I know you couldn’t read the cards, because you don’t have an eye that can see into the infrared spectrum, and even if you did, you couldn’t have broken my code. I knew you didn’t have a collaborator, because there was no one else at the table, and I knew there was no way you could know what was in my hand, because on two occasions I didn’t even look myself.”

“Get to the point,” said the Mouse.

“The point?” repeated King Tout. “The point is that I couldn’t figure out how you were cheating me, so I decided to make you cut the deck with me, and I decided to pick a king, and then I watched to see what happened next.”

“What happened was that I drew an ace, in case it’s slipped your memory.”

“Oh, I knew you’d draw the ace, ma’am,” said King Tout. “It never crossed my mind that you might not. No, I was looking to see what happened before you drew it.”

“Nothing happened.”

“Not quite nothing,” he corrected her. “The little girl happened.” He paused. “At first I thought she must be a telepath, but then I got to thinking, and I realized that a telepath couldn’t know where the ace was, or read my hand when I myself hadn’t looked at it and didn’t know what was in it. And then I remembered hearing stories about a little girl that everyone seems to want.” He stared at the Mouse. “She’s the Bailey girl, isn’t she?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said the Mouse. “She’s my daughter.”

“Duke?” said King Tout, and four thin blades slid out of the fingers of the Golden Duke’s prosthetic right hand.

“Now, ma’am, I’m going to ask you one more time, and if you lie to me, my friend is going to gut you like a fish. Do you understand?”

“You go to hell,” said the Mouse.

“I’m sure that’s where we’re all going, ma’am,” said King Tout. “Now, is she the Bailey girl or not?”

“Don’t!” yelled a small voice on the other side of the door.

King Tout and the Golden Duke froze for a moment. Then the gambler motioned the Golden Duke to pull the Mouse into a corner, took a small laser pistol out of his pocket, and ordered the door to open.

“Don’t hurt her!” said Penelope. “She’s my best friend.”

“Do come in, young lady,” said King Tout, stepping aside and allowing the girl to run to the Mouse’s side.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” said the Mouse. “He was bluffing.”

Penelope shook her head. “In every future I could see, you didn’t tell him and the Golden Duke killed you.”

“So that’s how it works!” said King Tout with a smile. “Just as easy as that? You see a million futures and choose the one you like best?”

“It’s not that easy,” answered Penelope.

“If it worked like that, you’d never have surprised me here,” said the Mouse.

“Ah, but she was in her room, far away from you, ma’am, or I’ve no doubt you’d be back at the tavern, begging the Iceman for help.”

“He’s watching you right this minute,” said the Mouse.

“Oh, I very much doubt it,” said King Tout. “My friend September managed to find all of his holo feedlines—it’s one of her talents: she’s attracted to power, any kind of power … electrical, conductive, nuclear—and my friend the Duke cut the lines.”

“Then he’ll know that something’s going on here that you don’t want him to see.”

“Just how clumsy do you think I am, ma’am?” asked King Tout. “Right now his security people are watching holos of an empty room, which my friend September rigged before the Duke went to work.”

“He’ll find out.”

“Oh, I’m sure he will,” agreed King Tout, “but not before we’re all long gone.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that if I were you,” said a youthful voice from the still-open doorway, and they all turned to see the Forever Kid standing there, his fingertips poised lightly on the holster of his sonic pistol.

“I know who you are,” said King Tout.

“I know who you are, too,” said the Forever Kid.

“This doesn’t concern you. Just be on your way and no one will get hurt.”

“Just follow your two friends out into the hall, or a lot of people are going to get hurt,” responded the Kid, his eyes alive with excitement for the first time since the Mouse had known him.

“We’re not looking for a fight,” said King Tout.

“Sometimes you can’t always have what you want,” replied the Kid.

“Let me take him,” said the Golden Duke, his face absolutely expressionless as he stared at his antagonist.

“You can try,” said the Kid, his hand tensing.

“No!” screamed Penelope suddenly.

All the participants froze for an instant.

“What is it?” asked the Mouse.

“I don’t want you to die!” sobbed Penelope.

“I’m not going to die.”

“If the Forever Kid draws his gun, no matter what happens, you’ll die and I can’t change it!” wept the girl.

“Well?” said King Tout, still looking at the Kid.

“Kid, you’d better leave,” said the Mouse at last.

“But I can take these three,” he protested.

“Nobody said you couldn’t,” answered the Mouse, trying to steady her voice. “But even if you do, I’m going to catch a laser beam or a sonic blast.” She stared at him. “Please, Kid?”

The Kid stared at the Golden Duke for another moment, then slowly backed out of the room and rode the corridor to the end of the hall, where he disappeared around a corner.

“Very wise of you, ma’am,” said King Tout.

“I’m not ready to die yet,” said the Mouse.

“Nobody’s ever really ready to die,” he agreed.

“Then release us and the Iceman won’t kill you,” said the Mouse. “He’s not like the Forever Kid. I can’t call him off.”

“Why don’t you let me worry about the Iceman?” said King Tout. “He hasn’t left the planet in five years. He’s not about to start now.” He paused. “However, you and the girl are.”

“You’ll never live to collect the reward for her,” said the Mouse.

“I know this may come as a shock to you,” said King Tout, “but I have absolutely no interest in any reward.”

“Sure you don’t.”

“Really. The reward is a single finite amount, whereas the possibilities involved in using this little girl are infinite. Do you know how much I can win at some of the Democracy’s larger casinos with her help?”

“I’ll never help you,” said Penelope.

“Of course you will, my dear,” said King Tout pleasantly.

“You can’t make me, no matter what you do to me!”

“You’re a rare treasure, my dear,” said King Tout. “I would never dream of hurting you.” He suddenly put an arm around the Mouse. “But I have absolutely no objection to hurting her.”

“No!” said Penelope. “She’s my only friend! Leave her alone and I’ll go with you.”

“Oh, I couldn’t to that, my dear. Now that I understand what you are, I would never dream of taking you without some means of controlling you. Sooner or later you’d find some way to escape or perhaps even kill me. But if you know that I’ll have the Duke kill your friend the first time you disobey me, then I think we can have a long and happy relationship.” He smiled. “You’re very young, my child. When you’re older, I’m sure you’ll be able to appreciate my point of view.”

“Let’s go,” said the Golden Duke, holding his claws to the Mouse’s throat and preparing to step out into the hall.

“Not just yet,” said King Tout.

“What now?” demanded the Golden Duke.

“Blindfold and gag the little girl.”

“Why? She’s no problem.”

King Tout sighed. “I’m glad at least one of us is using his head in this endeavor.” He signaled September Morn to begin binding Penelope’s eyes. “You may have forgotten it already, but there happens to be a very disgruntled killer out there in the corridors waiting for us. As long as the Mouse thinks she will be killed, she won’t order him to attack. Now, what do you suppose will happen if the little girl can see a future in which only we three will be killed?”

A light of dawning comprehension spread across the Golden Duke’s features.

“Right,” continued King Tout. “So if she can’t tell them, they won’t take the chance.” He checked Penelope’s blindfold. “Good. Now the gag.”

The alien placed a crumpled handkerchief into the girl’s mouth, then bound it shut.

“All right,” said King Tout, surveying his captives. “I do believe we’re ready to go.” He turned to the Mouse. “Ma’am, if you’d be so kind, tell your friend not to molest us.”

“Kid!” yelled the Mouse. “If you’re still out there, let us pass.” She paused. “Remember, you’re still working for me. That’s an order.”

There was no answer.

“Kid,” said the Mouse. “I mean it!”

Then the little party entered the corridor, the Golden Duke’s blades resting gently on the Mouse’s throat. She half-expected to run into the Forever Kid at every turn of the corridor, or perhaps in the lobby, or even at the hangar, but within ten minutes they were aboard the gambler’s ship, and in another five Last Chance was so far behind them that it didn’t even register on the viewscreen.

14

The End of the Line Tavern was closed for the night when the Forever Kid arrived. He pounded on the door, and a moment later the interior of the building was bathed in light and the Iceman spoke the seven-digit code that unlocked the ornate door.

“I’ve been looking for you,” said the Forever Kid ominously.

“You found me.”

“Why can’t I get clearance to take off from Last Chance?” demanded the Kid, walking into the tavern.

“I wanted to talk to you first,” said the Iceman. “Care for a drink?”

“I’m in a hurry.”

“They’ll keep,” said the Iceman. “If King Tout had wanted his money back, he’d have sent the Golden Duke after you. He wanted the little girl.” He paused. “She and the Mouse are safe for the time being.”

“You know they’re gone?”

The Iceman almost smiled. “Not much happens on my world that I don’t know about.”

“Why didn’t you stop them?” asked the Kid. “I seem to remember that they were under your protection.”

“And I seemed to remember that you were being paid to protect them,” responded the Iceman. “It looks like neither of us did a very good job.” He walked across the empty room to the bar, where he pulled out an oddly-shaped bottle and two glasses. “You sure I can’t offer you a drink?”

The Kid shook his head. “Just give me clearance to leave: I’m still working for them.”

This time the Iceman actually smiled. “You couldn’t care less about them,” he said bluntly. The Kid made no answer, and he continued: “You just want to take on the Golden Duke.”

The Kid considered the Iceman’s statement for a moment, then shrugged. “What difference does it make?” he replied, not bothering to deny it. “The result will be the same. I’ll kill him and free them.”

“I have no objection to that,” said the Iceman, filling his glass with a blue liquid.

“Then why haven’t I been cleared to leave?”

“Because I thought you might like to come with me.”

“You thought wrong.”

The Iceman downed his drink. “My ship’s faster and more comfortable than yours.”

“I work alone.”

“I know where King Tout will be going.”

The Kid was unimpressed. “I’ll find him. A man like that doesn’t stay hidden for long.”

“You’re only on salary for a day or two more,” continued the Iceman. He paused. “Come to work for me and I’ll double whatever the Mouse was paying you.”

The Forever Kid returned his stare and paused before speaking. “What’s your interest in this?” he finally asked. “You don’t exactly strike me as the philanthropic type.”

“I own this world,” answered the Iceman. “I rule it as surely as any king ever ruled his domain back on Earth. I passed the word that they were to be left alone, and King Tout disobeyed me.” He poured another drink and downed it in a single swallow. “If I let him get away with it, I won’t even rule this barroom next year.”

“And that’s it?” asked the Kid.

“Most of it,” replied the Iceman. “You look amused.”

“That’s because you don’t care any more about them than I do,” said the Kid. “You’re going to protect your reputation, and I’m going because I want to take on the Golden Duke.” He paused. “I find that amusing.”

“Ah, well, heroes are hard to come by these days,” said the Iceman with fine irony. “Out here you take what you can get. And what they’ve got is us.”

“How many of your men are you taking along?”

“None.”

The Forever Kid arched an eyebrow, but said nothing.

“I’ll hire anyone I need once we get to where we’re going,” added the Iceman.

“They say you used to be quite a killer yourself,” said the Kid.

“They say a lot of things,” replied the Iceman. “Not all of them are true.”

“Not all of them are lies, either.”

The Iceman stared out the door into the night for a moment.

“It was true once,” he said at last. “Then I found that it was easier to hire people who were more eager than I was.”

“Eager to kill?”

The Iceman shook his head. “Eager to die.” He placed the bottle back behind the bar. “Ready to go?”

“What about my ship?” asked the Kid.

“Leave it here. If you come back in one piece, I’ll wave the storage charges. If you don’t, you won’t need it anyway.”

“And the Mouse’s money?” continued the Kid, patting the wad of bills beneath his shirt.

“Take it along. She won’t be coming back here, whatever happens to you or the girl.”

It took the Kid less than five minutes to gather his belongings and stuff them into a single small bag that he slung over his shoulder, and five minutes after that he and the Iceman were aboard the latter’s ship, breaking out of orbit and heading toward the more populated worlds of the Inner Frontier, on the outskirts of mankind’s sprawling Democracy.

They slept as the ship’s computer kept them on course, then awoke some time later and ate breakfast in total silence. As the Iceman poured himself a cup of coffee, he looked at the youthful figure sitting across the galley from him.

“You’re not the most talkative man I’ve ever met,” he said dryly.

“You live for a couple of centuries and you’ll find out that you’ve said just about everything you want to say,” answered the Kid.

“I suppose so,” said the Iceman, nodding thoughtfully.

“I do have a question or two for you,” said the Forever Kid. “But they can wait.”

“Ask away.”

“Might be better not to. We’re going to be stuck on this ship for a few days. No sense getting mad at each other.”

“I don’t get mad anymore,” said the Iceman.

“You ain’t chasing King Tout just for the fun of it,” observed the Kid.

“I’m chasing him to teach him an object lesson: that no one can disobey me on Last Chance. But I’m not angry. This is simply business.”

“And of course you wouldn’t mind too much if he kills the little girl, would you?”

“What makes you think so?”

“I got eyes and ears. I use ‘em.”

The Iceman paused. “He won’t kill her,” he said at last, ignoring the Forever Kid’s question.

“When he wins enough, or someone figures out what he’s doing, he might.”

“Not a chance.”

“You think not?” said the Kid. “He and the Golden Duke never struck me as compassionate.”

“It’s got nothing to do with compassion,” answered the Iceman.

“Then why do you think he won’t kill her?”

The Iceman paused. “Because she won’t let him,” he said at last.

The Kid paused thoughtfully. “She’s really got you worried, doesn’t she?”

“No,” replied the Iceman. “Just concerned.”

“Well, don’t get too concerned,” said the Kid. “I’m still being paid to defend her.”

“I’m paying you now,” said the Iceman. “You’ll do what I tell you to.”

“Not for two more days,” said the Kid. “And I wouldn’t give too many orders if I were you. I don’t kill children.”

“Hired killers kill whoever they’re paid to kill,” said the Iceman. “However,” he added, “no one is going to kill this child—not King Tout, not the Golden Duke, not you, not anyone.” He paused again. “Penelope Bailey doesn’t need your help. I’m paying you to help me free the Mouse, and to make sure everyone understands what happens when someone disobeys my orders on my world.”

“Mind if I ask another question?” said the Kid after a momentary silence.

“Go ahead.”

“Why are you so hot to rescue the Mouse? According to her, the last time she needed help you left her to rot in a jail on Msalli IV.”

“The situation’s different this time. When I sent her to Msalli IV, we were both working for the government on a secret mission. She could have turned the assignment down. She knew the odds, and she knew that if she was caught, the political and military situation there meant there could be no rescue attempt.” He paused. “Once they caught her, that was that. I was under orders not to mount a rescue mission.”

“I got the impression you two were pretty close back then.”

“We were.”

“But not close enough to disobey orders, I guess?”

“We were nearing a political solution to our problems. If I’d have tried to break her out, I’d have lost a lot of good men and women, and probably precipitated a war.”

“You got your war anyway,” said the Forever Kid. “I showed up just a little too late to hire out as a mercenary.”

“Yeah, we got our war anyway,” acknowledged the Iceman with a sigh. “But at least I wasn’t the cause of it.”

The Kid refilled his coffee cup and stirred it idly. “Why did she agree to take the assignment, if the odds were stacked against her?” he asked.

“For the same reason she’s King Tout’s prisoner right now.”

The Kid frowned. “I don’t think I follow you.”

“The Mouse was the best thief I ever knew,” said the Iceman. “There was no building she couldn’t scale, no room she couldn’t break into, no situation she couldn’t bluff her way out of. Cool head, quick mind, nerves of steel. That’s why I recruited her.” He paused. “But she had a flaw. She still has it, for that matter.”

The Kid seemed to consider this, then finally shrugged. “What is it?”

“To borrow a line from Shakespeare, she loves not wisely but too well. She didn’t go to Msalli IV because she thought she could do the job; she went because she loved me, and I asked her to. And now she’s decided to be a mother to the Bailey girl, and she’s in the throes of another kind of love, and she’s in trouble again.” He shook his head sadly. “She lets her emotions cloud her judgment. It’s going to get her killed one of these days.”

“We’ll get her out of this in one piece,” said the Forever Kid confidently. “We may not be in the hero business, but we’re sure as hell in the rescue business.”

“First things first,” replied the Iceman. “We’re in the punishing business.”

“But you don’t mind if we rescue her somewhere along the way?” asked the Kid, amused.

“I’m not even sure who she most needs rescuing from,” said the Iceman grimly.

They fell silent then—the Iceman immersed in his own thoughts and memories, the Forever Kid simply tired of talking—as the ship continued to speed through the Inner Frontier.

15

Suddenly Penelope sat up in her bunk

“He’s coming!” she whispered, frightened.

“Who’s coming?” asked the Mouse apprehensively, staring at the locked door to their quarters.

“The Iceman.”

“He’s here on this ship?”

Penelope shook her head. “But he’s coming.”

“You must be mistaken,” said the Mouse. “He never leaves Last Chance.”

“He’s coming to kill King Tout and the Golden Duke,” said Penelope with absolute conviction. “And maybe me.”

“You think the Iceman will kill you?”

“He thinks I’m a bad person,” said Penelope. She turned to the Mouse. “Why does he hate me?”

The Mouse climbed down from the upper bunk, sat down next to the little girl, and put a reassuring arm around her. “He doesn’t love or hate anyone,” she explained. “He’s too detached to feel anything for anybody.”

“The Forever Kid is with him,” said Penelope. “Maybe he’ll save us from the Iceman.”

“You’ve got it all wrong, Penelope,” said the Mouse. “If they’re together, they’re coming to save us from King Tout and his friends.”

Penelope saw the Iceman’s cold, remote face in her mind’s eye, and shuddered. “I’d rather stay with King Tout.”

“The Iceman won’t hurt you,” said the Mouse soothingly. “I promise you.”

“You’re wrong,” said the little girl. “Of all the man who are hunting me, he’s the one who can hurt me.”

“How do you know?”

“I just know.” Suddenly a tear rolled down her face. “I miss Jennifer. I wish we hadn’t left her behind.”

“We didn’t have any choice,” said the Mouse.

“But she’s all alone there, back at the hotel.”

“If she was with us, she’d be a prisoner,” the Mouse pointed out. “She’s better off where she is.”

“But she was my first friend, and now I’ll never see her again.”

“She’ll never really be gone as long as you remember her,” said the Mouse.

“I want her to be with me, though,” said Penelope.

“Sometimes you have to say good-bye to someone you love,” answered the Mouse. “It’s part of growing up.”

“Does everybody leave someone they love behind when they grow up?” asked the little girl.

“Almost everybody.” She paused. “Sometimes they get left behind themselves. I suppose it comes to the same thing in the end.”

“But Jennifer likes to be talked to,” persisted Penelope. “What if the maids just put her in a closet?”

“I’m sure they’ll give Jennifer to some lonely little girl who needs a first friend,” said the Mouse.

“Really?” asked Penelope, brightening somewhat.

“I’m sure of it.”

“I hope so.”

Suddenly the Mouse smiled. “How would you like to sleep in the upper bunk?”

“Do you mean it?” asked Penelope.

“Sure.”

“I’d like it very much.”

The Mouse hugged the little girl, then lifted her to the higher bunk, and began examining her surroundings for the hundredth time. The walls, ceiling and floor of their small cabin were composed of a titanium alloy and were a dull battleship gray. The two bunks were bolted to the bulkhead. The cabin’s computer lock had been disabled, and the door was now bolted from the outside. The tiny lavatory consisted of a Dryshower, a chemical toilet, and a drysink. The ventilation shafts were far too small for any human, even the Mouse, to crawl through. There was no viewport, no vidscreen, no intercom.

The Mouse paced the floor for a few moments, looking for a weak spot, but to no avail. If there was a means of escape, even a remote possibility of escape, she was sure she’d have spotted it by now. Still, she went over every inch of the cabin methodically, pretending she hadn’t already done so two dozen times already, and finally she returned to the lower bunk.

A few minutes later she heard the bolt move, and then September Morn entered their cabin with two trays.

“Dinner,” said the alien, handing a tray to each of her prisoners.

“How much longer before we arrive?” asked the Mouse.

The alien’s face contorted in its grotesque parody of a human smile. “If I tell you that, you might guess where we’re going.”

“What difference does it make?” said the Mouse. “Who do you think we’re going to tell?”

“You? No one.” She glanced at Penelope. “Her? Who knows?”

“She’s not a telepath.”

“You say she reads the future. I say she reads our minds. What’s the difference?”

“The difference is that she can’t communicate telepathically with anyone, so you might as well tell us where we’re going.”

September Morn smiled again. “If I don’t tell you, there’s no difference. If I do tell you and she is a telepath, there might be a very big difference.”

“But I can’t read minds or send messages,” protested Penelope.

“You would say that regardless,” replied September Morn.

And with that, she walked out of the room, and bolted the door again as it slid shut behind her.

“I don’t like the sound of that,” said the Mouse.

“Of what?” asked Penelope.

“If they think you’re a telepath, they might demand that you read a mind or send a thought for them, and if you explain that you can’t do it and they don’t believe you, we could be in for a lot of trouble.”

“We’re already in a lot of trouble,” said Penelope, picking unenthusiastically at her food.

“As jails go, I’ve seen worse,” said the Mouse, inspecting her own tray and starting to eat an exotic salad made of vegetables from half a dozen different alien worlds.

“What was the alien one like?” asked Penelope. “The one where the Iceman deserted you?”

“Not very pleasant.”

“Was it cold and dark and damp?” asked Penelope with a child’s innocent enthusiasm.

The Mouse paused, as if remembering.

“It was dark,” she said, “but not cold. Actually, it felt more like an oven. Msalli IV is a very warm world.”

“Did they torture you?”

The Mouse shook her head. “Not so you’d notice it. They just threw me in a cell and left me there. Sometimes they remembered to feed me, sometimes they didn’t.”

“How long were you sentenced for?”

The Mouse smiled wryly. “The Klai—that’s the race that lives there—don’t operate like that. When you’re found guilty of something, they toss you into jail, and when you die, they bury you.” She paused. “I almost died from their water a couple of times. Diseases aren’t supposed to be cross-species, but I guess enough filth will make anyone sick—and that was the filthiest water I ever saw.”

“Did they give you a doctor to make you well?”

“Eventually. That was how I escaped.”

“Tell me about it!” said Penelope eagerly. “Did you kill the doctor with one of his surgical instruments?”

The Mouse smiled. “You’ve never seen a Klai, have you? They’re about eight feet tall, and perhaps 600 pounds, with skin like armor. Stabbing or shooting one of them would just make him angry.”

“Then what did you do?” persisted the girl.

“I pretended to be sicker and weaker than I was, and after a couple of days, when I felt strong enough and they weren’t watching as closely as they should have, I sneaked out of my room and found an air shaft leading to the sub-basement. I spent three days hiding there, following various passages, until I found a sewage tunnel the led to a drainage ditch almost half a mile beyond the prison.”

“How did you get off the planet?”

“Two days after I escaped the Democracy invaded it, and I just presented myself to one of our military units. They transferred me to the flagship, questioned me until they were convinced that I was who I said I was, and then transported me to the nearest human world.”

Penelope shifted her position on her bunk so that she could see the Mouse better. “Why didn’t the Iceman try to rescue you?”

“I used to wonder a lot about that,” admitted the Mouse. “I couldn’t figure out why he cared more about his orders than he cared about me.” She shrugged. “Then one day I realized that he would never send someone he cared for into that situation, and finally it made sense.”

Penelope’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t like him.”

“Well, there are people I’m more fond of, myself,” agreed the Mouse dryly.

“Why is he coming after us?” asked Penelope, deciding she didn’t like her meal and pushing her tray aside. “He doesn’t like you, and he hates me.”

“He has a reason for everything he does,” answered the Mouse. “My guess is that he’s going to let the Forever Kid kill King Tout and his friends, just to prove that no one can get away with disobeying his orders on Last Chance.” She paused. “Can the Kid beat all three of them?”

Penelope shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“He was about to try at our hotel. What did you see then?”

“In some futures he won, in some he didn’t—but in all of them you were killed.”

“The Golden Duke must be pretty good at his trade.”

“Oh, he always killed the Golden Duke,” said Penelope. “But in some futures September Morn killed him.”

“I didn’t even notice her carrying a weapon,” said the Mouse. “What does she use, and where does she hide it?”

“There were so many futures, and everything happened so fast,” said Penelope helplessly. “I can’t remember.”

“But she’s the dangerous one?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it was because the Forever Kid was concentrating on the Golden Duke.”

“Oh, well,” sighed the Mouse. “We’ll just have to hope that the Kid is up to it.”

“What if he isn’t?”

“Then Carlos will find another way to kill them.”

“Can he?”

“He was one of the best in his day, but that’s not the way he operates any more. Still,” she concluded, “once he sets his mind on something, he usually gets what he wants.”

“What if he wants me dead?” asked Penelope.

“Then he’ll have to kill me first,” promised the Mouse. “And he won’t do that.”

“Why not, if he doesn’t care about you?”

“Because I know how his mind works. He hates waste, and killing me would serve no purpose.”

“It would if you were protecting me.”

“He’d try to find a way around me,” said the Mouse. “Take my word for it.”

“How would he do that?”

“I don’t know.” The Mouse noted the genuine fear on Penelope’s face, and reached up to hold the child’s hand. “Don’t worry. It’s a moot point. He’s coming to rescue us, not harm us.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“Don’t you know?”

Penelope shook her head. “Not yet. It’s too far off.”

“Well, believe me: I’m not going to let anyone harm you.”

Penelope suddenly climbed down from her own bunk to the Mouse’s, and threw her arms around her.

“You’re my best friend. My only friend,” she amended. “I want us to be together always.”

“You’re my best friend, too,” said the Mouse.

Suddenly Penelope straightened up.

“What is it?” asked the Mouse.

“We just changed course.”

“I didn’t feel anything. How can you tell?”

“I just know.”

“Do you know where we’re heading?”

Penelope squinted and peered into space, as if trying to read a sign within her mind.

“The Starboat,” she said at last.

“The Starboat?” repeated the Mouse. “What is it?”

“It’s a huge ship that’s orbiting a red world.”

“How huge?”

“It’s got lots of cabins, and big rooms like the one the Iceman owned.”

“You mean taverns?”

“Those too.”

“Casinos?”

Penelope nodded. “Rooms where they play cards and games like that.”

“Do you know the name of the red world?”

“No.” Suddenly Penelope smiled. “But I know something else.”

“What?”

“I know that there’s a man on the Starboat who can help us.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know his name, but he’s dressed in very bright colors, and he’s very tall, and he had a beard.”

“Is he a killer?” asked the Mouse. “A bounty hunter?”

“I don’t think so.”

“How will he help us?”

“I don’t know yet,” said Penelope. “But once we’re at the Starboat, I’ll know how.”

“If he figures out you’re helping to cheat him, he might kill us all.”

Penelope shook her head firmly. “No. I don’t know what he’ll do, but I know he won’t hurt us.”

“He’ll help both of us, not just you?”

“Yes.”

“You’re absolutely sure?”

“I would never leave without you,” Penelope assured her.

“Can Carlos catch up with us before we reach the Starboat?”

“No.”

“Then we’ve got a decision to make,” said the Mouse.

“This man will help us,” insisted Penelope.

“Will he kill King Tout or the others?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can you see if King Tout will come after us again?”

“No.”

“No he won’t, or no you can’t see?”

“I can’t see that far.”

The Mouse sighed deeply. “I just don’t know,” she said. “At least if Carlos and the Kid catch up with us, we know they won’t leave until King Tout and his friends are dead.”

“I don’t want the Iceman to catch up with us,” said Penelope, her fear reflected on her face once again.

The Mouse studied the little girl’s face intently. “And you’re sure this man will help us?” she asked at last. “Not just try, but succeed?”

“I think so.”

“But you’re not sure?”

“I will be, before I let him know that we need his help.”

“Once he knows, he’d better act fast,” said the Mouse, “or you’re going to be minus a best friend.”

“King Tout will only hurt you if I disobey him,” said Penelope with absolute conviction. “Once I find someone to help me, he’ll be much more worried about his own skin.”

“You can see that, too?”

Penelope smiled. “Not in the future. I know it, because King Tout is so simple to understand.”

“He is?”

The little girl nodded. “He’s no smarter than Jennifer was,” she said, and the Mouse noted a certain contempt in her voice that had never been there previously.

“He was smart enough to capture us,” replied the Mouse, watching Penelope closely for a reaction.

“I couldn’t see far enough ahead. Next week or next month I’ll be able to.” She hugged the Mouse again. “They think they can hurt you, but I won’t let them.” She paused thoughtfully, then added, “They’re very foolish men, King Tout and the Golden Duke.” Suddenly a look of childish fury crossed her face. “And they’ll be sorry they made me leave Jennifer behind.”

The Mouse looked at her for a moment, startled—and then, just as quickly as it had appeared, the almost alien expression of rage vanished from Penelope’s face.

“I love you, Mouse,” she said.

The Mouse embraced her. “And I love you too, Penelope.”

“And if they try to hurt you,” she continued, “something bad will happen to them.”

“Like what?” asked the Mouse.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Penelope with a shrug. “Just something.”

16

The Starboat was the most impressive and elegant space station on the Inner Frontier.

Hundreds of ships, some small, some incredibly large, were docked along its sleek, shining hull. In fact, the hull itself was the first thing to capture a visitor’s attention, for it proclaimed the station’s name in 200-foot-high letters that blazed like a million tiny suns, and it was visible to approaching ships that were still thousands of miles away.

The interior lived up to the hull’s glittering promise. There were restaurants, bars, nightclubs, and a dozen immense public gambling rooms, as well as some very private rooms for high-stakes games, games that even King Tout couldn’t afford. Men in formal dress, women in very little dress at all, aliens in exotic attire, all moved discreetly from table to table, from game to game, offering drinks, drugs, an assortment of alien tobaccos, and gaming chips.

The tables themselves were divided almost evenly between human and alien games, and, not surprisingly, the jaded human customers clustered around of the more popular alien games, losing tens of thousands of credits at a time at games such as jabob, so complex that it took years to learn, while the score or more of alien races—Canphorites, Domarians, Lodinites, even a pair of methane-breathing Atrians in their frigid protective suits—lost just as heavily at poker, blackjack and roulette.

There was no form of wager one couldn’t make aboard the Starboat. One huge room, housing hundreds of computer and video screens, offered up-to-the-minute news and odds on sporting events all across the Democracy, while another posted odds and results of the tens of thousands of elections that occurred daily for major and minor political offices on the Democracy’s fifty thousand worlds. A third room was devoted to an endless series of trivia games, which were making their hundredth or so reappearance in a galaxy where Man had grown out of touch with his origins and constantly sought to relearn them.

The Golden Duke had been left behind to keep an eye on the Mouse—or, more specifically, to punish her if Penelope refused to make her talents available to her captors—and King Tout had taken September Morn and the little girl with him aboard the Starboat.

They were scanned very briefly and very thoroughly at the entrance. Then King Tout walked up to one of the many cashiers’ windows, established a line of credit, and took a quick tour of the gaming rooms. Finally he found a table, no different than any other, that seemed to appeal to him, and he gestured September Morn to take one of the empty seats at it.

Then he leaned over and whispered to Penelope.

“You remember the signals we talked about?”

She nodded. “I touch my left ear when you’re going to win, and my right ear when September has the best hand.”

“That’s right, my child,” he said. “And do you remember what will happen to your friend if you give me the wrong signal even once?”

“I remember,” said Penelope. She looked around the room. “Where do you want me to sit?”

“Come with me,” said King Tout, leading her to a long bar that lined the back wall. He lifted her up onto an exotic-looking stool and summoned the bartender, an orange-skinned Belonian.

“Do you have something non-alcoholic for the young lady to drink?” he asked pleasantly.

“We have a wide selection,” said the Belonian into its translating device.

King Tout slipped a wad of New Stalin rubles out of his pocket and laid them on the bar.

“Give her whatever she wants, and make sure that nobody bothers her.”

The Belonian flashed its purple teeth in its version of a happy smile and picked up the money.

“It will be my pleasure, sir,” it replied.

King Tout turned to Penelope. “I don’t want you moving away from here, do you understand?”

“I understand,” said the girl.

“I hope so, my child, or it will go very hard on your friend.”

Penelope stared at him, but said nothing, and a moment later he walked back to the table and seated himself where he had a clear view of the girl.

The Belonian brought Penelope a selection of three fruit-flavored drinks, and she chose the one in the most elaborate container, a sparkling crystal that was shaped like the horn of some ancient animal. A moment later the first hand was dealt, and she casually raised her hand to her right ear. King Tout smiled—his opponents thought he was smiling at some remark one of them had made—and kept betting and raising until everyone except September Morn had dropped out, then tossed his cards in without showing them when she displayed a full house of aces and jacks.

Her captors lost the next two hands, and then Penelope touched her left ear, signaling a win by King Tout. This time it was September Morn who kept betting and raising until all but one player was driven out, and then she folded and allowed King Tout to continue betting on his own.

They continued in this manner for another half hour. They didn’t always raise each other when King Tout knew they were holding winning hands, and they didn’t always drop out early when he knew they were destined to lose, but they gradually accumulated most of the money at the table. A couple of the players—a Canphorite and a human—decided that they’d had enough, and were replaced by two others, both human this time.

And as King Tout and September Morn accumulated their winnings, Penelope sat almost motionless at the bar, her blue eyes scanning the room, her mind sorting out different possibilities, different futures, different means to the end she desired.

Finally she found what she had been looking for. It was a tall, stunningly-dressed man, his glowing garments changing colors constantly, his hair and beard a rainbow of hues, his boots made from the phosphorescent blue fur of the now-extinct Icedemon of Belloq IV. He seemed to be wandering aimlessly through the room, pausing now at one table for a moment, now at another, his dark eyes missing no detail. Finally he stopped in front of a huge roulette wheel, summoned one of the many waiter/cashiers, and ordered a handful of chips. Penelope didn’t know his name, or why he was aboard the Starboat, but she knew that this was the man she sought.

Penelope observed the man for a few moments, as he wagered on four successive turns of the wheel and lost each time. So intent was she on studying him that she almost forgot to signal King Tout that he had another winning hand, and tried to ignore his glare as she informed him only after the initial series of bets.

Then the opportunity she had known would occur came to pass. A thin young man walked up to the bar, and she managed to spill her drink, splashing some of it on him.

“I’m so sorry!” she said apologetically.

“No problem,” said the man, signaling for a bar towel and wiping his sleeve off. “But you should really be a little more careful, young lady.”

Penelope waited until the alien bartender was out of earshot.

“I spilled it on purpose,” she said very softly.

The man stared at her, and said nothing.

“I need help,” she continued.

“If you go around spilling drinks on strangers just to amuse yourself, you need more than help,” he said. “You need some manners, young lady.”

He turned and started to walk away.

“If you go away,” she whispered intently, “I won’t tell you what number will win next at the roulette wheel.”

“And if I stay here, you’ll give me the winner and I’ll win a million credits?” he asked, highly amused.

“How much you win depends on how much you bet.”

The young man glanced over at the roulette table. “The wheel’s spinning now,” he said. “Why don’t you tell me the winning number, just as a show of good faith?”

“27,” said Penelope without hesitation.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

He grinned at her. “What do I get if you’re wrong?”

“Nothing,” she replied, freezing suddenly as King Tout, who had just been dealt a losing hand, looked across the room at her. “But because you didn’t believe me, you won’t get anything anyway.”

“Didn’t anyone ever teach you how to speak to adults?” said the man. “Because—”

“27 on the black!” announced the croupier.

Penelope resisted the urge to smile smugly at the young man.

“Luck,” he said.

“If you believe that, I won’t give you the next number.”

“Why are you giving me any numbers at all?”

She waited until two men who were passing the bar momentarily obscured her from King Tout’s line of vision. “I told you: I need help.”

He frowned. “You want me to bet for you?”

“No. I want you to rescue my friend and me—and don’t look at me when we talk,” she added.

“What friend?” he asked, gazing around the crowded room.

“She’s not here. She’s on a ship that’s docked outside.”

“I’m not in the rescuing business, little lady,” said the man.

“The next number will be 8,” she said suddenly.

The man waited until the ball had come to rest, and the croupier confirmed that the winning number was indeed an 8.

“Now do you believe I can tell you the winning numbers?” whispered Penelope, glancing at King Tout out of the corner of her eye, and finding that the gambler was too involved in the play of his hand to pay much attention to her.

“Very interesting,” he said, the grin gone from his face. “I would have sworn that was an honest wheel.”

“It is.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“What difference does it make?” said Penelope. “Whether it’s honest or not, I can tell you the winning numbers.”

He stared at her. “Every time?”

“Yes.” She glanced again at King Tout’s table. “And stop looking at me.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want anyone to know we’re talking to each other.”

“Why are you talking to me?” he asked, quickly averting his gaze.

“I told you: I need help.”

“Why did you choose me?”

“I don’t want you,” said Penelope. “I want the man you work for.”

“What makes you think I work for anyone?”

“I haven’t got time to explain,” said Penelope. “But if I walked over and talked to him, they’d hurt my friend. Nobody knows who you are, so I’m talking to you instead.”

“You seem to know an awful lot about things that are none of your business, young lady,” said the man, frowning. He paused briefly. “Who do you think I work for?”

“The man with the fur boots.”

“And if you were right, why do you think he’d want to help you?”

“He doesn’t want to now, but he will when you give him my message.”

“Why should I give him a message from a little girl who knows too many things?”

“Because if you don’t, I’ll find someone else to do it, and then he’ll be mad at you.”

The young man looked over at the roulette table, then back at Penelope.

“What kind of message do you want me to give him?”

“After the fat woman with the white hair leaves the table, the next three winners will be 31, then 9, then 11.”

“31, 9 and 11?”

“Yes.”

“Then what?”

“Then come back to the bar and I’ll tell you where my friend is. I can’t let them see me talking to him.”

“Them? Who is them?”

Penelope touched her right ear, as September Morn picked up a winning hand and King Tout stared across the room at her.

“Go away now,” she whispered. “I’ve talked to you too long already.”

The young man looked around the room once more, trying to spot whoever it was that the little girl was afraid of, then walked casually to the roulette table. A moment later an overweight, white-haired woman got up and left, and he watched in silence as the wheel spun and the ball landed on 31. Finally he edged his way closer to the colorfully-dressed man and whispered something to him. The larger man stared at him curiously for a moment, then shrugged and placed a large bet on number 9.

He collected his winnings, then put another pile on chips on number 11. When the ball landed there, he whispered something to the young man, who made his way back to the bar, pausing to briefly observe a couple of poker games and a jabob table along the way.

He stopped about eight feet away from Penelope, leaned against the bar, and spoke softly while staring at the store of liquor bottle directly in front of him.

“Okay, little lady,” he said softly, “you’ve got yourself a deal.” He paused. “One condition, though.”

Penelope knew what the condition was, but asked anyway.

“He wants two more winners.”

“After he rescues my friend.”

“Uh-uh,” said the man. “We blast our way into a ship, we may have to leave in one hell of a hurry. He wants the numbers now.”

“There’s a man with a gold tooth sitting at the table. After he wins, the next two numbers will be 2 and 29.”

“I’ll be right back.”

The young man relayed the information to his employer, then returned to his position at the bar.

“All right,” he said. “If they’re winners, we’re in business.” He paused. “Tell me about your friend.”

“Her name is Mouse,” said Penelope.

“Mouse?” repeated the young man. “I hate to think of what she looks like.”

“She’s very pretty,” said Penelope defensively.

“Where is she?”

“On King Tout’s ship.”

“King Tout? Who is he?”

“He’s playing cards in the middle of the room.”

“Before I turn to look, tell me how I can recognize him. It’s a damned crowded room.”

“September Morn’s with him.”

“That doesn’t help.”

“She’s an alien. There’s water in her suit.”

“A water-breather? I didn’t see one when I walked through the room.”

“She doesn’t breathe it, but she has to run it all over her body.”

“Okay, that should do it.”

The young man turned slowly, his eyes scanning the room, then went back to his original position, staring at the back of the bar.

“All right. Is there anyone else in on this besides King Tout and the alien?”

“There’s a man on the ship.”

“And that’s it—just the three of them?”

“And my friend.”

“Has the ship got a name?” asked the man, as the first of the two numbers Penelope had given him came up.

“I don’t know its name.”

“Registration number?”

“I don’t know.”

“I hope you don’t expect us to force our way into every damned ship that’s docked out there.”

“I can describe it to you and tell you where it’s docked,” said Penelope.

“Why don’t you just come along and point it out to me?”

“Because if I leave with you, the Golden Duke will kill my friend before we get there.”

“The Golden Duke?” repeated the man. “I’ve heard of him.”

The second number won.

“All right,” said the man. “Tell me how to find the ship.”

Penelope described its shape, size and location.

“Next time you see me, walk out of here through that doorway down by the dice tables,” said the man.

“Don’t take too long,” said Penelope.

“We’re rescuing you and your friend,” answered the man irritably. “Isn’t that enough?”

“There’s someone else after us,” said Penelope. “They’ll be here before long.”

“What the hell did you two do—rob the Treasury on Deluros VIII?”

“We didn’t do anything,” said Penelope heatedly.

The colorfully-clad man picked up his winnings from the roulette table, stopped at a cashier’s window, and walked out of the room without glancing in their direction.

“Time to go to work,” said the man. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Please be careful,” said Penelope.

The man smiled sardonically. “It’s thoughtful of you to worry about me.”

“Be careful that the Golden Duke doesn’t hurt my friend.”

“He may be a killer, but he’s not crazy,” said the man. “When he knows what he’s up against, he’ll release her without a fight.”

“Sometimes he will, sometimes he won’t,” said Penelope.

“What are you talking about? We’re only going to rescue her once.”

“Just make sure that my friend doesn’t get hurt.”

“We’ll do our best.”

“You’d better.”

He chuckled. “Or what?”

“Or you’ll be very sorry,” said Penelope with such conviction that the man’s smile vanished. He stared at her for another moment, wondering uneasily what he was getting into, then shrugged and left the casino.

17

King Tout’s ship was still docked at the Starboat when the communications system was activated.

“Request permission to come aboard,” said the Iceman’s dispassionate voice.

“You?” said King Tout, surprised. “You came this far—after them?”

“That’s right,” said the Iceman.

“Go away,” said King Tout into his speaker. “I don’t even have them any more.”

“Demand permission to come aboard.”

“Permission denied.”

There was a ten-minute silence. Then the Iceman’s voice echoed through the ship again.

“I’ve just placed a small explosive device in one of your ship’s exhaust vents. I’m holding the triggering mechanism in my hand. Now, one way or another, I’m coming onto that ship. Whether anyone’s alive when I get there is a matter of complete indifference to me.”

“I don’t believe you,” said King Tout.

“That’s your privilege. You’ve got 30 seconds to open your hatch.”

The gambler took 23 seconds, then reluctantly ordered his ship’s computer to open the hatch, and a moment later the Iceman and the Forever Kid stepped into the small ship.

The interior had been modified so that there were no walls between the cockpit, the galley, and one of the cabins, and the Iceman found himself facing King Tout in an area perhaps fifteen feet on a side. September Morn, no longer in her special protective suit, sat nude in a narrow vat of tinted liquid and stared at them through alien eyes. The Golden Duke, a laser pistol at his side, paid no attention to the Iceman at all, but stared, tense and unblinking, at the Forever Kid.

“Is there a bomb?” asked King Tout.

“Quite possibly,” said the Iceman.

“That’s hardly a definitive answer,” said the gambler wryly.

“You noticed.”

King Tout shrugged. “It makes no difference anyway. The people you want are gone.”

“The people I want are right here,” said the Iceman.

The gambler shook his head. “They’re gone,” he repeated. “That little girl made fools of us.”

“How?”

“Have you ever heard of the Yankee Clipper?”

“No.”

“He calls himself a trader, but he’s nothing but a pirate. He’s got a quite a fleet, and he works the area around the Quinellus Cluster. No cargo comes or goes that he doesn’t get a piece of, no ship of any kind moves in or out unless they pay a tribute. He’s the worst kind of thief.”

“The worst kind of thief steals people, not money,” said the Iceman.

“I resent that remark!”

“Resent it all you like,” said the Iceman. “Now, what about the Yankee Clipper?”

“He was on the Starboat tonight, at the roulette wheel. Somehow, and I still don’t know how, the Bailey girl got him to take her away with him. I didn’t even know it until after they were gone.”

“And the Mouse?” said the Iceman. “Where is she?”

“They took her, too,” said King Tout. “That’s when I found out—when the Duke told me she was gone.”

The Forever Kid looked amused. “You let them steal the Mouse from you?”

“There were 40 of them,” growled the Golden Duke defensively. “What would you have done?”

“Stopped them,” said the Kid.

“I don’t blame my associate,” continued King Tout. “It was the child’s doing. I didn’t realize it at the time, but if she can see the future, she can change it—and that’s just what she did, even though I was watching her every minute.” He shrugged. “I’m well rid of the little monster. I won a tidy little sum tonight, and if she could manipulate events the way she did, then sooner or later she could have managed to kill my friends and me.”

“Sooner, I should think,” remarked the Iceman.

“She’s a positive menace,” said King Tout.

“It’s a distinct possibility.”

King Tout stared curiously at the Iceman. “You never had any intention of rescuing her!” he said at last.

“What I intend to do about her is my own business.”

“You came after us to kill her!” continued the gambler.

“I haven’t said that.”

“But I can tell, I can see it written all over your face,” said the gambler. “Look, we no longer have her. Let’s call a truce and we’ll throw in with you. I owe her something for the way she made fools of us tonight.”

“You still don’t understand, do you?” said the Iceman.

“Understand what?”

“I didn’t come after her at all.”

“The Mouse, then?”

The Iceman shook his head. “I gave an order back on Last Chance. You disobeyed it. Now it’s time to face the consequences of your actions.”

King Tout’s eyes went wide with surprise. “Then you were never after them at all!”

“This isn’t a rescue mission,” said the Forever Kid, smiling at the Golden Duke. “It’s a punishment party.”

“But this is ridiculous!” protested King Tout. “We’re not the enemy. The enemy is out there—it’s the Bailey girl.”

“You broke the law,” said the Iceman.

“What law, for God’s sake?”

“My law.” He turned to the Forever Kid. “Let’s see if you’re as good as you fear you are.”

“Better,” said the Kid, reaching for his sonic weapon.

The Golden Duke’s fingers closed around his laser pistol, but he was dead before he could pull it out and aim it. Then slowly, almost casually, the Kid turned his weapon on King Tout and dispatched the gambler.

“Damn!” muttered the Forever Kid.

“Don’t feel badly,” said the Iceman. “It was execution, not murder.”

“I don’t feel bad about killing them,” replied the Kid. “I was just hoping that the Golden Duke would be more of a challenge.” He shrugged. “I don’t know where the hell he built his reputation.” His gaze fell on September Morn, who had watched the entire proceeding, motionless and silent. “What about this one?”

“Kill her.”

The Kid looked at the naked alien, crouched down and defenseless in her tub of life-giving solution. “Now that seems like murder,” he said.

“I have a projectile pistol tucked in my belt,” replied the Iceman. “Either you put her out of her misery fast, or I’ll blow a couple of holes in her tub and you can watch her die slowly as the liquid drains out.”

“You are a relentless bastard, aren’t you?” said the Kid. Suddenly he smiled. “I admire your professionalism.”

“What I am is your employer,” said the Iceman. “Kill her.”

He turned away and set off to explore the rest of the ship, hoping to find some hint of where the pirate had taken Penelope and the Mouse. When he returned, September Morn was dead.

“What now?” asked the Forever Kid.

“I’m going after the Yankee Clipper,” said the Iceman. “You take these three back to Last Chance.”

“What’s the sense in that?” said the Kid. “They’re already dead.”

“I want everybody on Last Chance to know it.”

“Send them a holograph.”

“A make-up artist can work a lot of magic with a holograph,” replied the Iceman. “When you get back to Last Chance, string them up where everyone can see them.”

The Kid paused in thought for a long moment. “I don’t think so,” he said at last.

“You’re working for me, remember?”

The Kid shook his head. “I’m holding more than 200,000 credits’ worth of the Mouse’s money,” he replied. “The way I see it, it won’t do her any good while she’s a prisoner, so she and the little girl just bought me for two more weeks.”

“The little girl doesn’t need your help,” said the Iceman. “That ought to be apparent by now.”

“That’s your opinion.”

“That’s a fact.”

“There’s another reason, too.”

“Oh?”

The Kid’s face came alive with excitement. “I’d like to face 40 men at once.”

The Iceman paused for a moment, then shrugged. “Well, if you really want to die in glorious battle, you might as well come along,” he said. “Just let me make arrangements for someone to take these three back to Last Chance and we’ll be on our way.”

“Just a minute,” said the Kid.

“What is it?”

“I know why I’m going,” he said. “Why are you?”

“What difference does it make?”

“None until we get there,” said the Kid.

“And then?”

“I’m going there to save the little girl, not kill her.” He paused. “If you want to kill her, you’ve got to get past me to do it.”

“Would you really shoot your employer?” asked the Iceman.

The Forever Kid couldn’t tell if he was angry or curious or merely amused.

“No, I wouldn’t,” answered the Kid.

“That settles that.”

“Not quite,” said the Kid. “I quit. I’m not working for you any more.”

The Iceman smiled. “I admire your professionalism.” He paused. “Of course, I could just be interested in rescuing the Mouse. I haven’t said otherwise.”

“I doubt it.”

“Why?”

“Because I know you better now than I did before.”

“I haven’t said that I plan to kill anyone, either,” noted the Iceman.

“What you say doesn’t matter,” replied the Kid adamantly. “Just remember: if you try to kill the little girl before the Mouse’s money runs out, you’re going to have to get past me first.”

“You do what you think you have to do,” said the Iceman, totally unperturbed.

“I plan to,” said the Kid. Suddenly a boyish smile crossed his face. “It could prove very interesting.”

“It could at that,” conceded the Iceman.

They stared at each other in silence for an uneasy moment. Then the Iceman turned to the hatch door.

“Come on,” he said at last. “Let’s hire someone to cart these bodies back to Last Chance.”

He walked through the hatch, and a moment later the Kid fell into step behind him.

The Iceman made his arrangements for the corpses, and twenty minutes later he and the Forever Kid had formed an uneasy truce and were racing toward the distant Quinellus Cluster in pursuit of the Yankee Clipper and his human cargo.

PART 3:

The

Yankee

Clipper’s

Book

18

“Actually, I dislike the word ‘pirate’ and its connotations,” said the Yankee Clipper, leaning back in his chair and sipping an Altairian brandy. “I consider myself to be a simple, hard-working businessman.”

The Mouse and Penelope were sitting in a luxurious lounge aboard the pirate ship. There were tables, chairs, couches, picture frames, all of shining, polished chrome. The carpeting—the first the Mouse had ever seen on a ship—was formal and muted in color. The bulkheads were covered with paintings and holographs—both naturalistic and abstract—from a hundred worlds, and all about the lounge were objets d’art, each plundered from a different planet.

“Simple businessmen don’t own spacecraft like this,” answered the Mouse. “This room alone is larger than most ships I’ve been on.”

“I’ve been very fortunate,” replied the Yankee Clipper. “And of course, I’ve been quite aggressive in my pursuit of financial security.” He uttered a brief command to his computer, and suddenly the room was filled with the sound of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony.

“Well, I’ll give you this much,” said the Mouse; “you’re not at all like any other pirate I’ve known.”

He smiled. “I take that as a compliment.” The Yankee Clipper withdrew a large cigar from a pocket, held it lovingly in his hand for a moment, and finally lit it. “Excellent!” he said. “Anyone who doubts the wisdom of subjugating alien races need only smoke a single Antarean cigar and he’ll become an instant convert to the somewhat hazy principles upon which our beloved Democracy was founded.”

“A Democracy that you loot and plunder,” noted the Mouse.

“Well, I do have my disagreements with them,” he replied easily, “but I’m glad to say that we do see eye-to-eye on the subject of fine tobaccos.” He paused. “Would you believe that I used to work for them?”

“Them?” repeated the Mouse. “You mean the Antarean tobacco farms?”

He chuckled. “No—the Democracy. I spent more than a decade as a part of its bureaucracy.”

“In the Navy?”

“Why should you think so?”

“Well, you do command a ship,” answered the Mouse.

“Anyone can command this ship,” he replied. “You just activate the Captain’s computer and say, ‘Go here’ or ‘Go there’ or ‘Destroy such-and-such a vessel.’ One hardly needs any training to be a ship’s captain.” He paused and smiled again. “I prefer to own the entire fleet, and let my subordinates worry about how to get it from one point to another.”

“What kind of job prepared you for that?” asked the Mouse.

“None,” answered the Yankee Clipper, noticing that his cigar had gone out and relighting it. “Actually, I was a tax collector. I worked my way up through the ranks until I was in charge of the entire Taxation Bureau on Nilander IV. Then I decided that I’d much rather be an entrepreneur than a wage slave, so I appropriated a few million credits and began contemplating various new enterprises.” He took a sip of his brandy, then turned to Penelope, who had been sitting perfectly still. “I’m sure we must be boring you. You’re at liberty to inspect the entire ship, as long as you ask permission before touching anything.”

“I’ll stay with my friend,” said Penelope, reaching out and holding the Mouse’s hand.

The Yankee Clipper shrugged. “As you wish.” He turned back to the Mouse. “It took them almost two years to discover what I had done, during which time I had ample opportunity to consider my options.”

“They took that long to find out you had robbed the treasury?” asked the Mouse.

“I’m surprised they found out so quickly,” he replied. “I was quite good at fixing the records, and they were trying to administer some 50,000 worlds from Deluros VIII, which was half a galaxy away.” He put his cigar down in a crystal ashtray and picked up his brandy glass. “At first I simply planned to rob the planetary treasury on a regular basis, but Nilander IV is a poor planet when all is said and done, and I decided that I could never satisfy my financial ambitions in such a situation. So I purchased a ship—not this one, to be sure—and took my leave of the Nilander System.” He paused, smiling pleasantly at the recollection. “I was in a totally liquid financial position, so I began to look around to see where I might receive the best return on my investment. My, ah, shall we say, questionable status, seemed to dictate a profession beyond the physical limits of the Democracy. I’ve never liked the Outer Frontier—the Rim was always such a desolate place—and the Spiral Arm is too sparsely populated, so I decided upon the Inner Frontier. I spent some time in the Binder system, reviewing my options, and I finally decided to become what you refer to as a pirate. After careful consideration I even acquired a piratical name, as seemed to be the custom out here.” He paused. “I took it right after that unfortunate incident near New Botswana.”

“You were the one who destroyed the Navy convoy?”

“Most regrettable,” he said with obvious insincerity. “But they had posted a reward for me. I viewed it as an object lesson.”

“An object lesson during which more than 4,000 men lost their lives,” she said.

“Oh, I very much doubt that the total came to much more than 2,500,” he said, dismissing it with a wave of his hand. “Still,” he added thoughtfully, “that was the day I officially became a pirate in the eyes of the Democracy. Prior to that I was merely a thief.”

“You must admit they had some justification for the term,” said the Mouse.

“I suppose so,” sighed the Yankee Clipper. “But there’s such an unsavory connotation to it. Most pirates are such low, vulgar types. I decided from the start to run my enterprise like a business, to assess each risk coldly and rationally, to never allow pride or emotion to influence me.” He paused and took another puff of his cigar. “And I must admit that I’m wealthier than even I had anticipated.”

“I thought all pirates were rich,” remarked the Mouse. “Or dead.”

The Yankee Clipper shook his head. “Most of them are destitute on any given day.” A note of contempt came into his voice. “They waste what they plunder and then have to go out and do it all over again. I decided that there had to be a better way. So I assembled my crew, hiring ex-Navy men whenever I could—men who understood discipline and could execute orders without arguing—and paid them exorbitantly. Half of the profits from our little ventures are divided among my crew and myself, and the other half goes into what I think I shall term capital expansion.”

“More ships?” suggested the Mouse.

“And more men.”

“It sounds very businesslike.”

“It is. I run it more efficiently than the Democracy runs its government or Navy, and we have an exceptionally high return on investment, all things considered.” He paused as an officer entered the room, presented him with a pair of papers requiring his signature, and then saluted and departed. “I realize that this does not fit your preconceptions about piracy, but it’s the wave of the future. Even my competitors—those who are still alive and at large—are borrowing my methods.”

“When you describe it like that, it makes it very hard for me to remember that your business is killing and looting,” said the Mouse.

“Only when absolutely necessary,” said the Clipper. “We much prefer to sell our protection to isolated worlds on the Frontier. After all,” he added, “once you’ve killed a man, you can never make a profit from him again. But if you enter into a long-term business relationship…” He smiled and let his voice trail off.

“And just what kind of business relationship do you think you’ve entered into with us?” asked the Mouse as an intercom light began pulsating on the pirate’s wrist radio and he deactivated it without paying it any apparent attention.

“The very best kind,” answered the Yankee Clipper. “A profitable one.”

“You freed me from that ship, and you helped Penelope and me get away from King Tout and his friends, and we’re very grateful,” said the Mouse. “But as I see it, you were paid in advance.”

“Have I asked for more money?” said the Yankee Clipper.

“No,” said the Mouse. She paused and stared at him. “That’s what puzzles me.”

“Well, put your mind at ease,” said the Yankee Clipper. “You are my guests, not my prisoners, and you have free run of the ship. Your quarters are spacious and luxurious, and contain all the amenities. We possess a galley equal to that of any cruise ship, and there is even a small fitness room filled with the very finest equipment.”

“And that’s it?” said the Mouse suspiciously. “Now we’re even?”

“Certainly. You are free agents, and you will not be charged a single credit during your stay here as my personal guests.” He paused. “We have a small commissary on the fourth level. Select anything you like from it, gratis.”

“Gratis?” repeated the Mouse suspiciously.

“I repeat: you are my guests.”

“Where are we bound for?” asked the Mouse.

“The Quinellus Cluster,” said Penelope.

The Yankee Clipper looked down at the little girl and smiled. “You’re absolutely right, my dear.” He turned his attention back to the Mouse. “The Quinellus Cluster is my base of operations, and we’ll all be much safer back there. I’ve made some discreet inquiries since we left the Starboat, and it seems that quite a lot of people have an interest in your lovely little traveling companion.” He smiled at Penelope. “You haven’t a thing to worry about, my dear. You’re perfectly safe as long as you remain with me.”

“We appreciate your hospitality,” said the Mouse, “but I think we’d like to be let off on the first colony planet we come to as soon as you reach the Cluster. We have arrangements to make, and a friend to contact.”

“I won’t hear of it,” said the Yankee Clipper. “My subspace radio is at your disposal. Contact your friend right from the ship.”

“I think as long as all our accounts are even, we’d rather not trouble you any further.”

“It’s no trouble at all,” insisted the pirate.

“Just the same, we’d rather be let off as soon as you reach the Cluster.”

“Well, of course, if you insist,” said the Yankee Clipper with an eloquent shrug.

“Let’s say that we strongly request it,” answered the Mouse.

“Your wish is my command,” said the Yankee Clipper. He paused. “Five million.”

“Five million what?”

“Five million credits, of course.”

“All right,” said the Mouse. “What about five million credits?”

“That’s my fee for letting you off the ship.”

“You said we didn’t owe you anything.”

“You don’t.”

“And that we were your guests.”

“Indeed you are,” he replied, finally draining his brandy glass and setting it down on a polished chrome surface. “But of course, once you decline my hospitality and leave the comfort and safety of my ship, you’re no longer my guests, are you?” He smiled. “You know and I know that young Penelope here is worth millions to various interested parties. I’m perfectly willing to play host to you so long as her value continues to appreciate—but if I’m to part with that potential profit, then I’ll have to charge you a minimum fee of five million credits.”

The Mouse stared at him without speaking. Suddenly she felt Penelope’s hand squeezing her own.

“It’s all right,” said the little girl.

The Mouse looked down at her. “You knew he was going to do this, didn’t you?”

“We needed him,” said Penelope, ignoring the question.

“But we’re virtually prisoners on his ship.”

“It’s all right,” repeated Penelope. “At least the Iceman didn’t catch us.”

“The Iceman?” interrupted the Yankee Clipper. “Who’s the Iceman.”

“A very bad man,” said Penelope. “He wants to hurt me.”

“Then you’ve made a very wise choice, my dear,” said the pirate. “I wouldn’t dream of hurting you, or indeed of letting any harm come to you from any source whatsoever.”

“I know.”

“I am, after all, not without compassion for a child in your situation,” continued the Yankee Clipper. He paused thoughtfully. “Also, I suspect your value would decrease if you were harmed.”

The Mouse glared at him. “So we’re just going to fly around the Quinellus Cluster with you until you decide that she’s worth enough to part with?” she demanded.

“Essentially,” answered the Yankee Clipper. “I’ve already sent discreet messages to various interested parties.”

“They’ll blow your ship apart,” said the Mouse.

The pirate smiled. “Not while she’s aboard it, they won’t.” He paused. “But before I deny myself the pleasure of your company, it seems only reasonable that we establish a fair market value for the little girl. I could hardly do that without informing everyone that she’s … ah … available for the right price.”

“Unless we come up with five million credits first,” said the Mouse.

“Certainly,” agreed the Yankee Clipper. “I’m not an unreasonable man, and a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. This lovely child could contract a fatal disease, or attempt to kill herself, or simply lose her remarkable ability.” He paused and smiled. “Of course, I don’t see how you can possibly produce such a sum, given your present situation, but I’m always willing to admit I’m wrong.”

“If you’d play cards or roulette, I could help you win five million credits,” said Penelope.

“I hardly think so, my dear,” answered the Yankee Clipper easily. “Everyone knows who and what you are.” He sighed. “And that does make it difficult to find volunteers for a game of chance while you’re aboard the ship.”

Penelope frowned. “You’re no better than King Tout was.”

“On the contrary, I’m much better,” he corrected her. “For one thing, I’m providing you with every comfort at my disposal. For another, I’ve already given you my word that no physical harm will come to you. But mostly, I’m better than King Tout because I learn from other people’s mistakes.”

“What are you talking about?” demanded the Mouse.

“I should think that would be obvious. The reason you’re here instead of back at the Starboat is because lovely little Penelope here somehow manipulated events so that I would rescue you.” He stared at the little girl, and though his voice remained cordial and conversational, there was a sudden hardness about his eyes. “I must warn you, my dear child, that if I notice any irregularity aboard my ship, any irregularity at all—if I should trip and break a leg, or flinch while shaving, or if this mysterious Iceman should approach too closely—then I will take you to the Deepsleep Chamber and freeze you cryogenically until such time as I have completed my transaction with whoever wants you the most desperately. Deepsleep is absolutely painless—we use it for extended voyages in deep space—but I rather suspect that when your brain is sound asleep and your metabolism is slowed to a crawl, you will be in no position to influence events as you did with King Tout.”

Suddenly the Yankee Clipper got to his feet. “But enough about business. You are my honored guests, and I look forward to your company at dinner this evening. In the meantime”—he shot them a final smile as he walked to the door, which slid into a bulkhead—“please do make yourselves comfortable. I expect you’ll be staying with me for quite some time.”

Then he was gone, and Penelope and the Mouse were left alone in the huge, empty lounge.

“Did you see this coming, back at the Starboat?” asked the Mouse.

“Not exactly,” answered Penelope. “I knew he would rescue us, and I knew that he wouldn’t hurt us.”

“But you didn’t know that he’d sell you to the highest bidder?” she continued.

“It doesn’t matter,” said the little girl. “He’s taking us in the right direction. That’s all that matters.”

“The right direction?” repeated the Mouse.

Penelope nodded.

“The right direction for what?”

“I don’t know yet,” replied Penelope. “But I know it’s the right direction.” She tightened her grip on the Mouse’s hand. “Don’t worry. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

The Mouse suddenly realized that she believed her—and that realization made her more uneasy than the thought of being at the Yankee Clipper’s mercy.

19

The Mouse led Penelope through the small commissary, past the meager supply of clothing and toiletries and the even smaller stock of books and tapes, until she came to the area that, had it borne a label, would have been marked “Miscellaneous”.

“But what are we looking for?” asked the little girl.

“You’ll see,” said the Mouse with a smile.

She began rummaging through what were obviously the unwanted spoils of conquest, and finally she found what she had been looking for.

“Oh, they’re beautiful!” exclaimed Penelope as the Mouse stepped aside and revealed four exquisite dolls, each dressed in colorful robes and bright jewelry.

“I think they’re from New Kenya,” said the Mouse, “but I could be wrong. I’m sure someone can tell us.”

“They’re very large,” said Penelope. “Much bigger than Jennifer was.”

“Well, they were made to be displayed, not played with,” replied the Mouse. “That’s why they’re so stiff. My guess is that they were part of a collection. Perhaps the others were destroyed, or maybe they had real jewelry and they’re in some crewman’s quarters.”

“I love their necklaces,” said Penelope, gingerly fingering a beaded necklace on one of the dolls.

“I would imagine each of them represents some nation or religion,” said the Mouse.

“And their robes are so pretty!” continued the little girl. Then her gaze fell on something else that lay half-buried beneath a neatly-folded length of silk.

“Well,” said the Mouse, “take your choice. You can have any of them you want—or all four, if your like.”

“I want this one,” said Penelope, reaching beneath the silk and withdrawing a small rag doll that had a tiny scrap of red cloth wrapped around it.

“I didn’t even see that one,” said the Mouse.

“I did.”

“It’s not as pretty as the others.”

“I know.”

“Why don’t you take them all?” suggested the Mouse.

“This is the one I want,” said Penelope firmly. “The others are for grown-ups. This one is for little girls.”

“And it reminds you of Jennifer?” asked the Mouse with a smile.

Penelope nodded.

“All right, it’s yours.” She looked around. “I wonder where we pay for it?”

“We don’t,” said Penelope. “Remember what the Yankee Clipper said? We can have anything we want for free.”

“I know. But I’d still like to find a shopkeeper or a cashier or something and explain it to him, so we don’t get shot for robbing the store.”

“We won’t,” said Penelope.

The Mouse shrugged. “Oh, well—you haven’t been wrong yet.” She paused. “What are you going to call her? Jennifer?”

Penelope shook her head. “Jennifer’s gone. I need a new name for this one.” She frowned, concentrating on the doll, then looked up at the Mouse. “What’s your name?”

“Mouse.”

“I mean your real name.”

“Oh, it’s not a very special name at all,” replied the Mouse. “I got rid of it the day I arrived on the Inner Frontier.”

“I’d still like to know.”

The Mouse shrugged. “Maryanne,” she said distastefully.

“Maryanne,” repeated Penelope thoughtfully. “Maryanne.” She nodded her head approvingly. “That’s what I’ll call her.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. That way even when you’re not with me, Maryanne will remind me of you.”

“What’s this talk of not being with you?” said the Mouse. “We’re a team, remember?”

“But you told me about how sometimes you have to leave someone you love behind, the way I had to leave Jennifer.” The little girl paused. “You left Merlin. Someday maybe you’ll leave me behind, too.”

“Not a chance,” said the Mouse reassuringly. She put her arms around Penelope. “I didn’t love Merlin. And besides, we’ll be rejoining him soon.”

“I don’t think so,” said Penelope. “He’s not in any of the futures I can see.”

“But you can only see a little way ahead,” noted the Mouse.

“Sometimes I can see longer.”

“Oh?”

“Not always, but sometimes.”

“More often than you used to be able to?” asked the Mouse.

“Yes.” Penelope paused. “I wonder why?”

“It’s just a sign that you’re growing up, I suppose,” said the Mouse. “You can run faster and eat more food and say bigger words that you used to, so why shouldn’t you be able to see farther ahead, too?”

Penelope shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“That was a rhetorical question,” said the Mouse with a smile.

“I don’t know what that means.”

“It means you don’t have to answer it.” She looked at the other four dolls again. “You’re sure you don’t want anything else?”

“All I want is Maryanne,” answered Penelope, cradling the doll in her arms.

The Mouse winced. “God, I hate that name!”

“It’s a pretty name, and since you don’t want it, it should go to a pretty doll.”

“You’re the boss,” said the Mouse with a sigh of defeat.

“Am I really?” asked Penelope.

“Well, you’re the boss about which doll you get to keep and what you want to name it,” said the Mouse. She paused. “And if Carlos were here, he’d probably try to convince me that you could become the boss of the whole galaxy if you wanted to.”

“That’s silly,” said Penelope.

“I agree.” The Mouse looked around the commissary one last time. “All right, let’s go back to our cabin.”

“You go ahead,” said Penelope. “I want to show Maryanne around the ship.”

“I’ll come with you,” volunteered the Mouse.

“It’s not necessary,” said Penelope. “I won’t get lost, and the Yankee Clipper has told everyone that we’re his guests.”

“I don’t mind coming with you,” said the Mouse. “It’s no trouble.”

“It’s really not necessary,” repeated Penelope firmly.

“You’re sure you’ll be all right?” asked the Mouse in concerned tones.

“I’ll be all right.”

The Mouse stared at the little girl for a moment, and then shrugged.

“Well, I suppose everyone deserves a little time to themselves,” she said at last. “Maybe I’ll go back to our room and take a little nap.”

The Mouse hugged Penelope and headed off in the direction of their cabin, while the little girl, still holding the doll as if it were made of crystal and might be expected to shatter at any moment, began going the opposite direction. She passed the infirmary, then rode an airlift to the top deck and turned to her left. There was much more activity here, for this was the Operations Level, and crewmen were continuously moving purposefully from one area to another, paying no attention to her at all.

Penelope, moving with equal purpose, walked down the corridor that led to the Observation Deck, a relatively large room filled with some fifteen viewscreens, each displaying a section of space that an external holocamera transmitted, all of them together showing the ship’s surroundings for more than a parsec in every direction.

Standing alone in the middle of the room was the slender man that she had approached aboard the Starboat.

“Good afternoon,” he said when he noticed that she had joined him.

“Good afternoon,” she replied formally.

“That looks like a new doll.”

“Her name’s Maryanne,” said Penelope, holding up the doll for the man to see.

“You know, I’ve never asked you what your name was.”

“Penelope.”

“Welcome to the ship, Penelope,” said the man. “My name’s Potemkin—Mischa Potemkin.”

“That sounds like a real name,” she said, surprised.

“It is.”

“I thought hardly anyone out here used their real name—except for me and Maryanne, anyway.”

“That’s precisely why I choose to,” said Potemkin with a smile. “I think it makes me very distinctive.”

“It does,” agreed Penelope.

“Well, Penelope, what are you doing here all by yourself?”

“I’m not by myself,” answered the girl. “Maryanne’s with me.”

“I apologize,” said Potemkin. “Where are you and Maryanne doing here?”

“I’m talking to you, and Maryanne is looking at all the viewscreens.”

Potemkin chuckled. “That isn’t what I meant.”

Penelope stared at him politely, waiting for him to explain himself.

“I mean,” he said at last, “why are you on the Observation Deck at all?”

“I saw you here, and everyone else seems so busy, so I thought I’d talk to you.”

“What do you want to talk about?” asked Potemkin.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Penelope, looking around the room. Her gaze fell on a viewscreen. “How does this work?” she asked, pointing to the screen. “I mean, it can’t be a window, because we’re in the middle of the ship.”

“It’s just like a holograph projection screen in your home,” explained Potemkin. “We have cameras outside the ship, and they transmit what they see to the various screens.”

“But you can’t change the channels.”

He smiled. “That’s why we have so many screens.”

“How do you fix a camera when it breaks?”

“We don’t,” said Potemkin. “We just cast it off and attach a new one.”

“Do you attach it?”

Potemkin looked amused. “That’s not my job.”

“What is your job?” asked Penelope. “Everyone else seems to be working very hard, and you’re just standing around looking at the screens. Are you the man who warns the captain when we’re approaching a meteor swarm?”

“No, the ship does that automatically.”

“Then what do you do?”

“Nothing, for the moment.”

“Are you a passenger, then?” she persisted.

“No,” said Potemkin. “I’m the War Chief.”

“War Chief?”

He smiled. “Back in the Democracy, I suppose they’d call me a military advisor. I don’t work until we’re attacking someone, or under attack ourselves—but when that happens, I work very hard indeed.”

“So if you tell the Yankee Clipper to attack someone, he does it—and if you say not to, he doesn’t?”

“Usually.”

“That makes you very important,” she said admiringly.

“From time to time.”

She paused, staring at him. “What happens if you give him the wrong advice?”

“Then we lose.”

“Lose?” she repeated.

“Die.”

“And do you make lots of money?”

“I hardly see that that’s any of your business, young lady,” said Potemkin.

“Not yet,” agreed Penelope.

“What is that supposed to mean?” demanded Potemkin.

Penelope looked down solicitously at her doll. “I think she’s hungry,” she announced.

“She can wait,” said Potemkin. “What did you mean—‘not yet’?”

“You know what I meant,” said Penelope, still looking at her doll.

“Suppose you tell me anyway.”

“Sometimes you could give him the wrong advice.”

“It’s possible,” admitted Potemkin. “Nobody’s right all the time.”

“I am,” said Penelope, with no trace of smugness.

“Bunk.”

“I feel very sorry for you, Mr. Potemkin,” she said sincerely.

“Oh? Why?”

“Because one day soon—maybe tomorrow, maybe even tonight—the Yankee Clipper will remember what I did in the casino, and he’ll realize that I would be a better War Chief than you.”

Potemkin laughed harshly. “You don’t know the first thing about military tactics.”

“But I know all about the future,” she pointed out. “If he can win a battle, I’ll know how. And if he can’t, I’ll know that, too.”

Potemkin stared at her through narrowed eyes for a long moment.

“You didn’t just find me here by accident, did you?” he said at last.

“No, I didn’t,” admitted the little girl. “I knew you’d be here.”

“And you knew we’d have this conversation?”

“Sort of,” answered Penelope. “I didn’t know what the words would be, but I knew we’d talk if I wanted us to.”

“Do you know that I’ve killed people who have threatened my position?”

“No,” she replied. “But I believe it. You have good manners, but you’re not a very nice man.”

“If I decide you’re right,” continued Potemkin, “what makes you think that I won’t kill you, too?”

“You’re not nice,” repeated Penelope, “but you’re smart. If you kill me, you know that the Yankee Clipper will figure out why you did it and then he’ll kill you, because you’ll have killed someone who could have made sure he never lost a battle.”

“I might take my chances on that,” said Potemkin ominously. “It’s better than going back to being a common crewman.”

“You don’t have to kill me or be a crewman,” said Penelope.

“Oh?”

“All you have to do is let me and my friends off on a planet.”

“Friends?”

“Mouse and Maryanne,” she replied, indicating the doll.

Potemkin shook his head. “I don’t think I’m inclined to do that,” he said. “You’re worth a couple of million credits, maybe more. For all I know, the Clipper had already contacted some of the people who are looking for you.”

“Is money that important to you?” asked Penelope.

“It’s one of my favorite things.”

She stared into his eyes. “In one of the futures I can see, you put us down on a planet along with the Yankee Clipper, and you become the captain of the ship and take over all his money.”

“Do you see if I live out the day after I do that?” he asked sardonically.

She shook her head. “I can’t see your future once I leave you.” She paused. “But I can see lots of futures in which I become the War Chief, and lots more in which the Yankee Clipper kills you because you hurt me.”

“Do you see any in which we just stay the way we are, and finally sell you to the highest bidder?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not looking for them.”

“Well, you’d better start looking,” said Potemkin. “Because that’s the way it’s going to be.”

“I don’t think so,” said Penelope seriously. “Very soon now the Yankee Clipper will decide I would be a better War Chief than you.” She paused. “Long before you have a chance to sell me.” She looked at the doll again. “I really have to go and feed her,” she said apologetically, and began walking toward the doorway through which she had entered.

Potemkin watched her walk away. Then, just before she stepped into the corridor, he called out:

“Not that I believe any of this for an instant—but if I did, which planet do you think I’d let you off on?”

She re-entered the room and walked to the viewscreen at which she had originally been staring. She peered intently at it for a moment, then pointed to a yellow star.

“There are eleven planets circling this star,” she said. “We want the fourth one.”

“Have you been there before?” he asked.

“No.”

“Then why did you pick it out from all the rest?”

She smiled at him. “It looks very pretty.”

“It looks like every other Class G star in the Cluster.” He stared at her. “Are you sure you don’t have any friends there?”

“I’m sure.”

“But you’ll find some?” he continued.

“One, maybe.”

“Just one?” he said disbelievingly.

“Sometimes one is enough,” said Penelope. She cuddled the doll again. “I really have to go now, or Maryanne is going to be mad at me.”

She left the room as Potemkin stared silently after her, and a few minutes later she was back in her own spacious quarters. The Mouse, who had been napping on her bed, sat up abruptly at the sound of the door sliding into the wall.

“I’m sorry,” said Penelope. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“It’s just as well,” replied the Mouse, throwing back her tufted satin comforter. “If you hadn’t, I’d never have been able to get to sleep tonight.”

“It’s always night in space,” Penelope pointed out.

“This is a military ship. It runs on Galactic Standard time.” The Mouse rubbed her eyes. “How are you and Maryanne getting along?”

“She needs some new clothes,” said Penelope. “She can’t go around just wearing part of a blanket.”

“Then we’ll make some for her.”

“Could we?” asked the little girl eagerly.

“I don’t know why not,” said the Mouse, looking around the room. “You know, if we could find some of the fabric they used for our furniture, she’d be better dressed than anyone else on the ship.”

“That would be nice,” agreed Penelope.

“How did Maryanne enjoy her tour of the ship?”

“I don’t think she likes it here very much,” said Penelope.

“I’m sorry to hear that, because I’ve got a feeling she’s stuck here for a while.”

“Maybe not,” said the little girl.

The Mouse stared at her. “Oh?”

“There’s a very pretty planet not far away,” continued Penelope. “I think that Maryanne would be much happier there.”

“Who do you think is going to let Maryanne off on this very pretty planet?” asked the Mouse cautiously.

“Oh, I don’t know,” answered the little girl. “Someone.”

“Someone like the Yankee Clipper?” persisted the Mouse.

Penelope shook her head. “No. I don’t think so.”

“I know he seems pleasant, Penelope, but he’s a very dangerous man.”

“He won’t hurt you,” said Penelope. “You’re my only friend.” She suddenly remembered Maryanne. “Well, my best friend, anyway. I’d never let anyone hurt you.”

The Mouse smiled ruefully. “That’s what I’m supposed to say to you.”

“I’m sorry,” said Penelope, flustered. “I didn’t mean to be bossy. Not with you.”

The Mouse got up, walked across the wide expanse of floor separating them, and hugged her warmly. “You’re not being bossy, Penelope. You’re being caring, and that’s a good thing to be. I just don’t want you endangering yourself. You have a marvelous gift, but you’re still a little girl, and you don’t know what some of these people can be like when you make them mad.”

“Yes I do,” said Penelope. “I can see what they’re like.” She placed a finger to her temple. “In here.”

“Then you know better than to cross them.”

“But we have to get to the planet.”

“What’s so important about this planet?”

Penelope shrugged. “I don’t know yet.”

“But you’re sure we should go there?” persisted the Mouse.

The girl nodded her head. “Yes.”

“When do you think you’ll know why?”

“Soon,” said Penelope with total conviction. “Very soon.”

Then she remembered Maryanne, and as the Mouse watched her with a puzzled expression on her face, she spent the next few minutes cleaning the doll and readjusting its tiny robe, to all outward appearances a little blonde girl without a care in the world, rather than a valuable prisoner aboard the most powerful pirate ship in the Quinellus Cluster.

20

Penelope was sound asleep when a hand reached out and shook her gently by the shoulder. She moaned and turned away, but the hand continued shaking her.

“Go away!” she muttered.

“Wake up, kid,” whispered a masculine voice.

“Leave me alone!”

“We’ve got to talk.”

The Mouse awoke, sat up, looked across the relatively spacious cabin, and saw the slender man sitting on the edge of Penelope’s bed.

“What do you want?” she demanded.

“This doesn’t concern you,” answered Potemkin.

“Anything to do with her concerns me.”

“I’m not going to hurt her, lady,” said Potemkin. “But I’ve got to talk to her.”

“Go away,” said Penelope again.

“Kid, you can wake up peacefully, or I can turn the lights on and throw a bucket of cold water over you,” said Potemkin. “It’s up to you.”

Penelope slowly sat up in her bed, rubbing her eyes.

“Oh,” she said, upon recognizing Potemkin. “It’s you.”

“Penelope, if you don’t want to talk to him, I can call for help,” said the Mouse.

“He is help,” said Penelope, leaving the Mouse totally confused.

“Maybe I am, maybe I’m not,” said Potemkin. “First I’ve got a couple of questions to ask.”

“You expected him?” asked the Mouse.

“Not this soon, but yes,” said Penelope.

“Does this have something to do with that walk around the ship you took this afternoon?” persisted the Mouse.

“Ask your questions later, lady,” said Potemkin. “I’m in a hurry.”

“It’s all right, Mouse,” said Penelope reassuringly. “Really it is. He won’t hurt us.”

“Don’t be too sure of that,” said Potemkin.

“If you were going to hurt us, I’d know,” said Penelope with no trace of fear or apprehension. “You’re here to talk.”

“I could change my mind.”

“You’re a smart man, and that would be a stupid thing to do,” said the little girl, staring at him unblinking.

He met her gaze for a moment, then lowered his eyes briefly.

“All right,” he said. “I need some answers, and I need them fast.”

“I’ll answer anything I can,” said Penelope.

“Don’t answer anything yet,” said the Mouse. She turned to Potemkin. “I’ve already found three spy devices, and I’ve probably missed some.”

“No problem,” said Potemkin. “My own man will monitoring us during this watch.” He turned to Penelope. “I’m not ready to take on the Clipper yet. He’s got too many people loyal to him. I don’t think I can pull it off.”

“Are you sure?” said the girl.

“Damn it—we’re talking about mutiny against the most successful pirate in the Cluster! It’s not worth the risk, unless you can guarantee that I’ll succeed.”

“I told you—I can’t see what will happen after I’m not with you any longer.”

“I know … but I came up with another way to get you to your planet.”

“Whose planet?” interjected the Mouse.

“Shut up, lady—I’m talking to the girl!” Potemkin turned back to Penelope. “What if I arrange for the auction to take place on the planet?” He paused. “The Clipper would have to take you there to deliver you.”

“He wouldn’t take us alone,” said Penelope. “He’d have lots of guards.”

Potemkin laughed mirthlessly. “Are you trying to convince me at this late date that you can’t get away from a bunch of guards if you want to? Hell, you’ve gotten away from bounty hunters all across the Democracy and the Inner Frontier.”

“I just said that he’d have a lot of guards with him.”

“What will happen to him on the planet?”

Penelope shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“I don’t believe that for a second,” said Potemkin. “Will he live or die?”

“In some futures he lives, in some he dies. In some I can’t tell.”

“In how many of these futures does he figure out that he’s on the planet because I don’t want you on the ship?”

“Very few,” said Penelope.

“And in those very few, what kind of action does he take against me?”

“Once he leaves me, I can’t see what he’ll do.”

“If he dies, how will you kill him?” demanded Potemkin. “Is there any way it can be connected to me?”

“I won’t kill him at all,” said Penelope. “I’m just a little girl.”

He jerked a thumb in the Mouse’s direction. “Does she do it?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“So if he dies on the planet, it can’t be blamed on me?” continued Potemkin.

“If he dies on the planet, it can’t be blamed on you,” agreed Penelope.

“And if he doesn’t die and you get away, it still won’t be blamed on me?”

“I don’t know. But if he doesn’t know that you chose the planet, if he thinks the others did…”

“Okay,” said Potemkin. “That’s what I needed to know.”

“Will you arrange to set us down there?” asked Penelope.

“I’ll have to think about it.”

“You really don’t want us to stay on the ship.”

“I know.”

“And you don’t want to hurt us.”

“I said I’d think about it,” said Potemkin irritably. He got to his feet and walked to the door. “You’ll know when I’ve made up my mind.”

Then he was out in the corridor and the door slid shut behind him, and the Mouse was staring at Penelope, a puzzled expression on her face.

“Do you want to tell me about that?” she asked at last.

“We have to get to the planet I told you about,” answered Penelope. “Potemkin will see to it that we do.”

“Potemkin? Is that his name?”

Penelope nodded. “Mischa Potemkin. Isn’t that a funny name?”

“You’re sure he’ll set us down on this planet that you’re so anxious to reach?”

“Pretty sure,” said Penelope with a shrug, as she picked up Maryanne and began straightening her tiny red blanket.

The Mouse frowned again. “You’re the Yankee Clipper’s prisoner, and Potemkin works for the Clipper. They stand to make millions of credits by selling you to any of the people who are trying to find you. Why should he suddenly be willing to put you off on a planet and never see you again?”

“I explained to him why it would be a smart thing to do,” said Penelope, smoothing Maryanne’s hair. “When can we get Maryanne some new outfits?”

“I don’t know,” said the Mouse distractedly. “We can look around the ship tomorrow and see if there’s any material we can use.”

“Will it hurt her if I wash her in the Dryshower?”

“No, I don’t suppose so. Can we go back to talking about Potemkin for a minute?”

Penelope sighed. “If you want.” She held Maryanne up and stared at her. “But I want to wash her soon. She needs a bath every day, or she might get sick.”

“Try to pay attention, Penelope,” said the Mouse, keeping her voice calm and soothing with some effort. “A very dangerous man is willing to cost his even more dangerous boss millions of credits and set us down on a strange planet.” She paused briefly. “Can you tell me why he would do such a thing?”

“If I told you, you’d laugh,” said Penelope.

“Not even if I thought it was funny,” the Mouse assured her.

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

“He’s afraid of me,” said Penelope. She giggled. “Isn’t that funny—a pirate being afraid of a little girl?”

“Why is he afraid of you?” asked the Mouse sharply. “What did you two talk about this afternoon?”

“Oh, lots of things.” Penelope seemed to lose interest. “I really have to wash Maryanne now, Mouse.” She walked to the bathroom compartment and paused at the door. “Do you want to come into the Dryshower with us?”

The Mouse shook her head. “No, you go ahead.”

“You’ll still be here when I get out?”

“Where would I go?” asked the Mouse ironically.

“I don’t know,” said the little girl. “But sometimes I think you’re upset with me, and I’m afraid you’ll leave me and I’ll be alone again.”

“I’ll never leave you, Penelope,” said the Mouse sincerely. “If you can see the future, you know that.”

“I can hardly ever see the good things,” explained Penelope. “Just the bad ones.”

“Well, if leaving you is a bad thing, you should be able to see it if I was going to do it.”

Penelope’s face brightened suddenly. “That’s right!” she exclaimed happily. She ran over to the Mouse and threw her arms around her. “I love you, Mouse!”

“I love you, Penelope,” said the Mouse, returning her hug. “Now go take your Dryshower, and then maybe we’ll talk some more.”

Penelope emerged from the Dryshower a few minutes later, dressed in a fresh outfit.

“Where’s Maryanne?” asked the Mouse.

“I left her there.”

“There? Where?”

“In the bathroom.”

“Why?”

“Because if you’re going to talk about Potemkin and the Yankee Clipper, I don’t want her to hear what you say. It might frighten her.”

“It doesn’t frighten you, though, does it?” asked the Mouse.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because they’re not going to hurt us.”

The Mouse frowned, trying to find the best way to keep Penelope’s interest from flagging. “Well, it frightens me,” she said at last. “Maybe you can explain to me why I shouldn’t be frightened.”

“The Yankee Clipper won’t hurt us because we’re worth so much money,” said the girl.

“He can hurt us without killing us.”

“He won’t, though,” said Penelope. Then she added thoughtfully, “At least, not while we’re on the ship. I can’t see much farther ahead.”

“What about Potemkin?”

“He’d like to hurt us, but he’s afraid to.”

“Why?”

“Why does he want to hurt us, or why is he afraid to?” asked Penelope.

“Both.”

“He wants to hurt us, because I explained to him that I would be a better War Chief than he is.”

“I see,” said the Mouse. She paused for a moment. “Did he believe you?”

“Why shouldn’t he?” replied Penelope. “It’s the truth.”

“Then why is he afraid to hurt you?”

“Because the Yankee Clipper knows that I can see the future. He hasn’t figured out yet that I’d be a good War Chief, but if Potemkin hurts me, he’ll try to think of why, and then pretty soon he’ll know.”

“That must have been some conversation you had with Potemkin this afternoon,” said the Mouse.

“He was very upset,” said Penelope, smiling at the memory. Suddenly she giggled again. “You should have seen his face! It got all red.”

“I’ll just bet it did,” said the Mouse with a smile. “So you convinced him the best way to get rid of you was to put you on a planet?”

“To put us on one,” Penelope corrected her. “I wouldn’t ever leave you behind, Mouse.”

“I appreciate that,” said the Mouse. “Did you suggest that he take over the ship and put the Yankee Clipper down with us as well?”

Penelope shook her head. “That was his idea, but it wasn’t a very good one. It makes more sense to let the Yankee Clipper take us there to deliver us to whoever wants to buy me.”

“You’re not worried about that?” asked the Mouse.

“No,” answered the little girl.

“Why not?” persisted the Mouse. “He’ll probably take twenty or thirty of his men down with him to guard us.”

“That’s all right,” said Penelope with no show of concern.

“Why is it all right?”

“Because I’ll find a friend there.”

“But you don’t know who?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know this friend will be able to help us?”

Penelope shrugged. “I just know.”

“You’re putting an awfully big burden on a friend you’ve never met,” said the Mouse.

“Oh, he’s not the only one who can help us,” said Penelope with a shrug.

“He isn’t?” said the Mouse, surprised. “Who else is there?”

“There’s the Forever Kid.”

“He’s on this planet?”

“He will be, once his ship tells him we’ve landed.”

“You didn’t mention Carlos Mendoza,” noted the Mouse. “Isn’t he still with the Kid?”

Penelope frowned. “Yes, he is—but he doesn’t want to help me.”

“I’ve told you before: I won’t let him hurt you.”

“You can’t stop him,” said the girl. She sighed. “Maybe my new friend will be able to.”

“Don’t worry about Carlos,” said the Mouse firmly. “Trust me: he does a lot of things I disapprove of, but killing children isn’t one of them.”

“He frightens me.”

“I can’t figure out why,” said the Mouse. “You’ve seen Three-Fisted Ollie and Cemetery Smith and the Golden Duke and all these other killers. Why does a small, middle-aged man frighten you worse than they do?”

“Because none of the others wanted to kill me,” explained Penelope. “They were just doing their jobs.”

“The Golden Duke would have killed you if King Tout had ordered him to.”

“That’s different,” said Penelope.

“How?”

“He didn’t hate me. Neither did any of the others, not even 32.” She paused. “But the Iceman doesn’t want to kill me for money, or because someone tells him to.” A tear trickled down her cheek. “He doesn’t even know me, and he wants me dead.” Two more tears followed the first one. “I don’t know why. I’ve never done anything to him.”

“You’re wrong,” said the Mouse soothingly. “He really doesn’t want to hurt you.”

“I’m not wrong,” insisted Penelope.

“Then he’s destined to be disappointed,” said the Mouse earnestly.

“Why did you ever like him, Mouse?” asked Penelope.

“I was lonely,” said the Mouse with a sigh, “and sometimes lonely people make poor choices.”

“Were you lonely when you found me?”

“No,” said the Mouse, hugging her. “You were the best choice I ever made.”

“Really?” asked Penelope, brightening somewhat.

“Really.”

“And we’ll always be together?”

“Always,” promised the Mouse.

Then Penelope remembered Maryanne, and brought her out of the bathroom and began playing with her. The Mouse watched her for almost an hour as the little girl lavished her love and attention upon the rag doll. Then the Mouse fell asleep, and a few moments later Penelope followed suit.

It was early morning when the door slid into the wall and the Yankee Clipper entered their compartment.

“Doesn’t anyone ever knock?” demanded the Mouse irritably.

“Wake up and pay attention,” announced the pirate, walking over he announced, walking over to a chair and seating himself. “There’s been a change of plans: It seems that some of the parties who are interested in the girl have decided that they wouldn’t feel comfortable transacting their business aboard what they consider to be the flagship of a pirate fleet.” He smiled wryly. “I suppose I’d feel much the same way if I were in their place.” He paused. “So we’ll be transferring the two of you to a nearby planet, and we’ll complete our business there.”

“Could you identify these parties?” asked the Mouse.

“Why bother yourselves with details?” he replied. “You’ll know who makes the high bid for her, and the rest don’t really matter.”

“So it’s to be an auction?”

The Yankee Clipper laughed. “She won’t be placed on a block, with an auctioneer showing off her teeth, if that’s what you mean. I’ll allow the various interested parties to ascertain that she’s in my possession, and then I’ll determine which reward I choose to accept.”

“The highest one, no doubt,” said the Mouse dryly.

“Not necessarily,” said the Yankee Clipper seriously. “The Democracy wants her, as does the Canphorite Confederation. I’ve had certain, shall we say, disagreements with both governments; a blanket pardon from either one, in addition to money, might weigh heavily in my consideration of the various rewards.”

“Why?” asked the Mouse, curious. “Do you plan to stop being a pirate?”

“Certainly not,” he answered. “But at the moment, I cannot invest my money within the Democracy or the Confederation without putting it at risk. Furthermore,” he added, “I would like to think that if worst came to worst, there would be a government somewhere that would allow me sanctuary.”

“Seems like a defeatist attitude to me,” said the Mouse.

“Does it?” asked the Yankee Clipper. “It seems like a fiscally and politically sound attitude to me. After all, who knows what tomorrow may bring,”—suddenly he grinned—“other than a certain little girl, that is?”

“When do we leave?” asked Penelope.

“1100 hours, ship’s time,” answered the pirate. “This ship is too large to land, so we’ll transfer to a shuttlecraft.”

“‘We?’” repeated the Mouse.

“Absolutely,” said the Yankee Clipper. “I’m coming with you.” He smiled. “I know it’s irregular for a captain to leave his vessel in unsecured territory, but I think unusual situations call for unusual responses.” He turned to Penelope. “I have no idea what you can do to me if I stay aboard the ship. Probably I have nothing to worry about, but I try never to deal in probabilities when I can deal in certainties. And it’s certain that you won’t cause the shuttlecraft to crash if you’re in it, so I plan to be in it too.” He paused. “We’re going to become great friends, Penelope, my child. I don’t plan to let you out of my sight until the transaction is complete, and I’ll always have at least half a dozen armed men surrounding us.” He smiled at her again. “If I choke on a meal, if I have a stroke, if anything at all untoward befalls me, they will have orders to kill you instantly. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” said Penelope.

“Good,” said the Yankee Clipper. “Then we might as well make the best of the circumstances.” He paused. “At least we shouldn’t be bored. We’ll be transacting our business on one of the most interesting planets in the Cluster.”

“Oh?” said the Mouse.

He nodded. “It’s a world I’ve always meant to visit, but I simply haven’t found the time until now.”

“What’s it’s name?” asked the Mouse.

“Calliope,” replied the Yankee Clipper.

21

Calliope was known throughout the Quinellus Cluster as a pleasure planet and, to be sure, it had more than its share of whorehouses and drug dens and perverse amusements—but that is a very narrow definition of the word “pleasure”, and Calliope was, after all, not just a small section of a jaded city, but an entire planet.

In the western hemisphere it boasted a dinosaur park, a 22,000-square-mile reserve housing some 80,000 gargantuan, warm-blooded reptiles from the primeval planet of Quantos VIII. An inland ocean was filled with imported predators and prey from Pinnipes II, and each of the hundreds of hotels lining the beaches supplied not only a fleet of fishing boats but also a number of small but comfortable submarines for their clientele’s viewing pleasure.

There were enormous ranches on which the customers could participate in real cattle drives, huge rings where the matadors would face the brave bulls (and whatever other brave but doomed animals were released in them), a dazzling array of safari excursions, and golf courses by the thousands.

Just beyond the 19,000-hectare amusement park near the eastern hemisphere’s spaceport was a racetrack that could accommodate any of the seventeen species of animals from as many oxygen worlds upon which pari-mutuel betting was permitted. There were even clones of the now-extinct horse of Earth, and Man o’ War, Citation, Secretariat and Seattle Slew met one another and their most famous competitors on a regular basis.

Fully one-third of the Great Eastern Continent was set aside as a hunting reserve for safari enthusiasts, and so well-known was it among the afficionados of blood sports that, far from bragging about the trophies that had been taken, the government actually boasted about the number of hunters who had been killed by the animals they were stalking.

Mount Ramsey boasted the second-longest continuous ski slope in the galaxy, and it was said that an enthusiast could begin his descent before dawn and still be racing downhill when nightfall occurred.

There were daily vehicle races on the salt flats, daily boat races down the River Jordan, daily sporting championships of a thousand different types in the dozen huge stadiums that had been erected across the planet. There were nine cities, of which Xanadu was the largest. Each city supplied an endless array of round-the-clock entertainment, restaurants, and shopping; two of the nine catered almost exclusively to aliens, while a third, which bore the name of New Gomorrah, possessed seven different multi-environment hotels as well as an enclosed amusement park for chlorine-breathers.

Though it was within the Quinellus Cluster and hence officially a part of the Inner Frontier, Calliope was actually run by a number of cartels from the Spiral Arm and the Galactic Rim, and was patronized, in increasing numbers, by vacationers and sightseers from within the Democracy itself.

The Yankee Clipper’s party, consisting of himself, the Mouse, Penelope Bailey, and eighteen armed guards, landed at the space port near Xanadu, and soon checked into a very exclusive, very private hotel on the outskirts of the city, not too far from one of the smaller amusement parks. The Mouse and Penelope shared the pirate’s palatial suite, but the doors and windows were under constant surveillance by his men, who worked their jobs in six-man shifts. Food, drink, and even new clothing for Maryanne, was brought to the suite, but neither Penelope nor the Mouse was allowed to leave it, and whenever the Yankee Clipper found it necessary to leave, one of his men entered and kept his weapon trained on the Mouse until the pirate returned.

On the morning of their second day there, the Yankee Clipper, his beard newly trimmed, his clothes even more brilliant than usual, entered the parlor of their suite and seated himself on a large leather sofa.

“Well, another day or two and you’ll be on your way, young lady,” he said to Penelope.

“Who’s bidding for her?” asked the Mouse.

The pirate chuckled. “You might better ask who isn’t. This is a very popular little girl we’ve got here. The Democracy wants her, the Confederation wants her, two scientific institutions want her, a religious foundation wants her, and nine private parties want her.” He paused, lit a cigar, and balanced it on the edge of an exquisite crystal ashtray. “Potemkin tells me that they should all have arrived here by tomorrow night. We’ll have a nice dinner, exchange a few pleasantries, and transact our business—and then,” he added, “I can finally stop worrying about what you might do to me.”

“I can’t do anything to you,” said Penelope, standing before a huge window that overlooked the city center. “I’m your prisoner.”

“You’ve been other people’s prisoner in the past,” said the pirate. “Most of them aren’t around to tell what happened to them, but I’ll wager that it wasn’t pleasant.”

“They were bad men,” said Penelope with a shrug.

“I hope you’ll remember just how well I’m treating you,” said the Yankee Clipper.

“You’re the worst of them all.”

“Nonsense. I saved you from King Tout, didn’t I?”

“That doesn’t make you a good man,” replied the girl. “Just a greedy one.”

“I’m also a very untrusting one,” shot back the Yankee Clipper, picking up his cigar and taking a puff of it. “If anything happens to me while I’m on the planet, my men have orders to kill your friend here.”

“If anything happens to you, Mouse will have nothing to do with it,” said Penelope, unable to hide a worried expression from her face.

“Oh, they’ll try to kill you too,” said the pirate. “But I don’t know if it can be done. On the other hand, I’m sure they can kill the Mouse, and she’ll be the one they shoot first.” He smiled at her. “I hope you’ll remember that.”

“You’re a bad man,” said Penelope. “You’re going to be very sorry you treated us like this.”

“Nonsense,” scoffed the Yankee Clipper. “I’ve treated you like visiting royalty.” He gestured vaguely with a hand. “Look at this parlor. Elegant furniture, beautiful views, original oil paintings on the walls, room service to cater to your every whim. I even had the bar stocked with fruit juice and soft drinks, just for you.”

“You know what I mean,” said Penelope seriously. “I may just be a little girl, but I have a good memory. Someday you’ll be sorry.”

“Someday I’ll be dead of old age, too,” said the pirate with a shrug. “In the meantime, though, I suggest you think about what will happen to your friend if any harm befalls me.”

He walked out of the parlor, and the door closed behind him.

“You’ve got one Standard day to find your unknown friend,” remarked the Mouse. “Or, more to the point, he has one Standard day to find us, since it doesn’t seem very likely that we’re going to get out of this suite unless someone kills all of the Clipper’s guards.”

“We’ll get out,” said Penelope with certainty.

“How?”

The little girl shrugged. “I’m not sure yet. There are a lot of futures.”

“There always were,” said the Mouse. “The question is: can you influence some of them enough to get us out of here?”

Penelope made no reply, and since she seemed to be concentrating on something that only she could see or fathom, the Mouse slipped a disk into the holo player and watched a selection of three-dimensional advertisements of the local entertainments. She learned that she had just missed a Wild West pageant, recreated from Earth’s ancient past, as well as a much-ballyhooed match for the freehand middleweight championship of the Inner Frontier. Upcoming attractions included a visit from the Cluster’s most famous circus, the conclusion of a foot race around Calliope’s equator that had begun 82 days previously, and a recreation of the decisive battle of the Sett War, which would take place on the sprawling savannah some 15 miles to the west of Xanadu.

“Damn!” muttered the Mouse. “It just isn’t fair!”

“What isn’t?” asked Penelope.

“All my life I’ve dreamed of a world like this, teeming with fat men and fatter wallets,” said the Mouse, “and now that I’m finally here, I’m locked away in a hotel so close to all that money I can almost taste it.” A wistful expression came over her face. “Do you know what Merlin and I could do here, how much money we could make?”

“I thought I was your partner,” said Penelope in hurt tones.

“You are,” the Mouse assured her.

“Then why are you talking about Merlin?”

“Because Merlin is my partner, too—and he had the deftest fingers I ever saw,” answered the Mouse. “You and I are good at other things—but Merlin could have started at one side of this hotel’s lobby, walked to the other side, and picked up 20 wallets by the time he got there.” She smiled. “And oh, what he could have done circulating in the crowd at the racetrack.”

“I can make you more money than he could,” said Penelope.

“I don’t doubt it.”

“We don’t need him.”

“We need all the help we can get, from anyone who will give it to us,” said the Mouse.

“Not from Merlin.”

“Why are you suddenly so concerned with Merlin?” asked the Mouse. “You haven’t mentioned him in weeks.”

“We were happy without him,” said Penelope.

The Mouse sighed. “You have to understand that you don’t stop liking a friend, or being loyal to him, just because you’ve found someone you like better.”

Penelope stared at her.

“Do you really like me better?”

“Yes,” said the Mouse. “But don’t forget—Merlin has been leading Three-Fisted Ollie and Cemetery Smith and some other bounty hunters away from us for weeks now.” She paused. “What kind of friends would we be if we didn’t want him back after he risked his life for us?”

“You’re right,” said Penelope after some consideration. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” said the Mouse soothingly. “You don’t have to apologize.”

“I just worry about being alone again.”

“I worry about how we’re going to get out of here,” responded the Mouse. She started making another round of the parlor—her fourteenth since arriving—testing the walls, the windows, the floors, the ventilation system, looking for weak points and finding none.

“There are lots of ways,” said Penelope, as the Mouse continued walking around the parlor, probing for possible means of escape. “I just don’t know which one I can make happen yet.”

“Do they concern your friend?”

Penelope shook her head. “He doesn’t even know who we are.”

“Then how can he be your friend?”

The little girl shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know.”

“Are you certain you’re right?”

“I think so,” said Penelope. “Picking the right future isn’t as easy as it used to be. I see more things now, things I don’t always understand.”

“What kind of things?” asked the Mouse, finally completing her latest inspection of the premises and turning back to the little girl.

“I don’t know,” said Penelope. “Just things.”

“Pictures? Images? Whole scenes?”

“I can’t explain it,” answered the girl. “It’s just much more complicated than it was.” She paused, frowning. “You’d think it would get easier now that I’m getting bigger.”

“Maybe you’re getting more powerful,” suggested the Mouse. “Maybe you see more things and can influence more things.”

“Do you really think so?”

“It’s possible.”

“Then why can’t I always understand what I see?” asked Penelope.

“Because you’re still a little girl, and you don’t have enough experience to know all the things that you’re seeing, all the permutations of each choice you make.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

The Mouse smiled. “When you do, then perhaps you’ll also know what you’re seeing.”

“I hope so,” said Penelope earnestly. “It’s very confusing. I used to see everything so very clearly. Now there are some things that I don’t see at all, that I just seem to know, and other things that I don’t understand.”

“I’m sure someday it will all make sense,” said the Mouse.

“I’m glad you can’t see what I see, Mouse,” said Penelope. “Sometimes it can be very confusing—and scary.”

“Scary?”

Penelope nodded. “I can see the Iceman and the Forever Kid finding us, and I can see the Yankee Clipper killing you when he finds out.”

“Oh?” said the Mouse apprehensively.

“I won’t let it happen,” said Penelope. “There are lots of other futures.”

“I certainly hope so.”

“But I don’t understand all of them.”

“Just pick one in which I don’t get killed, and I’ll settle for it,” said the Mouse.

“You won’t get killed,” Penelope assured her.

“Are Carlos and the Kid on Calliope already?” asked the Mouse.

“I don’t know,” said the girl. “But I know they’ll find this room by tonight, so if they’re not here, they’re very close.” Suddenly she tensed.

“What is it?”

“In some of the futures they die, and in some they don’t.”

“Let’s hope for one in which they don’t,” said the Mouse.

“That’s what I’m seeing now,” said Penelope.

“Then why do you look so upset?”

“Because if they both come into this room, they’re going to try to kill each other.”

“Why?” asked the Mouse, puzzled.

“Because of me.”

“You’re absolutely sure?”

Penelope frowned. “No. The Iceman hasn’t made up his mind yet.”

“About what?”

“About whether to kill me or not.”

“Well, if he tries, the Kid won’t let him.”

Penelope closed her eyes and seemed to concentrate. Finally she opened them, visibly shaken.

“I don’t know. I can’t see who wins.”

“Carlos is a middle-aged man who probably hasn’t fought anyone in years,” said the Mouse. “The Kid is a professional killer. I’ve seen him in action. There’s no way that Carlos can beat him.”

“I still can’t see,” repeated Penelope. Suddenly she started trembling. “We have to get away from here, Mouse.”

“That’s what I keep saying.”

“You don’t understand,” said the girl urgently. “I don’t want to be here when the Iceman gets here. If he wants me dead, and he can kill the Forever Kid, I’m not strong enough to stop him yet.”

“Yet?” repeated the Mouse.

“Someday I may be, but not yet.” Penelope’s face was ashen white. “Don’t let him kill me, Mouse!”

“I won’t,” said the Mouse, putting her arms around the frightened little girl, and wondering how strong Penelope planned to become if she lived long enough.

22

The door slid open and the Yankee Clipper stepped into the parlor.

“I’m sorry to trouble you lovely ladies,” he said. “We’ll be just a minute.”

He was followed by a pair of bounty hunters Mouse recognized from Westerly. One of them took a couple of steps toward Penelope, who stared at him curiously but without any trace of fear, then nodded to the pirate. A moment later both bounty hunters left.

“The interested parties are beginning to arrive,” explained the Yankee Clipper. “Each, of course, wants to make sure that I can really deliver Penelope Bailey, so I’m afraid we’ll be intruding upon your privacy from time to time.”

“I can tell how it upsets you,” said the Mouse sardonically.

“Believe it or not, I take no pleasure in selling human beings,” said the pirate. “But we’re talking about a great deal of money here—and frankly, I’ll feel much safer once she’s halfway across the galaxy.” He paused. “And of course, she’s not being sold into slavery. Given the price that she commands, I’m sure she’ll be treated with the utmost consideration and kept in luxury.” He smiled again. “At least, it comforts me to think so.”

He left the parlor, and one of his guards entered a moment later.

Penelope busied herself dressing Maryanne with the new clothes she had ordered earlier in the day, while the Mouse activated the holovision and tried to concentrate on the results of the day’s seemingly endless procession of sporting events. Twice more the Yankee Clipper brought people up to the suite—once it was a member of the Democracy’s military, once a nondescript woman who might have been anything from a bureaucrat to a bounty hunter—and finally the Mouse ordered lunch for herself and Penelope.

A waiter from room service arrived about ten minutes later, guiding a small aircart that held their meals. He waited patiently while the guard searched him, then walked across the room to the polished hardwood table where the Mouse was sitting.

“Your lunch, madam,” said the waiter.

The moment she heard his voice the Mouse turned from the holoscreen to look at his face.

The waiter, his back to the guard, winked at her and smiled, and suddenly the Mouse felt an enormous sense of relief.

“Where will the young lady be taking her lunch?” asked the waiter.

“Right here,” answered the Mouse, hoping that her voice didn’t reflect her excitement.

“As you wish,” said the waiter, arranging a place setting for Penelope, who was still playing with Maryanne and seemed oblivious to his presence.

“Excuse me,” said the waiter, turning to the guard, “but there seems to be an extra dessert here. Would you care for it?” He smiled ingratiatingly. “There will, of course, be no additional charge.”

The guard shrugged. “Why not?”

The waiter placed a covered dish at the far end of the table.

“Bring it over,” said the guard.

“Certainly,” said the waiter. He picked up the dish and walked across the room, stopping in front of the guard.

“What is it?” asked the guard.

“One moment, sir,” said the waiter, removing the lid from the dish and handing it to the guard.

The guard leaned forward to take the dish, and suddenly found himself staring down the barrel of a small laser pistol.

“Where the hell did you get that?” he demanded.

“The hand is quicker than the eye,” replied the waiter. He reached over his head with his free hand and suddenly pulled a bouquet of flowers out of the air. “Take a sniff,” he said, holding them up to the guard’s nose. “I know they’re not roses, but this is less painful and less permanent than forcing me to use the gun.”

“What are you—?” began the guard, who collapsed before he could complete his question.

The waiter looked at the unconscious body for a moment, then tossed the bouquet on top of it and turned to face the Mouse and Penelope.

“Hi, Merlin,” said Penelope.

“Am I ever glad to see you!” said the Mouse, getting to her feet. “What are you doing here?”

“Save your questions for later,” said Merlin. “We’re got to move fast. I shorted out the monitoring device just before I entered the suite, but it’ll only take them a couple of minutes to figure out that it’s not an electronic failure.”

“Are the other guards still outside in the corridor?” asked the Mouse.

Merlin nodded. “Mean-looking bunch. There’s no way we can get out past them.”

He walked to the window and examined it. “Is it rigged?” he asked the Mouse.

“Of course not,” she answered. “We’re seventeen floors up. Who is going to break in?”

“You’ve got a point,” admitted Merlin.

As they were speaking, Merlin examined the huge picture window, then made a fist and pressed his ring up against the glass, very near the bottom. “I just love magician’s props,” he said with a grin.

The Mouse could hear the whirring of a tiny motor inside the ring, and it cut through the glass with no difficulty. Merlin completed about 320 degrees of a large circle, perhaps 30 inches in diameter, then reached into his pocket for a small suction device, which he attached to the glass. He then cut the remainder of the circle, and used the device to pull the glass into the room.

“Even if the building has enough handholds, someone’s bound to see me before I climb down to the ground,” said the Mouse. “And even if no one saw me, there’s no way the two of you could follow me down the side of a building.”

“You’re not going down, you’re going up,” said Merlin.

“Up?” she repeated.

He nodded. “This is the penthouse. The roof’s about eight feet above the window.”

“And what about you and Penelope?”

Merlin took off his timepiece and pressed a hidden release.

“Here,” he said, withdrawing a thin, incredibly strong wire from the band and attaching it to the Mouse’s waist. “It’s a titanium alloy with a tight molecular bonding; it’ll hold more than a ton before it snaps. Once you get to the roof, tie your end to something secure, and then Penelope and I will climb up.”

“You can’t climb hand-over-hand on that thing,” said the Mouse. “It’ll cut right through your fingers.”

Merlin smiled. “I won’t have to. There’s a little pulley mechanism in there that’ll reel the wire in.”

“It’ll dislocate your arm.”

He smiled. “I’m wearing a harness beneath my waiter’s jacket. I’ll be fine.”

The Mouse looked unconvinced. “Have you ever tried this stunt before?”

“No … but I got the wristband from a friend who does it every night in the circus.”

“Why did he part with it?”

“He was in hospital getting a pair of prosthetic legs,” answered Merlin. “He hadn’t any use for it.” He saw her worried expression. “He was there because of a different trick, not this one.”

“I don’t know…” said the Mouse.

“Please, Mouse,” said Penelope. “We have to hurry!”

“All right,” said the Mouse instantly.

She ducked her head, stepped through the hole in the window onto the ledge, quickly and expertly found some handholds and footholds, and began making her way up the outer wall of the building.

“Careful,” whispered Merlin, more to himself than to the Mouse, who was now halfway to the roof. “Careful.”

“It’s all right,” said Penelope, picking up Maryanne from the floor, where she had been playing with her before Merlin arrived. “She’s not going to fall.”

“I wish I was as sure as you,” said Merlin, craning his neck to watch the Mouse.

Penelope walked over to the table and calmly ate one of the sandwiches that Merlin had delivered in his guise as a hotel waiter.

“Don’t you give a damn what happens to her?” he demanded irritably when he saw what she was doing.

“I told you—she’s not going to fall.”

“You’d better be right,” he said. “Because if you’re not, I’m not only going to lose a partner, but you and I are still stuck in this room.”

Penelope held a final bite of the sandwich up to Maryanne’s mouth, then placed it on the table and carefully dabbed at the doll’s lips with a linen napkin. Then she tucked the doll under her arm and walked to the window.

“She should be there now,” she announced.

“She is,” said Merlin with a sigh of relief. He turned to Penelope. “Let’s figure out the logistics here. We can’t both fit through the hole together, and if we break the glass and it crashes down to the street, we’ll give ourselves away.” He examined the window again. “Grab a couple of napkins from the table.”

Penelope smiled and held up the napkins she had brought with her.

“So you figured it out, too?” he said. “Smart kid.” He attached the wire to his harness. “Be very careful going through the hole here. Then, once you’re on the ledge, wrap your hands in the napkins and hold onto the edge of the glass while I climb through.” His gaze went from the girl to the ledge to the roof and back again. “I don’t suppose you’re strong enough to hold on to my back?”

“I don’t think so,” answered Penelope.

“All right,” he continued after a moment’s thought. “Once I get out on the ledge too, I’ll lift you up until you can wrap your arms around my neck and your legs around my waist. That way I’ll be able to keep an arm around you as well.” He paused. “Try not to worry. It won’t take us very long once the pulley mechanism starts working.”

“I’m not worried at all,” said Penelope.

“I wish I could say the same,” muttered Merlin. “Everything should work, but this is the Mouse’s specialty. I’ve never done anything like this.”

“We’ll be fine.”

He felt the cord jerk against his harness; the Mouse was signaling him that she had secured her end on the roof.

“I hope so,” he said. “Put the doll down and I’ll lift you through the hole.”

“Maryanne goes where I go,” said Penelope.

“It’s just a doll,” said Merlin. “I’ll buy you another.”

“I don’t want another. I want her.”

He stared at her for a moment, then shrugged and sighed. “Okay, give her to me and I’ll put her in a pocket.”

“No you won’t,” said Penelope. “You’ll leave her behind.”

“All right—carry her yourself,” said Merlin irritably. “See if I give a damn.”

He guided Penelope through the hole in the window, while she clutched Maryanne to her chest. Then he maneuvered her until she was balanced on the narrow window ledge. She grasped the edge of the glass with a napkin-wrapped hand while the other held the doll.

A moment later Merlin was standing on the ledge beside her, and then, with the Mouse guiding them, they began their ascent. For a instant they got caught at the edge of the roof, and Merlin was absolutely certain the titanium cord would break or the pulley mechanism would fail, but eventually, with the Mouse’s help, they reached the temporary safety of the roof.

“Follow me,” said the Mouse, as Merlin stood, hands on knees, gasping for breath, and Penelope inspected Maryanne for abrasions.

Merlin nodded and forced himself to follow the Mouse and Penelope across the rooftop. When they reached the edge, they looked down some 60 feet at the rooftop of an adjacent building.

“We can’t chance taking the fire stairs here,” explained the Mouse, “because we might run into the Yankee Clipper’s men in the lobby. I think our best bet is to get to the building next door and leave through its lobby. How long is that cord of yours, Merlin?”

“Long enough to reach that rooftop, anyway.”

The Mouse smiled. “Don’t look so worried. Going down is much easier than going up.”

“Faster, at least,” he muttered.

They were both right: it was easier and it was faster, and five minutes later the three of them walked down the fire stairs to the ground floor.

23

The stairwell let them out in the bustling lobby of an office building. Most of the shopping arcade seemed to consist of local travel agencies, but there was also a small branch bank and a clothing store that specialized in safari outfits.

“How did you find us?” asked the Mouse, as they walked to the main exit. “In fact, how did you even know we were on Calliope?”

“Later,” said Merlin, looking around. “Let’s put a little distance between us and your pirate friend first.”

He summoned a groundcab, asked the driver to recommend an inexpensive family hotel near one of the smaller entertainment complexes at the south end of town, and they rode in silence until they reached the hotel some fifteen minutes later.

Merlin walked up to the desk, explained that there had been a mix-up at the spaceport and that their luggage would be arriving that evening or the next morning, and booked two adjoining bedrooms. No comment was made: misplaced luggage was a common occurrence, given the quantity of luggage that had to move through the spaceport, and certainly the three of them appeared to be a typical family, operating on a budget but still determined to enjoy those features of Calliope that they could afford.

When they reached their rooms and opened the connecting door between them, Penelope approached the Mouse. “I saw some little girls outside on the play equipment,” she said. “Can I go play with them?”

The Mouse shook her head. “I’m afraid not.”

“Why not?”

“Because those little girls don’t have 18 pirates and half the bounty hunters in the Cluster looking for them, and you do. We can’t take a chance that someone might identify you.”

“No one will,” said Penelope. “Not today.”

“You’re sure?” said the Mouse.

“Yes.”

“You’re taking her word for it?” demanded Merlin.

“Of course,” said the Mouse.

“If she’s spotted, we’re all in trouble,” continued the magician, and suddenly the Mouse remembered that he was unaware of her extraordinary power, that they had parted before Penelope had demonstrated it for the first time.

“She won’t be spotted,” said the Mouse. “If you won’t trust her, then trust me.”

Merlin placed a hand on Penelope’s shoulder and waited until she turned to face him.

“You be very careful now,” he said. “And if you see anyone staring at you, you come right back here and let me know.”

“Nobody will stare at me,” replied Penelope.

“I’m sure they won’t,” said the Mouse, before Merlin could protest. “Go on out and play.”

“Will you watch Maryanne for me?” asked the little girl. “I don’t want her new clothes to get dirty.”

“I’d be happy to,” answered the Mouse, taking the doll from her.

“Thank you,” said Penelope. “I guess I’ll go now.”

“Have a good time,” said the Mouse.

Penelope paused at the door, a worried expression on her face.

“What’s the matter?” asked the Mouse.

“I don’t know any games,” said Penelope. “I haven’t seen another little girl since I was five years old.”

“Then they’ll teach you.”

“What if they don’t like me?”

“Nonsense,” said the Mouse. “You’re a very likeable little girl.”

“But if they don’t?”

“They will,” the Mouse assured her.

Penelope stared at the doll. “Maybe I should bring Maryanne after all. If they don’t like me, maybe they’ll like her.”

“Don’t worry so,” said the Mouse soothingly. “Who wouldn’t like a sweet little girl like you?”

“Lots of people,” said Penelope seriously. “Like the Iceman.”

“You’ll be fine,” the Mouse assured her. “Just introduce yourself and I’m sure they’ll be happy to meet you.”

“I hope so,” said Penelope uncertainly. Then she ordered the door to open, stepped out into the corridor, waved a very nervous good-bye to the Mouse and Merlin, and began walking away as the door closed behind her.

“Who’s the Iceman?” asked Merlin, finally inspecting the inexpensively-furnished room with an expression of distaste. “Kind of a personal boogeyman?”

“Not exactly,” said the Mouse, seating herself on a large chair and tucking her feet beneath her. “I used to work for him, a long time ago.”

“I never heard you mention him.”

“He had a different name then,” said the Mouse. “Enough about the Iceman. How did you ever find us?”

“It’s a long story.” He stared at a holographic print of an alien landscape that hung above the bed. “God, that’s ugly!”

“Maybe you should begin at the beginning,” said the Mouse. “How did you get away from all those bounty hunters after you dropped us off on Binder X?”

“I didn’t.”

The Mouse frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“I didn’t get away from them all,” repeated Merlin. “I thought I had lost them, but Three-Fisted Ollie caught up with me on a little hellhole called Feathergill.” He sighed. “Six billion birds, fifty billion fish, and one ugly little Tradertown with two run-down hotels. I’ll swear every other person on the planet was an ornithologist or an ichthyologist. If there was one place in the whole galaxy I could have sworn no one would look for me, it was Feathergill.”

“Obviously you were wrong.”

“I spent almost a month there,” replied the magician. “Three-Fisted Ollie found me a few days ago.”

“Obviously he didn’t kill you.”

Merlin chuckled. “Obviously.”

“So what happened?”

“He wanted the little girl. He and Cemetery Smith had gotten word that the Yankee Clipper was putting her up for auction to the highest bidder, and their employer wanted her pretty badly. But they had a problem: neither of them had ever seen Penelope close up. Ollie knew I had, and he wanted to make sure no one was selling a ringer, so he and Smith offered me a deal—half a million credits if I could make a positive identification, whether their employer is the high bidder or not.”

“So that’s how you knew where the Yankee Clipper was keeping us!”

“Of course that’s how I knew,” replied Merlin with a smile. “I’m an illusionist, not a magician.” He walked across the faded carpet to a plain wooden chair and sat down on it, grimacing in discomfort. “All interested parties were allowed to make sure the girl was as advertised. In fact, I almost bumped into a pair of mean-looking bounty hunters coming out before I got into my waiter’s outfit.”

The Mouse looked amused. “You’re a man of many talents, no question about it,” she said. “Today you were a waiter, and tomorrow you can go back to being an illusionist—but for tonight, you’re a hero for rescuing Penelope and me.”

“I rescued you,” Merlin corrected her. “I just borrowed Penelope.”

“What do you mean?” asked the Mouse warily.

“If she’s worth half a million credits just to identify, think of how much the Yankee Clipper will pay to get her back.” He paused. “Or if we can find a safe enough place to hide her, maybe we’ll even conduct the auction ourselves.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re being awfully dense, Mouse,” said Merlin. “We’re sitting on a gold mine. We could make a big enough killing so both of us could retire. I’ve heard that the bidding is going to start at ten million credits.”

The Mouse stared at him for a long moment.

“You’re a fool,” she said at last.

“I thought I was a hero,” he said.

“I thought so, too. I was wrong.”

“I don’t supposed you’d care to tell me why?”

“First, I’m very fond of that little girl, and I’m not about to let you or anyone else sell her as if she was some kind of animal. Second, hasn’t anyone told you that there’s a reason why she’s worth so much?”

“Who cares why?” said Merlin with a shrug. “She’s worth a bundle, and we’ve got her. That’s all I need to know.”

“No, that’s not all you need to know,” said the Mouse, looking out the grubby window at Penelope, who was standing by herself, watching a trio of girls at play.

“All right,” said Merlin, shifting uncomfortably on the straight-backed wooden chair. “Suppose you tell me why she’s so valuable.”

“She’s valuable because she has a gift, an ability, that a lot of people, and even governments, want to control.”

“What gift?”

“Precognition.”

“Bunk,” said Merlin. “If she’s got precognition, she must know I plan to hold her for ransom. Why did she agree to come with us?”

The Mouse looked at Merlin and smiled. “Try not to let it hurt your sensitive feelings,” she said, “but you are the least menacing alternative that was presented to her. Compared to the Iceman and the Yankee Clipper and some of the others, you’re so low on the scale that she hasn’t even bothered getting rid of you.”

“What do you mean, getting rid of me?” scoffed Merlin. “She’s just a kid with a talent. You make her sound like Three-Fisted Ollie.”

“Don’t you understand what precognition means?”

“Of course I do. It means she can predict the future. It may be a pretty handy talent to have at the racetrack, and I can see why all these high rollers want her around, but I sure as hell don’t see why you find it so frightening.”

“Then I’ll spell it out for you,” said the Mouse. “There isn’t just one future. There are an infinity of them. She has the ability to see huge numbers of them.”

“I still don’t follow you.”

“She can help to bring about the one she most wants to happen.”

“Everybody tries to do that,” he said, still not comprehending.

“Everybody tries; she succeeds.” The Mouse paused. “Let me give you an example. In maybe half the futures she saw, something went wrong with our escape—the cord broke, the guard woke up too early, she lost her grip on you when you were going up to the roof. She has the ability to see each of those futures, and to figure out what she has to do to stop them from coming to pass.”

“You’re crazy!” he scoffed.

“Remember those two dead bodies we found next to our ship back on Cherokee?”

“Are you trying to tell me she killed them?”

“She chose a future in which they died. That’s not the same thing,” said the Mouse. “She’s not a killer. She’s just a little girl who protects herself the best way she can.”

Merlin considered what the Mouse had said. “If you’re right—and that’s a big if—it’s one hell of an effective way to protect herself.”

“Yes it is,” agreed the Mouse. “So you see, if she thought you were anything more than a minor irritant, you’d probably have had a stroke or a heart attack on the way over here. At the very least, you’d have tripped on the way to our room and broken a leg.”

“I don’t know whether to be insulted or grateful,” he said wryly. He paused and stared at her. “And you like this kid?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“She’s got the whole galaxy against her,” said the Mouse. “I’m the only friend she has.”

“That’s no reason. Half the people we know have prices on their heads, and you don’t like them.”

“She’s very sweet, and very lonely.”

Merlin looked out the window, where Penelope was now playing with the other girls. “I’d hardly call that a lonely little girl,” he said sardonically.

“I don’t have to justify my reasons to you,” said the Mouse, suddenly annoyed. “All you have to know if that she’s staying with us.”

“All right,” said Merlin. “If that’s the way it is, that’s the way it is. She joins the team and we get the hell out of here first thing in the morning.”

“We’d better,” said the Mouse, wondering if Merlin had given in too quickly. “You’ve probably got every bounty hunter on the planet looking for us, to say nothing of the Yankee Clipper and his men.”

“Right,” he said. “That’s a lot of manpower out there. The sooner we get off the planet, the better.”

“Do you have your own ship?” asked the Mouse.

“No. I came with Three-Fisted Ollie.”

“Then we’re going to have to find some way to catch a commercial space flight without being spotted.”

“It won’t be easy,” said Merlin. “They’ll be watching the spaceport.” He grimaced. “And while they want Penelope alive, I don’t think the same applies to you and me.”

“No, it doesn’t,” she agreed.

Merlin got to his feet. “There must be a bar around here, and I do my best thinking in bars. Care to join me for a drink?”

The Mouse shook her head. “I’d better stay here in case Penelope come back.”

Merlin stared at her and finally smiled. “Funny,” he commented. “I never thought of you as the maternal type.”

“Neither did I,” said the Mouse.

The magician walked to the door. “I’ll be back in half an hour or so. Maybe sooner, if I can figure a way out of this mess.”

“I’ll be here.”

He left the room, and the Mouse began walking around, checking the holovision and the octaphonic sound system, examining the cabinets in the bathroom and the closets in the bedrooms, more from habit than any particular need.

Penelope entered the room a few minutes later.

“You’re back early,” noted the Mouse. “Weren’t you getting along well with the girls?”

“They were very nice,” said Penelope.

“Well, then?”

“We have to leave, Mouse.”

“Leave? You mean, leave the hotel?”

Penelope nodded. “Soon.”

“Somebody knows we’re here?”

“Yes.”

“How much time have we got?” asked the Mouse.

“Maybe ten minutes, maybe a little less.”

“All right,” said the Mouse. “Merlin’s in the bar. We’ll pick up him and get the hell out of here.”

“No!” said Penelope.

“He just risked his life to rescue us,” said the Mouse.

“We don’t want him, Mouse.”

“We don’t desert our friends, Penelope,” replied the Mouse. “I thought I explained that to you before.” She paused. “I wonder how they found us so quickly? I thought we’d be safe here for a few days.”

“Merlin is telling them right now.”

“They’re here?”

“No. He’s talking to them on a vidphone—but they’ll be here very soon.”

“You actually saw him calling them?”

Penelope placed a finger to her temple. “In here.”

The Mouse stared long and hard at the little girl. “You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“That double-crossing bastard!”

“Come on, Mouse,” said Penelope, tugging at her arm. “We have to hurry!”

“Where is this friend of yours who we were going to meet on Calliope?” asked the Mouse. “We sure as hell could use a friend right now.”

“I don’t know.”

The Mouse entered the corridor, looked around to make sure Merlin wasn’t on his way back to the room, and nodded. “This way,” she said, heading off to her left. “The other way takes us by the bar, and I don’t want him to see us leaving.”

Penelope, her doll clutched against her body, reached out for the Mouse with her free hand.

“Come on,” said the Mouse, increasing her pace. “If we’re lucky, we can catch a groundcab and be out of here before Merlin knows we’re gone.”

They walked past a small holo theater, a coffee shop, and a large indoor pool, then carefully approached the lobby.

“Have Merlin’s friends arrived yet?” whispered the Mouse.

“Not yet,” said the girl.

“All right. Let’s go.”

They walked rapidly through the lobby, then stood in front of the hotel as the Mouse tried to hail a groundcab.

“Isn’t it ever going to end?” said Penelope wearily.

24

If Xanadu showed off Calliope’s scrubbed, wholesome face to hundreds of thousands of eager tourists, then New Gomorrah displayed its less affluent side. The city rose up out of the grasslands, a carbuncle on the smooth surface of the Western Savannah. It possessed seven multi-environmental hotels, and almost all of the aliens who landed on Calliope immediately made their way to New Gomorrah.

There were tourist attractions, to be sure, and the streets were not unsafe, and many a safari started off from the veranda of the Norfolk II—but, perhaps because the aliens had less money to spend, or perhaps simply because they were aliens, the attractions New Gomorrah offered were seemed less enticing that those of its eastern sister.

Where Xanadu offered circuses with fabulous acrobats and exotic animals, New Gomorrah offered carnivals with sideshows and crooked games. Where Xanadu offered theater, New Gomorrah offered holo shows. Where Xanadu’s hotels were palatial, New Gomorrah’s were plain, functional structures. Where Xanadu offered fine restaurants with elegantly-prepared dishes, New Gomorrah offered a plethora of alien restaurants with foodstuffs most humans had never seen and could not metabolize.

Moreover, there was something about New Gomorrah that seemed to bring out the bloodlust in its clientele. It was here that one came for hunting, rather than holographic, safaris. It was here that animals and occasionally men and aliens fought to the death before crowds both large and very small. It was here that truly huge fortunes were won and lost in the back rooms of gaming parlors. And it was here that almost every perversion known to man or alien could be experienced if enough money changed hands.

The Mouse and Penelope had avoided the spaceport, knowing that it would be under surveillance. With the rest of the planet to choose from, Penelope had looked at a map and immediately selected New Gomorrah. It had taken them three full days to get there via the most obscure and circuitous routes, by which time both their energy and their bankroll were equally depleted. The Mouse, who hadn’t seen a bed in three days, had wanted to spend their last hundred credits on a hotel, but Penelope insisted that they go directly to the carnivals the were clustered on the outskirts of the city.

“Why?” asked the Mouse wearily.

“Because we’ll meet my friend at one of them.”

“You’re sure this friend actually exists?” said the Mouse. “I mean, it’s not as if he showed up when we needed him before.”

“We need him even more now,” said Penelope.

“If he’s here now, he’ll be here in the morning,” replied the Mouse. “Let’s get a room and catch up on our sleep first.”

“I don’t want to miss him,” insisted Penelope.

“You make him sound like a traveling salesman.”

“I don’t know what he is. I just know he’s here.”

“And you think he’s at one of these carnivals?” asked the Mouse.

“I don’t know. I just have a feeling we should go there.”

“Well, your feelings have been pretty accurate so far,” said the Mouse with an exhausted sigh. “Let’s go.”

They caught a courtesy vehicle to the nearest carnival, a relatively small establishment that catered to families with small children. They could hear screams of delight from within the tents, and a number of clowns, both human and alien, mingled with the crowd, passing out free tickets to minor attractions.

“Well?” asked the Mouse.

Penelope shook her head. “This isn’t the place.”

“Thank God for that,” said the Mouse. “All those well-scrubbed, vacant-faced families would drive me crazy.”

“Don’t you like families, Mouse?” asked Penelope.

The Mouse shrugged. “I don’t know. I never had one.” She smiled down at the girl. “You’re family enough for me.”

“You’re my family, too,” said Penelope earnestly. “You and Maryanne.”

“Where to now?” asked the Mouse.

“Let’s just keep going,” said Penelope. “I’ll know when we’ve arrived.”

“Whatever you say,” said the Mouse, flagging down another courtesy vehicle.

They passed an open-air zoo that specialized in alien animals, a huge stadium that seemed not to have any events scheduled that day, and a farm that bred gigantic reptiles from Antares, and then they came to a sprawling carnival.

“This is it,” whispered Penelope, and the Mouse signaled the driver to let them off.

“This thing must cover 30 acres or more,” said the Mouse, standing before the entrance with Penelope. “Do you have any idea what he looks like?”

“I don’t even know if it is a he,” answered Penelope. “But I know we’ll find him here, or he’ll find us.”

“Will you know him when you see him?”

Penelope shrugged. “I suppose so.”

The Mouse paid their entrance fee, and they spent the next few hours shouldering their way through the crowds of tourists, walking up and down the rows of games and exhibits, past the hustlers and grifters, the strip shows and the freak shows, the alien exhibits, the pleasurepain palaces, the cheap rides, the display of cattle and hogs from Earth itself.

“I’m about ready to give up for the day,” said the Mouse as the midafternoon heat became more intense. She sat down at an empty table near a row of food stands and gestured Penelope to join her. “There must be ten thousand people here,” she continued as the little girl sat next to her. “We could have walked right past him and never known it.”

“He’ll be here,” Penelope said firmly.

“Soon?”

“I don’t know.”

“Today? Tomorrow? Next week?” continued the Mouse. “I don’t mean to worry you, but we’re almost broke. The Forever Kid has most of my money, and I’ve just about run through the rest of it. Whether we keep looking for your mysterious friend or book passage off the planet, we’re going to have to find a way to make some more money. I’ve got enough to keep us going for maybe three more days, four if we find a cheap enough place to stay.” She paused. “Do you know if your friend will show up by then?”

Penelope shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“You’re sure we’re at the right place?” asked the Mouse. “There are a lot of other carnivals around New Gomorrah.”

“We’re in the right place.”

The Mouse sighed deeply. “Then we might as well stay right here at the carnival. The less we move around New Gomorrah, the less likely we are to be spotted.”

“Will they let us stay here?” asked Penelope.

“Not as tourists. But I saw a few empty booths and tents. All we have to do is come up with some kind of scam and convince the manager to let us go to work for him.”

“What can we do?”

“That’s a problem,” admitted the Mouse. “I suppose I could hire on as a stripper, but I’m so scrawny and ugly that people would pay me to put my clothes back on.”

“That’s not true,” said Penelope heatedly. “You’re very pretty, Mouse.”

“That’s a matter of some debate,” replied the Mouse wryly. “Anyway, take my word for it—no one would hire me.”

“Then what can we do?”

The Mouse lowered her head in thought for a moment, then looked up and smiled. “You know what I didn’t see when we walked up and down the aisles?”

“What?”

“A fortune teller’s booth.”

“What’s that?” asked Penelope.

“A fortune teller? It’s someone who pretends to do what you really can do: foresee the future.” She paused briefly. “Do you remember how you saw my cards back at the casino on Last Chance?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think you could see who’s going to win a particular race or fight?”

“I think so,” said Penelope. “I’m much better at it now than I used to be.”

“When you can’t, will you know that you can’t?”

“Yes.”

“Then I think we may be in business.”

“Good!” said Penelope happily. “Then, after we make some money telling fortunes, I can tell you who is going to win a race or a fight, and you can bet on it, and—”

“No,” interrupted the Mouse. “If I win too much money, I’ll call attention to myself. Much better to make it in bits and pieces.” She stared at Penelope and frowned. “We’ve got another problem, too. If word gets out that a little girl is picking winners, we’re going to have some very unwanted company.”

“Maybe we could do what we did on Last Chance,” suggested Penelope.

“I just told you—I can’t risk being a big winner.”

“No,” said the girl. “I meant the way we worked the card game. You were the player, and I signaled you. Maybe you could read the fortunes, and I could signal you what to read.”

The Mouse considered her suggestion.

“It’s a possibility,” she admitted at last.

And when no better possibility presented itself, they spent the remainder of the afternoon going over an intricate set of signals by which Penelope could give the Mouse certain basic information about each client who visited her. Then, at dusk, the Mouse hunted up the manager of the sideshow exhibits, gave him a brief demonstration of her skills, offered him a 60-40 split for the carnival in exchange for the use of a booth plus their food and lodging, and they were in business ten minutes later.

They spent the evening decorating their booth and creating a suitable costume for the Mouse, then ate a late dinner in the crew’s mess tent and collapsed on the cots that had been provided in the back of their booth.

They awoke early, ate breakfast, and then waited for the carnival to open. Penelope was so excited she could hardly stand still.

“Relax,” said the Mouse. “They won’t open the gates for another half hour yet.”

“I know,” said Penelope. “But isn’t it wonderful? We’re working together again! And look at all the colorful people and all the aliens!”

“A grifter by any other name,” said the Mouse.

“What?”

The Mouse smiled. “Nothing. I’m glad you’re happy.”

“Oh, I am. Can we always work together, Mouse?”

“I’d much rather retire in luxury together,” said the Mouse wryly. “But until that happy day, we’re still a team.”

The other carnival workers began gathering on the midway, setting up their tents and booths. About two-thirds of them were gaudily-dressed humans, but there were Canphorites, Lodinites, Mollutei, Domarians, and, just across from them, running a game that seemed to make no sense, was an alien of a race the Mouse had never seen before. It was bipedal, covered with light green scales, and seemed to have a gray, shell-like hump that extended from the back of its neck to just above its buttocks. It stood no taller than five feet, but its thick body and heavy limbs gave an unmistakable impression of great strength. The Mouse nodded a greeting to it, and it opened its horned beak in what she hoped was an answering smile.

Then the gates opened, and a new day’s throng of tourists invaded the carnival. It took the Mouse almost three hours to get her first client, and two hours more for her second—but when a 23-to-1 shot came in at the local racetrack, and word went out that a fortune teller on the carnival grounds had predicted the victory, they were soon lining up to speak to her.

She read the future for unhappy husbands and unfaithful wives, hopeful gamblers and hopeless addicts, the rich and the poor, humans and aliens, good beings and bad. Penelope was never more than ten yards away, acting the part of her shill, collecting her money, urging bypassers to seek her services.

And then, on the third morning, right after she had given a Lodinite the anticipated result of a heavyweight freehand match that would be held later in the day, she looked up and saw a familiar bearded face staring at her.

“You gave us a good run for our money, I’ll grant you that,” said the Yankee Clipper without any animosity. He held Penelope firmly by the arm, and obviously was pressing a hand weapon against her.

“How did you find us?” said the Mouse.

He chuckled. “Just how many winners did you think you could give away before the press started suggesting there was some kind of racket going on here?”

The Mouse looked around for the pirate’s subordinates, but couldn’t spot them. “Where are your men?”

“They’re hunting for you all over New Gomorrah,” replied the Yankee Clipper. “Some are at the track, some are at the arena, some are in the casinos. But I thought I’d try the carnival—and what better place for you to hide than right here, as a fortune teller?” He smiled in amusement. “It’s like a deserter hiding out in the middle of a battlefield.”

“And now what?” demanded the Mouse.

“Now you’re free to go.”

The Mouse frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“You’re a bad influence on the child,” said the pirate. “I’m taking her back alone.”

“No!” cried Penelope.

“Yes, my dear,” said the Yankee Clipper. “I know that having the Mouse around was supposed to make you more tractable, but the fact of the matter is that she helped you to escape and thereby caused me considerable embarrassment, to say nothing of the cost of hunting you down. And,” he concluded, “since I plan to be rid of you within a day, I really don’t care whether your new … ah … host has the means to control you or not.”

“You can’t separate us!” pleaded Penelope.

“I can and I will,” replied the pirate. He turned to the Mouse. “If you attempt to follow me, please know that I will not hesitate to kill you.”

The Mouse stared at him helplessly, her mind considering and rejecting various alternatives, each more unlikely than the last. Finally her shoulders slumped and she emitted a soft sigh of defeat.

“Then, as we have nothing further to say, I’ll be taking my leave of you,” announced the Yankee Clipper, tightening his grip on Penelope’s arm.

Suddenly the broad, scaled alien from across the aisle approached them.

“I beg your pardon,” it said in heavily-accented Terran, “but I must speak to the Soothsayer.”

“Well, I won’t keep you from your work,” said the pirate with a grin. He pulled Penelope by the arm. “Come along, young lady.”

“No,” said the alien, blocking their way. “I must speak to the Soothsayer.”

“There she is,” said the Yankee Clipper, gesturing toward the Mouse. “Now step aside.”

“I have been observing them for days,” continued the alien calmly. “I know which is the Soothsayer and which is the imposter.”

“What you know doesn’t interest me,” said the Yankee Clipper irritably.

“It should,” said the alien, “for among the things I know is that you have made a serious mistake.”

“Oh? What mistake?”

“You may not lay hands on the Soothsayer without her permission.”

“Do you know who you’re talking to?” demanded the Yankee Clipper.

“Yes,” replied the alien tranquilly. “A man who should have known better.”

And just as calmly, just as tranquilly, the alien suddenly produced a weapon of a type that was totally unfamiliar to the Mouse. It aimed it at the pirate, there was an almost inaudible humming sound, and the Yankee Clipper collapsed, dead, on the ground.

The alien held out a hand to Penelope.

“Come with me, Soothsayer,” it said gently. “I have been waiting for you.”

Penelope looked into the alien’s hideous face with a happy smile.

“My friend,” she said.

PART 4:

The

Mock

Turtle’s

Book

25

It seemed reptilian, but in truth it was neither a reptile nor in any other way analogous to any life form with which the Mouse was acquainted. It’s powerful limbs and thick torso seemed masculine, but it did not possess a gender, or at least not in a way that any human could comprehend. It had killed the Yankee Clipper in an act of cold-blooded murder, but its behavior was polite and well-mannered, and almost deferential where Penelope was concerned.

Its name was unpronounceable, so the Mouse looked at its green scales and grayish hump and soft beak and double-lidded eyes, and decided to call it the Mock Turtle. It neither approved nor disapproved, but it answered to the name, and that was really all that mattered.

Since its weapon had made no noise and attracted no attention, it simply summoned a doctor when the pirate fell to the ground, and during the ensuing confusion the Mock Turtle waited patiently for Penelope to retrieve Maryanne from the booth, then took her by the hand and calmly led her out the carnival’s gate. The Mouse quickly took their money from the cash box and followed them to the gate. From there they took a courtesy vehicle to the spaceport and walked directly to the Mock Turtle’s ship.

The Mouse was certain they would be spotted by one of the Yankee Clipper’s men, but Penelope showed no sign of fear or tension, and a short time later they had left Calliope far behind them and were heading deeper into the Inner Frontier.

“We will have to put down on a human colony soon,” announced the Mock Turtle, after they had cleared Calliope’s star system. The three of them were sitting in the ship’s cockpit, which had not been designed with humans in mind. The ceiling was much too low, and the chairs were built for beings with the Mock Turtle’s hump. The colors, even on the control panels and computer keys, were so washed out that the Mouse decided that the race that designed the ship saw colors very differently from the way that human beings saw them.

“I have no foodstuffs that would be suitable for Men,” continued the alien.

“Then you weren’t expecting us?” asked the Mouse.

“No.”

“Then why did you help us?”

“She is the Soothsayer,” said the Mock Turtle.

The Mouse frowned. “What does that have to do with anything? Does your religion anticipate some soothsayer?”

“My religion is a private matter,” answered the alien calmly, but in tones that implied the subject was closed.

“Then I must repeat my question,” said the Mouse, trying to make herself comfortable on the alien chair. “Why did you help us?”

The Mock Turtle turned to the little girl. “You are Penelope Bailey, are you not?”

“Yes,” said Penelope, propping up Maryanne next to her on the broad seat.

“That is why.”

“You sound like just another bounty hunter,” said the Mouse. “But that can’t be. First, you didn’t know we were going to show up on Calliope, and second, Penelope trusts you.”

“That is true,” agreed the Mock Turtle tranquilly. “I did not anticipate your arrival on Calliope, and I am very trustworthy.”

“Then perhaps you’d like to tell me what your interest in us is?”

“I am not interested in you at all.”

“You are a very difficult person to talk to,” said the Mouse in frustrated tones.

“I am not a person at all,” replied the alien. “I am a—” it uttered a word the Mouse had never heard and could not pronounce. “But you may call me the Mock Turtle.”

“All right, Mock Turtle,” said the Mouse, “let’s try again: why are you interested in Penelope?”

“She is the Soothsayer.”

“You keep saying that!” snapped the Mouse.

“It is the truth.”

Penelope giggled as the Mouse tried to control her temper.

“Why do you care whether or not she’s the Soothsayer?” continued the Mouse.

“Because if she is not, I have killed a Man for no reason,” answered the Mock Turtle.

“Why did you kill the man? And don’t say it’s because she is the Soothsayer.”

The Mock Turtle remained silent.

“Well?” demanded the Mouse.

“You instructed me not to answer you,” explained the alien patiently.

“You are driving me crazy!” said the Mouse. She started to stamp her foot in anger, but quickly stopped when she realized that the act would upset her balance and cause her to slide back into the hollow that had been made to accommodate the alien’s shell. “Can’t you just explain in nice, simple terms why you felt it incumbent upon you to rescue her?”

“Certainly. You had not asked that before.”

The Mouse resisted the urge to argue the point, and waited for the alien to continue speaking.

“My world is not a member of the Democracy,” said the Mock Turtle, “nor is it a member of the Confederation. We have been nonaligned for many centuries, even before there was a Confederation, and even longer, before the Democracy replaced the Republic.”

“What has this got to do with Penelope?”

“You have asked,” said the Mock Turtle with no show of annoyance. “Allow me to answer.”

“Sorry,” said the Mouse. “Go ahead.”

“My world wishes only to remain neutral. We desire no commerce or treaty with any other world or any other race.” The alien paused, as if translating its thoughts into Terran concepts. “We would resist any effort to assimilate us.” It paused again. “Men have always hungered for new worlds. The day is not far off that they will hunger for mine. Thus far we have been able to maintain our neutrality by balancing one force against the other … but if the men who rule the Democracy obtain the services of the Soothsayer, they will eventually destroy the Confederation, and then the day will come when they no longer request us to join them, but instead demand it.”

“She’s just a child!” protested the Mouse. “She can barely keep one jump ahead of the people who are chasing her. How can you possibly believe that she could alter the outcome of galactic power struggles?”

“Children grow up.”

The Mouse stared at the Mock Turtle for a long moment, trying without success to discern a facial expression.

“It doesn’t sound to me like you have any intention of allowing her to grow up,” she said slowly. “The only way you can be sure she doesn’t fall into your enemies’ hands is to kill her.”

“That is because you are a fool,” said the alien calmly.

“It’s all right, Mouse,” said Penelope, laying a hand on the Mouse’s arm. “The Mock Turtle is my friend.”

“He sure as hell doesn’t sound like a friend,” answered the Mouse.

“You are mistaken,” said the Mock Turtle.

“Then suppose you tell me what you plan to do with us,” insisted the Mouse.

“I will take you to my home world, where you will be safe.”

“Will we be guests or prisoners? Or do you consider the two terms synonymous?”

“You will be guests,” said the Mock Turtle. “She is the Soothsayer. We could not keep her prisoner even if we wanted to.”

“And we’ll be free to leave whenever we want?” persisted the Mouse.

“You will be free to leave whenever you want.”

“Then why not set us down on a human world now?”

“You will not be safe on any nearby world,” answered the Mock Turtle.

The Mouse turned to the girl. “Penelope?”

“It’s true,” she said. “The Yankee Clipper’s men are looking for us already.”

“All right,” said the Mouse, facing the Mock Turtle once again. “So we land on your planet. Then what?”

“Then I hope to convince the Soothsayer that we are a peaceful race that means no harm, so that when she returns to her own people, she will instruct them not to force us to join their Democracy.”

“She’s eight years old, for God’s sake,” said the Mouse. “Nobody will listen to her no matter what she says.”

The alien stared at her but made no comment.

“Well?” continued the Mouse. “Do you disagree?”

“I have already told you that you are a fool,” said the Mock Turtle gently. “Repeating it can only serve to anger you.”

The Mouse turned to Penelope again. “Are you absolutely sure this creature is our friend?”

“I am her friend,” said the Mock Turtle. “While I wish you no ill, I care no more for you than you care for me.”

“He saved us, didn’t he?” said Penelope.

“I am not a he, Soothsayer,” interjected the alien. “But you may refer to me as a male, if it pleases you.”

“I don’t care,” said Penelope. “You’re my friend. That’s all that matters.”

“What were you doing on Calliope in the first place, if you weren’t waiting for Penelope?” asked the Mouse.

“I was waiting for Penelope,” answered the Mock Turtle.

“I thought you said you didn’t know we were going to be on Calliope,” said the Mouse sharply.

“That is true.”

“Then how could you be waiting for us?”

“My ship developed engine trouble near the Calliope system, and I was forced to land there to seek repairs. Since my planet’s currency is not accepted on Calliope, I was forced to obtain work so that I could pay for the repairs.”

“It’s working fine now, and no one tried to stop us, so obviously you had paid for the repairs before we met.”

“That is true,” answered the alien, “but I also had to pay for my food and lodging, and I would not have had enough currency for that until tomorrow.”

“So what does that have to do with waiting for Penelope?”

“It is obvious to me that the Soothsayer arranged for me to land on Calliope, and to remain there until I could be of service to her.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said the Mouse. “She didn’t even know who you were or where you’d be.”

“Ask her,” said the Mock Turtle.

“Penelope,” said the Mouse, turning to the little girl and staring at her questioningly, “is he telling the truth?”

Penelope shifted uncomfortably on her chair.

“Sort of,” she said at last.

26

The Mouse stared intently at Penelope.

“What do you mean: sort of?” she asked at last.

“I knew there was a good person on the planet, one who would be our friend,” said Penelope. “I wanted him to stay until we could meet him.” She paused, trying to order her thoughts. “I didn’t know it was the Mock Turtle, or what he looked like, but I thought it wasn’t a human. And somehow I thought he’d be in New Gomorrah, and once we got there I knew he’d be at the carnival.”

“But he was working right across the Midway from us for two days, and you didn’t recognize him.”

“We didn’t need him until the Yankee Clipper came.”

“But you had nothing to do with his landing on Calliope in the first place?”

“I don’t think so,” said Penelope.

“Don’t you know?”

The little girl shook her head. “I have all these strange pictures in my mind. I still don’t understand most of them.”

“As the Soothsayer grows, so will her powers,” said the Mock Turtle. “She will grow in peace and tranquility on my world”—the alien turned to Penelope—“if she so desires.”

“And if she doesn’t desire it?” asked the Mouse.

“Then she will be free to leave.”

“It would be nice not to be hunted any more,” replied Penelope.

“Let’s see what his world is like before we start making any long-term plans,” said the Mouse skeptically.

“It is an oxygen world with very low levels of pollution, and a gravity minimally greater than your own,” said the Mock Turtle. “The seas are green, the grass a rich golden hue, the mountains tall and majestic and snow-capped. Most of our fauna is extinct, but we have set aside vast reserves for those remaining specimens so that we may someday repopulate the planet with their descendants.”

“What do you call your world?” asked the Mouse.

The Mock Turtle mouthed an unpronounceable alien word. “In your language,” it continued, “it would translate as Summergold.” It paused thoughtfully. “It is quite the most beautiful place in the galaxy.”

“If it’s so beautiful, what were you doing flying a spaceship light years away from it?”

“Searching for the Soothsayer,” answer the Mock Turtle placidly.

“How did you even know there was a Soothsayer to search for?” demanded the Mouse.

“Word had reached us that a human child had the power of precognition, and that she and a companion were at large on the Inner Frontier. Further investigation revealed to us that her name was Penelope Bailey, and that she had last been seen in the company of a notorious gambler known as King Tout.” The alien paused. “We knew that governments and powerful individuals would be seeking her for their own purposes, and we determined to find her first.”

“It’s a big galaxy,” said the Mouse. “How did you expect to find her with no more information than that to go on?”

“I didn’t.”

“I don’t think I understand.”

“I expected her to find me,” said the Mock Turtle.

“Why?” asked the Mouse, surprised.

“Because I, alone of all those who searched for her, meant her no harm.”

“And based on your goodwill and nothing else, you expected her to seek you out?” replied the Mouse. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“She did in fact seek me out, did she not?” replied the alien gently.

The Mouse had no answer for that, and so fell silent.

“Are there any children I can play with on Summergold?” asked Penelope after a moment had passed.

“It shall be arranged, Soothsayer,” said the alien.

“Good,” said Penelope enthusiastically. “I finally got to play with some girls on Calliope, and—”

Suddenly she froze, and a look of fear crossed her face.

“What is it, Penelope?” asked the Mouse.

“It’s him,” she said.

“Him?”

“The Iceman. He’s after us already.”

“Who is the Iceman?” asked the Mock Turtle.

“A bad man,” said Penelope. “All the others want to capture me, but he wants to kill me.”

“He will not be successful, Soothsayer.”

“Then why does he frighten me so?” asked Penelope, tears welling up in her eyes.

“Because you are a child, and do not yet realize what it means to be the Soothsayer,” answered the Mock Turtle. “We shall protect you on Summergold while you grow tall and strong and confront your destiny, whatever it may be.”

“In the meantime, what kind of armaments does this ship carry?” asked the Mouse.

“None,” said the alien. “This is not a military ship.”

“How far are we from Summergold?”

The Mock Turtle pressed a button, then read the symbols that instantly appeared on the glowing screen of its computer. “Perhaps two Galactic Standard days.”

“And if we don’t stop for food on a colony planet?”

“The Soothsayer is only a child,” noted the alien. “She must have sustenance.”

“Don’t you have a Deepsleep Chamber?” asked the Mouse. “You can freeze us until we arrive.”

“This is but a small, private ship. I have no Deepsleep facilities.”

The Mouse turned to Penelope. “How close are they?”

“I don’t know,” answered the girl.

“Forget the food,” said the Mouse. “It’s not worth the risk. We’re only a few hours out from Calliope. If their ship is even marginally faster, they’ll catch us if we stop.”

“There is no need for guesswork,” said the Mock Turtle calmly. It turned to Penelope. “Is it safe to stop, Soothsayer?”

“No,” said Penelope.

“Can you survive without food for two days?” continued the alien.

“Yes.”

“Does your race drink water?” asked the Mouse.

“Yes. I will have my ship’s galley modify it to human tastes.”

The Mock Turtle instructed its navigational computer to lay in a direct course for Summergold, then went to the cramped galley to supervise the filtration of the water’s trace minerals.

“He’ll never stop,” said Penelope plaintively. “Why can’t he leave me alone, Mouse?”

“Are you sure he’s coming after you to kill you?” asked the Mouse. “Maybe he thinks the Mock Turtle has stolen you, and he and the Forever Kid want to rescue us.”

“I don’t know,” said Penelope. “He doesn’t know.”

“You’re not thinking clearly, Penelope. Either he wants to kill you or rescue you. He wouldn’t be chasing us if he didn’t know which.”

“He still doesn’t know if he’ll kill me,” said Penelope. “But he thinks I should die.” She turned and faced the Mouse. “Why?” she sobbed. “What did I ever do to him?”

“Nothing,” said the Mouse. She frowned, once again furious at herself for ever having cared for him. “You know, maybe it’s time we considered doing something to him.”

“I don’t want to hurt anyone. I just want to be left alone.”

“Sometimes you can’t always have what you want,” said the Mouse. “Or at least, sometimes you can’t have it right away.”

“It’s not fair,” said Penelope, cuddling Maryanne to her.

“No, it’s not,” said the Mouse grimly. “Still, maybe our luck’s about to change. You’ve found another friend, and maybe we’ll be safe once we get to Summergold.”

“I get so tired, Mouse,” said Penelope.

The Mouse put an arm around her. “I know.”

“Will you always be with me?”

“Always.”

Penelope leaned her head against the Mouse’s small bosom, and a moment later had fallen into a fitful, disturbed sleep.

“The Soothsayer trusts you,” said the Mock Turtle, returning to the cockpit with two containers of water.

“Yes, she does.”

“Then perhaps you are not a fool after all.”

“Thanks,” said the Mouse sardonically.

“I hope you will urge her to remain on our planet,” said the Mock Turtle.

“I’ll have to see what it’s like, first.”

“She needs time to grow, free from all external pressures,” continued the alien.

The Mouse looked down at the sleeping child, and stroked her blonde hair.

“She’s had a rough time of it, that’s for sure.”

“Summergold will offer her peace and sanctuary.”

“No one ever offers anything for free,” said the Mouse.

“I told you what our interest in her is.”

“I know you did,” replied the Mouse. “Now I’ll have to decide whether I believe you or not.”

“She will know if I should ever lie to you,” said the Mock Turtle. “You might consider that while you are making your decision.”

“I’ll take it under advisement.”

They spent the next hour in silence, for neither had anything further to say to the other. Then Penelope awoke, and the Mock Turtle gave her the container of water, and then the little girl and the Mouse played a number of very simple word games to fill the time and take her mind off the Iceman.

They slept again, and awoke again, and drank again, and then, when the ship had approached to within nine hours of Summergold, the Mock Turtle activated its subspace radio and reported its position and its cargo, concluding with its estimated time of arrival.

There was a momentary silence as the message was transmitted, and then a reply came back over the speaker system. The alien spoke again, waited for another reply, and deactivated the radio. Finally it turned to Penelope.

“I am sorry, Soothsayer,” it said, “but we cannot land on Summergold.”

“Why not?” asked the Mouse.

“We have been denied permission.”

“Why?”

“Because even now several ships are approaching my planet, each filled with bounty hunters or members of the Democracy’s military. We are not powerful enough to deny them access to Summergold, nor can we risk disobeying the Democracy’s official representatives, and hence we cannot protect the Soothsayer’s safety.”

“What are we supposed to do, then?” demanded the Mouse.

“We must alter our course and go deeper into the Inner Frontier.”

“It won’t help,” said the Mouse. “Every one of those ships left Calliope after we did. If some of them are already approaching Summergold, they’re obviously faster than we are. There’s no way we can outrun them.”

“My ship possesses a Summergold registry, and doubtless someone at the carnival was able to identify my race.” The alien paused. “It was much easier for them to anticipate that I would attempt to return to Summergold than it will be for them to predict my next action, for the simple reason that I do not know where we are going.”

“Didn’t your people give you any instructions except to run away?” demanded the Mouse.

“Most certainly they did,” replied the Mock Turtle calmly. “They gave me the best possible instruction, indeed the only possible instruction.”

“I don’t suppose you’d like to share it with us,” she said sarcastically.

“It is essential that I share it with you,” answered the Mock Turtle. “They told me to ask the Soothsayer where to go, and to follow her orders.”

It turned to Penelope and awaited her decision.

27

Penelope stared at the computer simulation of the Inner Frontier.

“This one,” she said, pointing to a white-gold star.

“That is Alpha Tremino, also known as McCallister after the human member of the Pioneer Corps who terraformed the second planet circling it,” said the Mock Turtle, translating the alien script that appeared on the screen when he entered the coordinates of the star. “That planet is now known as McCallister II. The system possesses six other planets; the inner planet is highly radioactive, and the other five are gas giants. None of them are capable of sustaining life.” It squinted at the readout. “McCallister II possesses one Tradertown, which is located in the southern temperate zone. It was mined for uranium until two centuries ago, and is now used primarily as a refueling station for ships bound deeper into the Inner Frontier.”

“How long will it take to reach it?” asked the Mouse.

The alien queried its navigational computer. “Approximately six Standard hours.”

“And how about our pursuers?” she continued. “How long will it take them?”

“We will gain three or four hours on most of them, as they are closer to Summergold than we are.”

“Then lay in a course for McCallister II.”

“I did that the moment the Soothsayer selected it,” replied the alien.

The Mouse turned to Penelope.

“Do you know anything about McCallister?”

“No.”

“Maybe I worded that wrong,” said the Mouse. She paused. “Can you see what will happen to us there?”

“No,” repeated Penelope.

“Then why did you choose it?”

Penelope shrugged. “I just have a feeling about it.”

“Well, your feelings have been good enough so far,” said the Mouse with a sigh.

The alien went to the galley and brought them two more containers of water.

“Thank you,” said Penelope, accepting the container.

“McCallister II is a human colony,” said the Mock Turtle. “You will be able to obtain food there, Soothsayer.”

“I hope it’s good,” said Penelope. “I’m very hungry.”

“I am sorry, Soothsayer. I would give you my own if you could metabolize it.”

“I know you would.” The girl stared thoughtfully at the alien. “Perhaps you’d better pack some of your own food.”

“Why, Soothsayer?” asked the Mock Turtle.

“You might need it.”

“I shall do so, Soothsayer,” said the alien, heading off to the galley once more.

“What was that all about?” asked the Mouse.

“I just think the Mock Turtle will need some food before long,” said Penelope.

“He’s got a whole galley full of food.”

Penelope didn’t answer her, and when the Mouse looked to see if she had heard her, she saw a look of intense concentration on the little girl’s face.

“She is reading the future,” said the Mock Turtle, returning from the galley.

“Sorting it out, anyway,” agreed the Mouse.

Penelope remained motionless for almost five minutes, and finally the Mouse reached out a hand and shook her shoulder.

“What is it?” asked the girl.

“You looked like you were in a trance,” said the Mouse. “I’ve never seen you like that, and I got worried.”

“I’m fine,” Penelope assured her.

“What were you doing?”

“Trying to look ahead.”

“You’ve never gone catatonic before.”

“What’s catatonic?”

“Rigid and motionless, as if you didn’t know where you were or who you were with.”

“I was looking farther than usual, so I had to concentrate real hard,” explained Penelope.

“Did you see anything?”

“Yes.”

“Well?” said the Mouse.

“I saw us land on McCallister II,” said Penelope. “And the man at the spaceport is going to be very nice to us. He’s going to give me a sandwich, and some fruit, and a cup of tea.”

“Does anyone else land while we’re there?”

“That depends on how long we stay,” answered Penelope. “Most of them know we’ve changed our course.”

“How many ships are following us now?”

“Lots.”

“Including Carlos and the Kid?”

“Yes,” said Penelope. “But they won’t catch us before we reach McCallister.”

“How long will we stay on McCallister II?” asked the Mouse.

Penelope frowned. “I don’t know.”

“An hour? A day? A week?”

“It depends on what I tell the Mock Turtle,” said Penelope. “And I have to decide if it’s right or wrong to tell him.”

“To tell him what?”

“I have to decide,” repeated Penelope, falling silent. A moment later she was cuddling Maryanne, as if for comfort.

Five hours later the Mock Turtle began braking its ship to sublight speed, and twenty minutes after that it set the ship down at the small spaceport just beyond the Tradertown.

“I shall add fuel to the ship’s reservoirs while you seek nourishment,” announced the Mock Turtle as the three of them climbed through the hatch.

“Don’t,” said Penelope, who had taken Maryanne out of the ship with her.

The Mouse was startled, but the alien merely inclined its head.

“It shall be as you wish, Soothsayer,” it said. “I will wait for you here.”

“Please come with us,” said Penelope. “We shouldn’t be separated now.”

The Mock Turtle fell into step behind them without another word.

They entered the spaceport’s small restaurant, and the waiter was as pleasant as Penelope had predicted. While they were waiting for their food, the Mouse turned to the girl.

“All right,” she said. “Are you ready to tell me what’s going on?”

“Yes,” said Penelope unhappily. She paused. “We have to do a bad thing.”

“What thing?”

“We have to steal a spaceship.”

“I thought that was what you had in mind,” said the Mouse.

“I don’t want to,” said Penelope. “It’s wrong to steal. But if we don’t change ships, they’ll catch us very soon.”

The waiter returned with their order, and the Mouse remained silent until he had once more moved out of earshot.

“Will changing ships fool all of them?” she asked.

“Most of them,” replied Penelope. “They’ll all find out what we did, but by then we’ll be so far away that they won’t be able to follow us.”

“They have subspace radios,” said the Mouse. “Why won’t they stay in contact with each other?”

“Because each of them wants the reward for me,” answered Penelope. “None of them will help any of the others to catch me.”

“Which ship must we appropriate, Soothsayer?” asked the Mock Turtle.

“That one,” said Penelope, pointing to a sleek blue ship that was standing, poised for takeoff, on the field beyond the hangars.

“The blue one?” asked the Mouse.

“Yes.”

“It’s right out in the open,” she said dubiously. “Maybe we’d be better off taking a different one.”

“You must not dispute the Soothsayer,” said the Mock Turtle calmly. “She has foreseen that we need this particular ship. That is all we have to know.”

“I’m not disputing her,” answered the Mouse defensively. “I’d just like to know why she chose that one.”

“Most of the others have people aboard them,” said Penelope, “Or else they aren’t fast enough, or they need fuel.”

Penelope finished her sandwich and started picking pieces of fruit out of her fruit cup.

“This is very good,” she said. “But I don’t like my tea very much. Can I have some milk instead?”

“Yes, Soothsayer,” said the Mock Turtle, getting to its feet and walking off to find the waiter.

“I wish he’d call me Penelope,” the little girl confided to the Mouse. “I feel funny when he calls me Soothsayer.”

“Well, that’s what you are, you know,” said the Mouse. “A soothsayer is someone who can see the future.”

“It doesn’t work that way,” said Penelope. “You see lots of futures, and then you try to make the one you want happen.” She looked at the Mouse’s plate. “You only ate half your sandwich. Aren’t you hungry?”

“I’ll take the other half along with me,” answered the Mouse. “What I mostly am is anxious to get moving again. We’ve still got thirty ships closing in on us.”

“They won’t catch us, Mouse,” said Penelope as the Mock Turtle returned carrying a glass of milk. “Not on McCallister, anyway.”

“Just the same, I’ll feel a lot more secure once we’re back in space,” said the Mouse.

“We’re not ready to leave yet,” said Penelope. She smiled at the Mock Turtle. “Thank you for the milk.”

“When will we be ready to leave?” asked the Mouse.

“In a few minutes.” She drained the glass of milk. “That was very good. I like milk.”

“You’re not being very communicative,” said the Mouse, trying to keep the irritation from her voice.

“I don’t know what that means.”

“I mean you’re not telling me what you’re thinking.”

“I’m sorry, Mouse,” apologized Penelope. “I was just thinking that I’d like to get Maryanne a lace dress. The ones that we had sent up to our suite on Calliope were nice, but she needs something really pretty.”

The Mouse sighed deeply. “All right. Have it your way.”

“You look mad, Mouse,” said Penelope with a worried expression on her face. “Did I do something wrong?”

“The Soothsayer cannot, by definition, do anything wrong,” said the Mock Turtle, its voice as placid as ever.

“I’m not mad, just frustrated,” said the Mouse.

“What did I say?” asked Penelope.

“It’s what you didn’t say,” explained the Mouse. “I know you have a reason for not going to the ship right now, just as you had a reason for landing on McCallister II and for wanting to steal that particular ship. But I can’t see the future, and since the only thing I know for sure is that all those bounty hunters are getting closer to us with each passing minute, I’d like to know why we’re sitting here and exactly what we’re waiting for.”

“Oh, is that all?” said Penelope, relieved that she had not done something more serious to offend the Mouse. “Do you see the fat man in the leather tunic who’s sitting at the far end of the restaurant?”

The Mouse glanced quickly across the restaurant.

“Yes.”

“It’s his ship that we’re stealing,” said Penelope. “In about five or six minutes, he’s going to get up from his table and walk into the bathroom. He’ll be there a long time, and we can just walk out across the field and get into the ship and leave.”

“Won’t he report us to spaceport security?”

Penelope shook her head. “He’s got something on the ship he doesn’t want anyone to know about. He’ll buy another ship and try to find us himself, but he won’t report us.”

“What’s he smuggling?” asked the Mouse. “Drugs? Money?”

“I don’t know.”

“And security won’t stop us?”

“He’s already given them money not to pay any attention to the ship. They’ll think we’re working for him.” She looked at the Mouse with a worried expression on her face. “Do you like me again now?”

“Of course I like you,” the Mouse assured her. “I just get a little upset when I can’t see what you can see.”

“I wish I couldn’t see it,” said Penelope earnestly. “Then maybe everyone would leave me alone.”

“You have been blessed with a great gift, Soothsayer,” said the Mock Turtle. “In time you will learn to appreciate it.”

Penelope seemed about to argue with the alien, then shrugged and went back to picking pieces of fruit out of the cup. A few minutes later the heavyset man got to his feet and walked to the restroom. As soon as he was out of sight the Mouse, Penelope, and the Mock Turtle rose from their seats and casually walked out to the ship.

“It’s not locked,” said Penelope as they approached the hatch.

The hatch door slid back as they came within range of the ship’s sensor, and one by one they climbed into the interior of the ship. It was considerably larger than the Mock Turtle’s vessel, and was designed for human occupants. There was a cockpit, of course, and a well-equipped galley, two sleeping cabins, and a locked storage compartment.

“The controls are unfamiliar to me,” said the Mock Turtle after examining the instrumentation. “And while I can speak Terran, I have great difficulty reading it.”

“No problem,” said the Mouse, moving past him into the cockpit and seating herself on the pilot’s chair. “Its computer has a Gorshen/Blomberg module. We just tell it what we want, and it takes care of the rest.” She turned to her companions. “Strap yourselves in.”

They took off less than a minute later, and ten minutes after that the computer announced that it was ready to break out of orbit and attain light speeds.

“Time for a decision,” said the Mouse. “I’ve got to give the navigational computer a destination.”

“Soothsayer?” said the Mock Turtle, turning to Penelope and awaiting her decision.

“I don’t know the name of the world,” said Penelope.

The Mouse ordered the computer to create a holographic map of the Inner Frontier.

“All right,” she announced. “This is Summergold, this is McCallister, and that’s Last Chance ‘way over there.”

The little girl studied the simulation for a long moment. Finally she extended an index finger and pointed to a distant star that had no near neighbors.

“This one,” she said.

The Mouse instructed the navigational computer to lay in a course for the indicated star, then asked for a readout.

“Where are we bound?” asked the Mock Turtle.

“The star is called Bowman 26,” replied the Mouse.

“A curious name.”

The Mouse squinted at the readout. “It was the 26th star system mapped by Pioneer Milton Bowman almost 3,200 years ago. The third of its five planets was colonized in 288 G.E., and was initially named Van der Gelt III, after the man who financed the colonization.”

“Initially?” asked the Mock Turtle. “Then its name has been changed?”

She nodded. “The entire colony was slaughtered by a madman named Conrad Bland in 341 G.E., which was when it received the name it’s now known by: Killhaven.”

“Does anyone reside there now?”

“Let’s see,” said the Mouse, looking at the readout again. “Yes. It was deserted for almost three millennia, but now it’s got a couple of hundred farmers, and a small religious group trying to create their own Utopia, based on an agricultural community from the days when we were still Earthbound. I gather than the planet itself is very scenic, and most of the dwellings were designed to look like Victorian farmhouses from old Earth. There’s nothing in the readout about a Tradertown, but I suppose there must be one; Killhaven’s so far off the beaten track that I imagine the cartographers are a few years behind the times.”

The Mock Turtle had no more questions, and the Mouse ordered the holographic map to dissolve. Then she left the cockpit and made her way back to the storage compartment.

“Now let’s see exactly what kind of contraband we’re carrying,” she said.

The alien showed no interest in helping her, but Penelope, with a child’s curiosity, joined her at the door to the compartment.

The Mouse ordered the computer to unlock the door. It replied that it could not do so without the proper code.

“Damn!” she muttered. “I guess we’ll have to do it the hard way.”

She looked around for a tool kit, found one, and spent the next two hours tinkering with the lock mechanism, all the while wishing that Merlin, to whom no lock was a mystery, had not joined the opposition.

Finally, when she was all but ready to admit defeat, she heard a faint beeping sound, and the door slid back into a bulkhead. She crouched over and entered the low-ceilinged compartment.

“Well, how about this!” she exclaimed a moment later. “Four bags of alphanella seeds.”

“What are alphanella seeds?” asked Penelope.

“A hallucinogenic drug. They’re outlawed everywhere in the Democracy, and on most of the Frontier worlds as well.”

“A what kind of drug?”

“Hallucinogenic,” repeated the Mouse. “When you chew on the seed you go into a trace and see all kinds of strange things. As often as not the experience kills you … but if you survive the first time, you’re an addict the rest of your life. You forget to eat, you don’t sleep, all you do it chase after the seeds.”

“Why would anyone want to chew the seeds, then?”

The Mouse shrugged. “The ultimate thrill,” she said without much conviction. “Don’t ask me. I never did understand seed chewers.” She patted the bags fondly, then walked back out of the storage compartment. “Alphanella seeds! Who’d have thought it?”

“What difference does it make?” said the Mock Turtle. “None of us will partake of them.”

“In case it’s escaped your attention,” she pointed out, “we’re not exactly swimming in money. I’ve got about 2,500 credits left from Calliope, and I suspect you have even less.”

“That is true,” admitted the alien.

“Well, then? These bags must be worth a few hundred thousand credits apiece. What do you say?”

“I say leave them aboard the ship,” replied the Mock Turtle. “They will destroy anyone who uses them.”

“The way I look at it, anyone stupid enough to become a seed chewer deserves whatever happens to him,” said the Mouse with a shrug.

“Let us ask the Soothsayer.”

“That’s not fair,” said the Mouse heatedly. “If she says no, we’ll be stuck on a strange world with no money and half a dozen bounty hunters chasing us, and if she says yes you’ll have made her an active participant in drug dealing. No child should have to make such a decision.”

“She is the Soothsayer,” replied the Mock Turtle. “She will choose correctly.”

He turned expectantly toward the little girl.

“We should leave the alphanella seeds where we found them,” said Penelope without hesitation.

“But we’ve barely got enough money to get by for a few days on Killhaven,” said the Mouse.

“We won’t need it.”

“What about when we leave?” insisted the Mouse. “We’ll have to have money then.”

“We’re not leaving Killhaven,” said Penelope.

“But we’re still being followed.”

“I know.”

“Then why—?” began the Mouse.

“Because it’s time to stop running away,” said Penelope.

28

It wasn’t a Tradertown, not as the Mouse understood Tradertowns. It was just a little cluster of buildings: a restaurant, a general store, a farm implement shop, a seed warehouse, a church, and a two-story frame rooming house.

There wasn’t even a street, just a dirt track that passed in front of the buildings, and it was so filled with ruts that the few vehicles they saw drove about ten feet to the right of it.

“This is a hell of a place to make a stand against a couple of dozen bounty hunters,” muttered the Mouse as they walked the mile from their spaceship to the town.

“You must have faith in the Soothsayer’s judgment,” said the Mock Turtle placidly.

“Let the first five ships crash and I’ll have a lot more faith,” remarked the Mouse caustically.

As they passed a pasture of mutated beef cattle, each weighing close to 2,500 pounds, grazing contently on the native grasses, Penelope walked up to the wire fence to stare at them.

“They’re lovely,” said the little girl.

“They’re just cows,” said the Mouse. “A little bigger than most, but no smarter, I’ll wager.”

“Can I pet one, Mouse?” asked Penelope.

“I don’t know why not,” replied the Mouse. “You’ll know better than me if it’s safe or not.”

“Thank you.”

Penelope leaned up against the fence and called to the cattle. Most of them ignored her, but a calf, almost as large as a full-grown Earth cow, stared at her with large, curious eyes and finally came over to the fence.

“He’s very nice,” said Penelope, rubbing the calf’s broad forehead between its eyes. “I think he likes me.”

“I’m sure he does,” said the Mouse.

Penelope petted the calf for another minute, then rejoined the Mouse and the Mock Turtle. As they began walking toward the buildings again, the calf followed them on its side of the fence until it could go no further, then began bleating plaintively, and finally returned to its gargantuan mother.

“I wonder if all the animals are that big,” said Penelope.

“I doubt it,” answered the Mouse. “Probably just the meat animals.”

Penelope frowned. “I hope nobody wants to eat him when he grows up.”

“Perhaps they won’t,” said the Mouse reassuringly. “I’m sure they keep some for breeding.”

“Wouldn’t it be nice it we could come back here someday and see him all grown up, and pet one of his children?” said the little girl.

“I’ll settle for just getting off the planet in one piece,” said the Mouse.

They walked past fields of corn and sugar berries, and finally came to what passed for the town.

“What shall we do now, Soothsayer?” asked the Mock Turtle, oblivious to the curious stares it elicited from within the various shops.

“Now we wait,” answered Penelope.

“Right here?” asked the Mouse, surprised.

“No,” said Penelope. “They won’t be here for awhile.”

“Good,” said the Mouse. “Then let’s rent some rooms. I could do with a shower.”

“Me, too,” said Penelope. She examined her doll thoughtfully. “And Maryanne’s all covered with dust.”

The Mouse headed for the rooming house, and entered it a moment later. It seemed much like the farmhouses of ancient Earth: it was made of wood, and the floor was covered with an inexpensive rug rather than carpeted. The furniture was sturdy and functional, but far from elegant, and despite the displays of fresh flowers there was a scent and feeling of mustiness about the place.

A floorboard creaked as she walked up to the registration desk, which in this case was simply a wooden table with a thin, weatherworn, elderly man sitting behind it.

“How much are your rooms?” asked the Mouse.

“Eighty credits a night. One hundred if you want the one with its own bathroom.”

“We’d like three rooms, please,” she said, as Penelope and the Mock Turtle entered the house. “Including the one with its own bath.”

“Only got two,” said the man. “Your green friend will have to make other arrangements.”

“We’ll take two, then,” said the Mouse with a shrug. “The little girl and I can double up.”

“Only got one in that case.”

“If you don’t accept aliens, why don’t you post a sign to that effect?” demanded the Mouse.

“That’s the first alien I’ve seen in almost thirty years,” answered the man. “Only been renting out rooms for the last seventeen.”

“Since there’s no sign to the contrary, we’ll take two rooms,” said the Mouse firmly.

“I only got one to rent,” said the man.

“Look,” said the Mouse. “We’ve come a long way, and we’re tired and hungry. We want two rooms.”

“I know what you want,” said he man. “You keep it up, and you might find yourself sleeping out in a cornfield.”

“You keep it up, and you might start wondering what your ugly little world looked like when your head was still attached to your shoulders.”

The Mouse felt a hand tug at the sleeve of her tunic.

“Offer him more money,” said Penelope.

“Why should I?” said the Mouse. “He hasn’t posted any restrictions.”

“Mouse, just do it,” said Penelope wearily.

The Mouse shrugged and turned back to the old man. “Five hundred credits a night for two rooms.”

“A thousand,” replied the man.

The Mouse was about to protest, but Penelope squeezed her hand, and nodded her approval.

“All right. A thousand.”

“In advance.”

The Mouse dug into the pouch where she kept her valuables, pulled out a thousand credits, and slapped them down on the table.

“Up the stairs,” said the old man, indicating a wooden staircase. “First two rooms on the left.”

“Where are our keys?” demanded the Mouse.

“Where’s your luggage?”

“That’s none of your business.”

The old man seemed to consider her answer, then opened a drawer and pulled out two keys.

“Thanks,” said the Mouse sardonically.

“If you don’t like our service, you can always go to our competitors,” said the old man.

“You could use a little competition,” snapped the Mouse.

“We got some,” he replied with a broad grin. “Another boarding house, halfway around the planet. Just a good stretch of the legs.”

The Mouse picked up the keys and led the way upstairs. When she reached the landing, she handed one of the keys to the Mock Turtle.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” she demanded, still furious.

“What was there to say?” responded the alien placidly.

“I’ve seen you shoot the Yankee Clipper down in cold blood, so don’t tell me that you’ve been taught to turn the other cheek. Why didn’t you stand up for your rights?”

“The Soothsayer did not instruct me to argue.”

“And if the Soothsayer tells you to jump off the edge of a cliff, will you do so?”

“Most certainly,” replied the Mock Turtle.

The Mouse muttered an obscenity and entered her room, followed by Penelope. The Mock Turtle watched her for a moment, then entered its own room.

The Mouse’s room contained two narrow beds, a dresser with a large mirror, a rocking chair, a pair of small throw rugs—one between the beds, the other just outside the door to the bathroom—and each wall was covered with two-dimensional photographs of the old man at the desk, an equally aged woman, and number of middle-aged men and women, and children of various ages from infancy to young adulthood, which the Mouse assumed were their children and grandchildren.

“There’s no holo set,” noted Penelope.

“I’m surprised there’s a window,” said the Mouse. She sighed deeply. “Well, let’s see what the facilities are like.”

She walked to the bathroom door and waited impatiently.

“Open,” she commanded.

The door remained shut.

“Try the handle,” said Penelope.

The Mouse reached for the door’s hand and twisted it.

“I’ll be damned!” she said. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve seen one of these?”

She entered the bathroom, grimaced when she discovered that there was no Dryshower, walked to the tub, said “Hot”, waited for a moment, then shook her head in disbelief and turned the faucet.

“How do people live like this?” she muttered.

She bathed, dried herself, and got back into her clothes, then rejoined Penelope in the bedroom.

“I don’t think I’d better wash Maryanne in real water,” said Penelope, sitting cross-legged on her bed and looking thoughtfully at the doll. “I was hoping the bathroom would have a Dryshower.”

The Mouse sat down on her own bed.

“We have more important things to worry about,” she said.

“I know,” answered Penelope seriously.

“When will they start arriving?”

“Soon.”

“Today?”

“I think so.”

“How many of them?”

“Today? Just one ship.”

“Can you tell who’s aboard it yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Carlos and the Kid, perhaps?”

Penelope frowned. “I hope not.”

“If you’re still afraid of him, why are we sitting here waiting for him?” asked the Mouse, puzzled.

“I told you: we’re all through running away.”

“Why here? Why weren’t we all through running away on Calliope or McCallister?”

Penelope shrugged. “It just feels right here.”

“Well,” said the Mouse with a sigh, “I suppose it makes sense after all. Most of the ships that were chasing us got left behind at McCallister.” She paused. “I wonder what would happen if we went back to the ship right now and took off again? How many more of them would we lose?”

“They’d catch us before we reached the next world and kill us,” said Penelope.

“No they wouldn’t—you’re much too valuable to kill.”

“They wouldn’t mean to,” said the little girl. “They’d try to disable the ship—but it’s not very sturdy. The first time it was hit, all three of us would die.”

“So that’s why we’re through running?”

Penelope nodded her head.

“Shit!” said the Mouse. “I was hoping it was because you saw some way to make them finally stop chasing us. I didn’t realize it was because we’d die if we kept running away.”

Penelope sighed deeply.

“Whatever happens here, at least it will finally be over,” she said. “I’m so tired.”

“I know,” said the Mouse sympathetically.

There was a momentary silence, as Penelope continued brushing dust from the doll. Finally she turned to the Mouse.

“Can we eat now?”

“Sure,” said the Mouse. “I don’t know if the restaurant has any food the Mock Turtle can eat, though.”

“It will hurt his feelings if we don’t ask him to come,” said Penelope.

“If he has any feelings,” said the Mouse, remembering the little scene at the desk.

“Everyone has feelings, Mouse,” said Penelope.

The Mouse sighed and tousled the girl’s blonde hair. “I know,” she said. “I guess I’m just tired, too.”

They left their room and knocked on the Mock Turtle’s door. The alien emerged a moment later.

“Have they arrived?” it asked.

“We’re hungry,” said Penelope. “We’re going across the street to eat at the restaurant. Would you like to come with us?”

“If you so wish it, Soothsayer,” said the Mock Turtle.

“I think we should stay together,” said Penelope.

They walked down the stairs and past the desk, which was now deserted. The Mouse opened the door, almost stepped on a small, catlike marsupial that had been sunning itself, and headed off toward the restaurant, followed closely by Penelope and the alien.

“Mouse?” said Penelope, when they had covered half the distance.

“What is it?”

“Whatever they charge us for the food, pay it.”

“But the Turtle can’t even eat human food,” said the Mouse. She turned to the alien. “Can you?”

“No,” answered the Mock Turtle.

“So why should I let them overcharge us?” continued the Mouse. “If they object to his presence, he can wait outside.”

“Pay it,” said Penelope. “It’s not polite to make him wait outside.”

“At this rate we’ll be out of money by tomorrow night,” said the Mouse. “I’m sure the Turtle will understand.”

“We won’t need the money by tomorrow night,” said Penelope.

“Why not?”

“Because whatever’s going to happen will be over by then.”

“Let’s be optimistic and assume we’re all going to live through it,” said the Mouse. “If we do, we’ll need money.”

“If we do, then you’ll take if off the bodies of the people who don’t live,” answered Penelope, dismissing the subject.

She climbed the steps of the restaurant’s broad veranda, then paused to look at a wooden porch swing. “That’s very nice,” she said. “Can I sit on it when we’re through eating?”

“I don’t know why not,” said the Mouse, still preoccupied with what the girl had just said about the impending events.

They entered the restaurant, which consisted of eight tables, all empty, each covered with an inexpensive, faded tablecloth. A pudgy, middle-aged woman walked out from another room and approached them.

“Can I help you?” she said coldly, regarding the Mock Turtle with open contempt.

“We’d like to have lunch,” said Penelope.

“Too late for lunch,” said the woman.

“Dinner, then,” said the Mouse.

“Too early for dinner.”

The Mouse walked to a table and seated herself. “We’ll wait,” she announced, signaling Penelope and the Mock Turtle to join her.

The woman disappeared into the room from which she had emerged, then came out again a moment later.

“All we’ve got is stew,” she said.

“What kind of salad do you have?” asked the Mouse.

“I said all we’ve got is stew.”

“What’s it made of?”

“Beef and vegetables,” said the woman.

“Can you make more if you have to?”

“I suppose so. Do you plan to eat twelve pounds of it?”

“No. But I want you to take some of those vegetables you would use to make more stew, and make me a salad,” said the Mouse.

“You ever have a salad made of potatoes before?” asked the woman with a harsh laugh.

“No, and I don’t plan to have one now. However long it takes to make a simple salad, I’ll wait.” She paused. “We’ll all wait.”

“I’d like some stew, please,” added Penelope.

The woman jerked a thumb in the Mock Turtle’s direction. “What does it eat?”

“Nothing, thank you,” said the alien.

The woman turned on her heel and left the room.

“I’ve never seen a place like this,” said the Mouse. “You’d think they’d never met an alien before.”

“Probably most of them haven’t,” said the Mock Turtle. “Killhaven is an insular, isolated world.”

“Then they ought to be curious.”

“It is my experience that your race manifests its curiosity in unusual ways,” said the alien with no show of emotion. “This experience is not unfamiliar to me.”

“Then why are you risking your life to save one of us?” asked the Mouse, suddenly feeling defensive.

“Because she is the Soothsayer,” said the Mock Turtle, as if explaining the obvious to a small child.

The pudgy woman suddenly reappeared, placed a garden salad before the Mouse and a plate of stew in front of Penelope without uttering a word, then turned to leave.

“We’d like some water, too,” said the Mouse.

She glared at the Mouse, then left and returned with two glasses of water a moment later.

“Thank you,” said Penelope, as she left again.

The Mouse began eating her salad, made a face, and searched through it for a sign of dressing. She couldn’t find any, and finally she shrugged and continued eating. “You know,” she remarked, “I get the distinct feeling that they’re not very happy to see any of us.”

“They lead very rigid, insular lives,” said the Mock Turtle. “We have disrupted them.”

“But we can’t be the only visitors they’ve ever seen,” said the Mouse. “After all, they do have a hotel and a restaurant.”

“They are probably patronized by farmers who come to town to shop for seeds and supplies, and by off-planet agents who come here to buy the crops.”

“Perhaps,” said the Mouse.

“We make an unlikely party,” continued the Mock Turtle. “Furthermore, you and I are both heavily armed, nor did we announce our arrival in advance.”

“Well, I hope they’re no more hospitable to the others when they show up,” said the Mouse. Suddenly she grinned. “Maybe they’ll all starve to death trying to get service here.”

As if on cue, the pudgy woman returned to the dining room.

“That’ll be five hundred credits, cash,” she announced.

“Five hundred credits for one bowl of salad and one plate of stew?” demanded the Mouse.

“If you don’t like the price, you shouldn’t have eaten the food,” said the woman.

“Mouse…” said Penelope softly.

The Mouse looked at the little girl, then pulled some bills out of her money pouch.

“How much of a tip do you think we should leave?” she asked caustically.

“I don’t want any tip from you,” said the woman. “Just pay up and leave.”

The Mouse handed over the money.

“We’ll leave when we’re ready to,” she said.

The woman glared at her. “When the shooting starts, just see to it that you’re not in my restaurant.”

“What shooting?” asked the Mouse.

“Don’t play dumb with me,” said the woman. “We heard on the subspace radio that there’s a bunch of bounty hunters bound for Killhaven. Since no one here has broken any laws, it stands to reason that you’re the ones they’re after.” She paused. “I want you out of my restaurant. If we had any police here, I’d turn you in myself.”

“I told you,” said the Mouse coldly. “We’ll leave when we’re ready.”

Penelope reached across the table and laid a hand on the Mouse’s wrist. “It’s all right, Mouse. I’m through eating.”

“All right,” said the Mouse, getting to her feet. “Let’s go try out that swing.”

“I don’t want to any more,” said Penelope.

“Don’t let her frighten you,” said the Mouse, still angry.

“I’m not afraid of her, Mouse.”

“You’re sure you don’t want to sit on the swing?”

“I’m sure,” answered the girl.

The Mouse shrugged. “All right,” she said. “Let’s go back to our room.”

They left the dining room, walked out the door, and started climbing down the steps of the veranda.

“Well, maybe it wasn’t xenophobia after all,” said the Mouse.

“Maybe it wasn’t only xenophobia,” the Mock Turtle corrected her.

They began walking back to the rooming house. When they were in the middle of the dirt street separating the two buildings, Penelope suddenly froze in her tracks.

“What is it?” asked the Mouse solicitously.

“He’s here already.”

“He?”

Penelope stared fixedly at a point just beyond the Mouse’s left shoulder.

“Him!” she whispered.

The Mouse turned and saw two men standing at the door of the hotel. One was the Forever Kid.

“Hello, Mouse,” said the other. “You led us one hell of a chase.”

“Hello, Carlos,” said the Mouse.

29

“Come no closer,” said the Mock Turtle.

“And who are you?” demanded the Iceman.

“I am a friend of the Soothsayer,” replied the alien. “That is enough for you to know.”

“So she’s the Soothsayer now?”

“And I am in her service.”

“If she was anyone else in the galaxy, I would say that she needed all the friends she could get,” said the Iceman. “I suppose you know that half a dozen ships are due to land before nightfall.”

“Yes—but you are the only one she fears,” said the Mock Turtle. “Keep your distance.”

“He’s not going to touch the little girl,” said the Forever Kid. He turned to the Mouse. “I’m still on your payroll; I figure that includes protecting the girl.” He paused. “Unless you want the rest of your money back, that is.”

“Keep the money,” said the Mouse as an enormous surge of relief swept over her. “You’re still working for me.”

“Well, Iceman?” said the Kid. “We haven’t settled what we were going to do when we caught up with them. It seems to me that it’s about time we found out where you stand.”

“We have time, yet,” said the Iceman. “Anything we decide right now is going to be disputed by a dozen or more bounty hunters. If we start shooting each other, there will be that many less of us to stand against them.”

“Why should we believe you, Carlos?” demanded the Mouse.

The Iceman stared into the little girl’s eyes. “Tell them,” he said.

“He’s not going to do anything to me at least until we’re safe from the others,” said Penelope.

“What about later?” asked the Mouse.

“I don’t know.”

The Mouse turned to face the Iceman once again. “Carlos?”

“She doesn’t know because I don’t know,” he replied.

“I’m still wondering if I can trust you,” said the Mouse.

“It is impossible for the Soothsayer to err,” said the Mock Turtle tranquilly. It began walking toward the rooming house. “Come. Let us go inside and make our plans. We are very visible targets here on the street.”

The Iceman nodded his agreement, and the five of them entered the rooming house. The old man was back at the desk.

“No rooms left,” he said sullenly. “We’re all sold out.”

“We don’t want a room,” replied the Iceman.

“We don’t allow visitors.”

The Iceman stared at the old man for a long moment.

“Leave,” he said at last.

“This is my rooming house!”

“Don’t make me say it again,” said the Iceman. He didn’t raise his voice; if anything, he spoke even more softly. But there was something in his tone that convinced the old man to get up and walk out the door without saying another word. At the same time the Mouse became aware of Penelope pressing very hard against her hip and leg, as if she were trying to keep the Mouse between herself and the Iceman.

“We’ve got a little time,” said the Iceman. “About an hour or so. Where can we talk?”

“There’s a lounge over there,” said the Mouse, pointing to an adjacent room that was dominated by a large, brick fireplace.

They entered it, with the Forever Kid leaning against the doorjamb, where he had a view of the empty street. Penelope waited until the Iceman had seated himself on a chair, then sat as far away from him as possible. The Mouse joined her a moment later, and the Mock Turtle, finding no furniture that would accommodate the huge, horny hump on its back, stood in a corner, from which it could observe all of them.

“Well?” said the Mouse. “What do we do now?”

“Now we wait,” said the Iceman.

“Then we kill ‘em all,” added the Forever Kid happily.

“Don’t ask him what to do,” said the Iceman wryly. “He can’t wait to take them all on single-handed.”

“Why aren’t we trying to get away before they arrive?” asked the Mouse. “I know why we can’t use our ship, but why can’t we all leave in yours?”

“Because the Democracy’s got a couple of battle cruisers on the way here,” answered the Iceman. “They won’t arrive for a couple of days, but we can’t outgun them, and while our ships are a little faster, they can carry a lot more fuel—they’d catch us the first time we put into a port with a fuel depot.” He paused. “The only way to get away cleanly is to do to them what you tried to do to us: change ships and hope they don’t figure it out as quickly as we did.”

“And the only ships worth taking belong to the bounty hunters,” added the Forever Kid.

“So there’s no alternative,” said the Mouse. “We stay and fight.”

“There’s an alternative,” said the Iceman.

“What is it?” asked the Mouse.

“Leave the girl here and get out now. They’re not interested in any of the rest of us.”

“No!” shouted Penelope.

“Never!” said the Mock Turtle.

“That was a foolish suggestion, Carlos,” said the Mouse, trying to control her anger.

“Probably,” he replied. “But you did ask for alternatives.” He stared at Penelope again. “You’d never let us get away with it, would you?”

“Why do you hate me so?” asked Penelope, edging closer to the Mouse and holding her hand as if for comfort.

“I don’t hate you at all,” replied the Iceman.

“But you want me dead.”

“Probably.”

“Then you do hate me.”

“No more than I hate a cancer that has to be removed, or a scavenger that has to be shot. You can’t help what you are, but you’re too dangerous to be allowed to live.”

“If you lay a finger on her, it’ll be over my dead body!” said the Mouse.

“And mine,” chimed in the Mock Turtle.

“Your money doesn’t run out for four more days, Mouse,” said the Forever Kid easily. “I’m sure we’ll have this all sorted out by then.”

“And what happens when the money runs out?” asked the Iceman.

The Kid smiled at him. “Then I might go up against you just for the hell of it.”

“Maybe you’d better worry about who you have to face today,” said the Iceman emotionlessly. “They’re due to arrive within the hour.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” the Forever Kid assured him.

“I’ll just bet you are,” replied the Iceman.

“Soothsayer,” interjected the Mock Turtle, “how may we help in your defense?”

“You don’t listen very well, do you?” said the Iceman. “She doesn’t need any help.”

“You don’t listen too well yourself,” shot back the Mouse. “They’re not coming to kill her, but to capture her.”

“How long will she stay captured?” replied the Iceman. He turned to the girl again. “How many people have captured you so far, and where are they all now?”

Penelope’s grip on the Mouse’s hand tightened. “Make him leave me alone, Mouse.”

“You heard her,” said the Mouse.

The Iceman shrugged. “That being the case, I think I’ll go across the street and get a drink while there’s time.”

“That’s a restaurant, not a bar,” said the Mouse.

“They’ll find some liquor,” said the Iceman confidently. He got to his feet, walked across the room, and a moment later he had left the rooming house and crossed the empty street.

The Mouse turned to Penelope. “Will you be all right if I leave you for a few minutes?”

“Where are you going?”

“To have a talk with Carlos,” she answered. “I’ve got to know whether we can count on him—or even turn our backs on him—once the shooting starts.”

“He’s a very bad man,” said Penelope.

“I’m starting to agree with you.”

“Then don’t go,” pleaded Penelope, clutching at the Mouse’s arm with both of her hands.

The Mouse hugged her reassuringly, then gently disengaged herself and got to her feet. “I’ll just be a few minutes,” she said, “and you’ll be safe here with the Kid and the Mock Turtle.”

“He’ll just say terrible things about me,” said Penelope. “Promise me you won’t listen to them.”

“Of course I won’t.” The Mouse smiled. “We’re still a team, remember?”

She hugged the girl again, then left the rooming house and walked across the street to the restaurant.

“You again?” said the pudgy woman, as the Mouse walked up the stairs of the veranda and into the building.

“Let her in,” said the Iceman, who was sitting alone in the dining room.

As with the old man, the woman detected something in his voice that made her decide not to argue with him.

“A beer for her, and another Cygnian cognac for me,” said the Iceman.

The woman left the room, and the Mouse sat down opposite the Iceman.

“I had a feeling you’d come over here,” he said. “I suppose it’s just as well. We’ve got to talk.”

“Yes, we do,” agreed the Mouse.

The woman returned with the drinks.

“Thanks,” said the Iceman, placing a couple of bills on the table. “Now leave us alone.”

“How will I know if you want more?” she demanded.

“We won’t.”

The pudgy woman turned and left the room without another word.

The Mouse leaned forward and stared at the Iceman.

“Why did you come here, Carlos?”

“Because I was thirsty.”

“You know what I mean,” she said irritably. “You’re not here for the reward, and you’re certainly not here to save me—so why are you here?”

“You still don’t believe it, do you?” said the Iceman. “You’re sitting on a time bomb, and you still haven’t realized it.”

“You make her sound like Evil Incarnate,” said the Mouse. “There’s not a malicious bone in her body. She’s just a little girl, and I love her.”

“I never said she was malicious.”

“Well, then?”

The Iceman sipped his drink, put it back down on the table, and met the Mouse’s gaze.

“Wherever she goes, people die.”

“Only people who mean her harm.”

“She’s just a child, Mouse,” said the Iceman. “As she grows older and stronger, her definition of harm is going to change. Right now it’s people who want to take her away from you, but one day soon it’ll be anyone who opposes anything she wants.”

“Nonsense.”

“You think only bounty hunters can trip on ladders and break their necks?” continued the Iceman. “You think a planetary governor can’t choke on his food, or that the Secretary of the Democracy can’t slip in the rain?”

“She would never do that!”

“Why not?”

“She’s a decent, sensitive child. You don’t know her like I do.”

“Nobody knows her like you do,” agreed the Iceman. “But she’ll even kill you if you stand in her way.”

“Stand in her way?” repeated the Mouse. “In her way to what?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. But the first duty of power is to protect itself, and the first instinct of the strong is to eat the weak.”

“You’re a fool, Carlos!”

“Perhaps.”

“She’s never harmed anyone who didn’t try to harm her first.”

“She’s never had the opportunity to.”

“She has the opportunity right now,” said the Mouse. “If she’s what you think she is, why haven’t you choked to death on your drink, or keeled over with a heart attack?”

“Obviously she needs me—probably to face the bounty hunters,” said the Iceman, still with no display of emotion. “That’s why we have to talk.” He stared at her intently. “If one of the bounty hunters manages to get his hands on her, then she’s the Democracy’s problem, and good luck to them.” He paused. “But if you’re the only one who survives this mess, you’d better start giving some thought to how you’re going to kill her.”

“You’re describing a monster, not a little girl!”

“A potential monster, anyway,” agreed the Iceman. “The longer you wait, the harder she’ll be to take on.”

“Did it ever occur to you that she could be a force for good?” demanded the Mouse.

“What’s good for her won’t be what’s good for us.”

“She’s a human being!”

“She’s more than a human being,” replied the Iceman. “And the more she grows, the less like a human being she’s going to become.”

“Then why didn’t you try to kill her the minute you saw her out on the street?”

He stared at his drink for a moment, then looked across the table at her.

“There’s a possibility that I’m wrong.”

“That’s the first rational thing you’ve said.”

“Everything I’ve said is rational,” he replied. “I could be mistaken about how much harm she could do. It wouldn’t be the first time I was wrong.” He paused. “But I doubt it.”

“Then I repeat: why are you here at all? Why don’t you just stand back and let the bounty hunters take her away?”

“I plan to stand back.”

“I don’t understand.”

“If she can arrange for the Forever Kid to kill them all, then she’s as dangerous as I thought. If she can’t, then I’ll take a hand.”

“That won’t prove a thing,” said the Mouse. “I’ve seen him kill eight miners all by himself.”

“Those were miners,” said the Iceman. “These are bounty hunters. There’s Three-Fisted Ollie and Jimmy the Spike and Cemetery Smith and half a dozen others just as formidable. The Forever Kid’s good, but he’s not that good.”

“Then you’re telling me that you plan to sit back and watch him die defending Penelope?”

“First, nothing would make him happier than dying, and second, I don’t expect him to die.”

“What do you expect?”

“I expect him to kill them all, and then I expect I’ll try to kill her, whether he tries to stop me or not.” The Iceman paused. “And if I fail, I expect you to remember this conversation, and put your emotions aside, and do what has to be done.”

“Not a chance,” said the Mouse in level tones.

“Then I feel very sorry for you.” He paused. “You always seem to love the wrong people. Once it cost you a year in an alien prison. This time it may cost you your life.”

“You never cared for me!” said the Mouse. “Penelope loves me!”

“She loves you because she needs a mother and that’s what you’ve been to her,” said the Iceman. “What happens when she stops needing a mother?”

“Sooner or later all little girls grow up and stop needing their mothers,” said the Mouse. “That doesn’t mean they stop loving them.”

“But you’re not her mother,” he pointed out. “By the time she’s mature she’ll have no more in common with you than you have with an insect.”

“You don’t know her, or you wouldn’t say that.”

“I freely admit I don’t know her,” said the Iceman. “My point is that you don’t either. She looks and acts like a normal little girl, but she isn’t one.” He paused. “I asked you a question back on Last Chance. Let me ask it again: how many men and women and aliens has this normal little girl killed?”

“I told you,” said the Mouse. “Anytime she’s hurt or killed somebody it’s been in self-defense.”

“You still haven’t answered me. How many?”

“I don’t know?”

“More than the Forever Kid?”

“I doubt it. But that’s not the point. She’s not a paid killer. She’s just trying to stay alive.”

“I know. But let me ask another question now: has she ever expressed any remorse or regret over having taken so many lives?”

“No,” said the Mouse. Then she added defensively: “Would you feel remorse over killing someone who was trying to kill you?”

“No, I wouldn’t,” replied the Iceman.

“Then why is she any different from you?”

“Because when I was eight years old, I couldn’t kill ten or twenty or however many bounty hunters she’s killed,” said the Iceman. “She’s still a little girl, and her needs are simple: she wants to stay alive and she wants to stay free. But what will her needs be when she grows up?”

“I don’t know, and neither do you.”

“Nobody knows,” he admitted. “Probably not even Penelope. But I do know this: if her power keeps growing, and there’s no reason to assume it won’t, she can have anything she wants when she grows up. A planet? A star system? A trillion credits? Hers for the asking—or for the wanting and the manipulating.”

“That’s no different than a politician or a businessman.”

“There’s a difference,” said the Iceman. “They can be stopped. She can’t. Hell, she’s already killed more men than most of the bounty hunters who are after her. Can’t you see what lies up the road?”

“You’re guessing!” she half-shouted. “You want me to kill her because you think she might grow up to be some kind of monster! Well, she isn’t, and she never will be! You don’t know her like I do!”

“No,” he said. “But I know something else. I know that we’ve had monsters before—Caligula, Hitler, Conrad Bland—and that they all had mothers who loved them.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Think of how many lives could have been saved if just one of those mothers had seen her child for the potential monster it really was.” He paused and stared at her. “You might consider that while there’s still time.”

Then he rose and walked out of the dining room, leaving her with her beer and her thoughts.

PART 5:

The

Soothsayer’s

Book

30

An hour had passed.

The Mock Turtle, the Mouse, and Penelope were sitting quietly in the lounge of the boarding house. The Iceman was leaning against a wall, looking out at the street through a window, and the Forever Kid stood in the open front door, totally relaxed while idly fingering the handle of his sonic pistol.

The Iceman lit a cigar, took a deep puff of it, and turned to stare expressionlessly at the little girl.

“Don’t do that,” said Penelope.

“Don’t do what?” he asked.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she said. “It frightens me.”

He took another puff of his cigar, then walked out into the foyer and sat down on the corner of the desk.

“Where the hell are they?” said the Mouse, getting to her feet and crossing the room to stand by the doorway.

“They’ll be here, never fear,” said the Iceman.

“I just wish we had some plan,” she said nervously.

“The Soothsayer will tell us what to do when the time comes,” said the Mock Turtle placidly.

“Why are you so goddamned calm?” said the Mouse, turning to glare at the alien. “Don’t you ever get excited about anything?”

“Why are you so excited?” responded the Mock Turtle, its voice calm and steady. “Have you no faith in the Soothsayer?”

The Mouse was about to reply to the alien, then thought better of it, and continued her pacing.

Penelope held Maryanne to her chest, rocking back and forth on the ancient sofa, and half-singing, half-whispering a lullaby to the doll. She stopped every now and then to see if the Iceman was still in the next room, then lovingly smoothed the doll’s dress and began crooning to it again.

The Forever Kid pulled his sonic pistol out of its holster and checked its charge.

“You keep fiddling with that thing and you’re going to inadvertently deactivate it,” commented the Iceman. “If you’re nervous, go across street and have a drink.”

“Bored, not nervous,” corrected the Kid. He paused. “I’ve never seen the Spike or Cemetery Smith before. I want to see what they can do.”

“They can kill you; that’s what they can do,” said the Iceman.

“You really think they’ve got a chance?” asked the Kid, with an almost hopeful note in his voice.

“Everyone’s always got a chance,” said the Iceman noncommittally. “Out here, if you carry a weapon, you’re undefeated so far.”

The Kid smiled one of his rare smiles. “I never thought of it like that.”

“You’re young yet,” said the Iceman sardonically. “You’ll learn.”

The Kid actually chuckled at the remark, then replaced his pistol in its holster.

“He’s crazy,” said the Mouse, finally sitting down next to Penelope.

“Who is?” asked the girl.

“The Kid. He’s about to take on some of the best bounty hunters on the Inner Frontier, and he’s actually laughing. I haven’t seen him laugh since I met him.”

She got up and paced across the room once more, then seated herself uneasily on a wooden chair, tried to hold still, and immediately began fidgeting.

Suddenly Penelope looked up from her doll.

“They’re here,” she announced.

“Where?” demanded the Mouse.

“On Killhaven,” said Penelope. “Two ships, and a third is about to land.”

“I know,” said the Kid from his position in the doorway. “I just saw them come down. They’re at least three miles away, maybe five.” He paused. “Here comes another one.”

“Well, we’ve probably got half an hour or more until they get here,” said the Iceman, remaining seated on the desk. “If they get here at all, that is.”

“What do you mean?” asked the Mock Turtle.

“There’s a huge reward for the girl, and these guys probably aren’t planning to divide it ten or twelve ways. They might kill each other off before they even come to town.”

“I hope not,” said the Forever Kid devoutly.

“How many more ships will be arriving?” asked the Mouse.

“Two that I know of,” said the Iceman. “There were five of them on our tail.”

“Three more,” corrected Penelope.

The Iceman shrugged. “We must have missed one—or else somebody radioed for reinforcements.”

“They better get here soon,” noted the Kid. “It’ll be dark in less than an hour.”

“Maybe they’ll wait until morning,” said the Mouse hopefully.

“Not very likely,” said the Iceman. “By morning the other three ships will be here. They’ll want to grab the girl and get out of here as quick as they can.”

“Well, let’s not make it too easy for them,” said the Mouse. She turned to Penelope. “I want you to go upstairs and keep out of sight.”

“I want to stay with you, Mouse,” protested the girl.

The Mouse turned to the Mock Turtle. “Go with her, and protect the door if they get that far.”

The alien stared at her politely, but made no reply and didn’t move from where it was standing.

“Didn’t you hear me?” snapped the Mouse. “Take her upstairs.”

“I obey only the Soothsayer,” replied the Mock Turtle. “When she tells me to go upstairs, then I will go.”

“Listen, you,” began the Mouse. “When I say to—”

“Don’t!” shouted Penelope, and suddenly all eyes turned to her. “You’re my friends,” continued the girl. “I don’t want you to fight.”

“You’re what they’ve come for,” said the Mouse. “You’ve got to let us try to protect you.”

The Mock Turtle held up its hand for silence, then stared intently at Penelope. “What do you see, Soothsayer?” it asked. “Who will live and who will die?”

“I can’t tell,” answered the girl. “There are still too many futures.”

“And I’ll wager a castle to a credit that you live in all of them, don’t you?” said the Iceman.

“No,” said the girl. “I don’t.”

“If you live in even one, that’s enough,” said the Mouse. “Just tell us how to make that future come to pass.”

“I don’t know yet,” said Penelope, obviously agitated. “But I know I want to be with you, Mouse. Please don’t make me go upstairs.”

The Mouse looked at the girl for a long moment, then sighed and shrugged.

“How can I give an order to a soothsayer?” she said with a wry smile.

Penelope run over to the Mouse and hugged her. “Thank you, Mouse,” she said. “I love you.”

“I know,” said the Mouse, returning her embrace. “And I love you, too. That’s why I worry so much about you.”

“I think I see another one,” said the Forever Kid, drifting out to the porch. “Could be a bird, though.” He paused. “No, it’s a ship all right.” There was another pause, longer this time. “Looks like it’s landing to the north. That means they’ll be approaching from both ends of town.”

“Maybe we’ll just lock the doors and let them fight it out for the privilege of facing you,” suggested the Iceman. He got up and walked to the door, where he shaded his eyes and scanned the sky.

“From what I hear, that means I’d wind up facing Jimmy the Spike,” replied the Kid, considering the possibility. He spat on the dirt. “Damn! I want to face more than one of them.” He paused thoughtfully. “Maybe they’ll come in teams.”

“If I’d known it meant so much to you, I’d have radioed our position to one of the Democracy’s battle cruisers,” said the Iceman with dry irony.

“I wonder how many of them I could take out before they killed me?” mused the Kid.

“Not enough,” said the Iceman.

Suddenly the Mock Turtle walked through the foyer and joined the Forever Kid on the porch.

“What are you doing here?” asked the Kid.

“In the absence of instructions from the Soothsayer,” replied the alien, displaying its odd, silent weapon, “I have elected to make my stand here with you.”

“I don’t know about that,” said the Forever Kid. “I planned to face whoever shows up alone.”

“What about the Iceman?”

The Kid snorted contemptuously. “He doesn’t like to get his hands dirty. He’ll probably watch the whole thing from inside the house and then take credit for all the men I kill.”

“Sounds good to me,” said the Iceman dryly.

“Besides,” continued the Forever Kid, “you ought to stay with the little girl, in case anyone gets past me.”

“She will summon me if she needs me,” said the Mock Turtle.

“And if she doesn’t summon you?”

“Then she never needed me,” answered the alien.

“I’m glad someone besides me understands what we’re dealing with here,” said the Iceman.

“I have always understood what we are dealing with,” said the Mock Turtle serenely. “That is why I am here.”

“Then you’re the biggest fool of all,” said the Iceman.

“Why should you think so?” asked the alien curiously.

“The Mouse still doesn’t understand what she is, and the Forever Kid couldn’t care less. But you—you know and you’re still trying to help her.”

“And why are you here?”

The Iceman shrugged. “I wish I knew.”

“Then who is the bigger fool?” continued the Mock Turtle. “I, who understand my motivations, or you, who do not begin to understand you own?”

The Iceman considered its statement. “Maybe you have a point at that,” he admitted wryly.

The Forever Kid stepped off the porch and into the street. “Are you two through arguing about who’s a bigger fool?” he asked.

“Yes,” said the Iceman. “I think we’ll call it a draw.”

“Good,” said the Kid. “Then get inside.”

“No,” said the alien calmly.

The Forever Kid turned to the alien. “I’m working for the Mouse, and I’m being paid to protect the girl,” he said, “but I never saw you before today, and the way I see it, I don’t owe you a damned thing. I’ve been waiting a long time for a chance like this, and if I have to kill you first to make sure I get it, then I will.”

The Mouse walked to the doorway. “Leave him alone, Kid. I’ll tell you who to kill.”

“Right,” agreed the Kid. “But nobody tells me who not to kill. Not even you.”

“Well, somebody better remind you who the bad guys are,” said the Mouse. She pointed to the cornfields beyond the small cluster of buildings. “The enemy’s out there.”

“Right now the enemy is anyone who tries to stop me from what I want to do,” answered the Kid.

Penelope appeared beside the Mouse in the doorway, still holding Maryanne.

“Come inside, Turtle,” she said. “If you don’t, he’ll kill you.”

“If it is your desire, Soothsayer,” replied the alien, immediately turning and walking back into the interior of the rooming house.

“I’ve had pets before,” remarked the Iceman, “but I never had one that well-trained.”

“That’s enough sniping, Carlos,” said the Mouse. “We can sort out our differences later. I’ll tell you what I told the Kid: the enemy’s out there.”

“Not any longer he isn’t,” said the Forever Kid, as six men came into view half a mile down the dirt road. “Iceman, get off my street.”

“Your wish is my command,” said the Iceman ironically, stepping back into the doorway. He glanced quickly toward the north. “By the way, I don’t want to intrude on your idyll, but it looks like you’ve got two more friends coming from the other end of town.”

The Kid’s fingers dropped to the handles of his pistols. “The more the merrier,” he said.

The Iceman suddenly noticed that the Mouse was still standing next to him.

“You’d better get inside,” he told her. “You’re not even carrying a weapon.”

“You’re really going to let him face all eight of them alone?” she demanded.

“I told you before that I was. Besides, it’s what he wants.” The Iceman looked at the progress the approaching men were making. “They’ll be here in about two minutes,” he said to the Kid. “I hope you’re ready.”

“I’ve been ready for two hundred years,” replied the Forever Kid, a smile of anticipation on his handsome, unlined face.

31

The eight bounty hunters—five men and three women—reached the cluster of frame buildings that formed the tiny town within a minute of each other. One hung back, some hundred yards or so behind the others. The remaining seven stopped opposite the boarding house and stared at the Forever Kid, who stood before them, hands on hips, completely relaxed.

“I know who you are,” said one of the men.

“Then you must know why I’m here,” answered the Kid.

“You’re no bounty hunter,” said a woman. “You’ve got no interest in the girl.”

“My interest in her is the same as yours: financial,” said the Kid.

“We’ve got no fight with you,” continued the woman. “Why don’t you walk away now while you can?”

“Got no place to go,” said the Kid.

“Surely you don’t think you can take all eight of us?” demanded the woman.

“I only count seven,” replied the Kid calmly. “One of your friends is showing rare good judgment.”

“He’s no friend of mine,” said the man who had spoken first. “And he’ll be along, never fear.”

“Are you planning to split the reward seven ways?” asked the Kid. “If not, I have no serious objection to your going over to one of the cornfields and sorting things out.” He paused. “I’ll still be waiting here to face the winner.”

“As a matter of fact, we spoke by subspace radio, and that’s exactly what we plan to do,” said the man. “There’s more than enough money to split seven ways.”

“Or eight ways, if you’d like to throw in with us,” added another man.

“What about your friend down the street?” asked the Kid curiously. “Or the two ships that haven’t landed yet?”

“We made them the offer. They turned it down. It’s their loss. Yours, too, if you plan to stand against us.”

“All I’m losing is money,” said the Forever Kid. “If you don’t walk back to your ships right now, you’re going to lose your lives.”

“You’re crazy!” said the woman, as three of them started fanning out in a semi-circle. “Do you really think you can take seven armed bounty hunters?”

The Kid smiled confidently. “Do you really think I can’t?”

As he spoke he drew both of his hand weapons, panning the area with his laser pistol and firing short bursts of almost-solid sound with the sonic gun. Two women and two men dropped to the ground almost instantly, while the third woman clutched her belly and doubled over in agony.

The two remaining men had their weapons out—one a sonic gun, one an old-fashioned projectile pistol—and began firing while running for cover. The Forever Kid neither ducked nor crouched nor sought out shelter. He stood his ground, oblivious to the bullets and sonic blasts flying about him, aimed his laser pistol carefully, and brought both men down. Then, almost casually, he turned back to the wounded woman, aimed his laser pistol between her eyes as she desperately sought to reach her own weapon, and fired. She collapsed without a sound.

And now the eighth bounty hunter, the man who had lagged behind, began approaching the Forever Kid.

“Not bad,” he said. “Not bad at all.”

“Damned good, if you ask me,” responded the Kid.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” continued the man easily. “Four of them were dead and one was as good as dead before they even knew the fight had begun.”

“When you’re outnumbered seven-to-one, you don’t wait for a referee to drop a flag,” said the Kid. “If they weren’t ready, that was their problem.”

“I fully agree,” said the man. “In fact, I suppose I should be grateful to you. After all, you saved me the trouble of killing them myself.”

“I take it you’re not much for sharing,” said the Kid with a smile.

“I work alone.”

“Maybe you’d better consider whether you want to die alone, too,” suggested the Kid.

“I might say the same thing to you.”

“You might,” agreed the Kid. “But I probably wouldn’t listen.”

“No, I suppose not,” said the man. “We’re a lot alike, you and I.”

“You think so?”

The man nodded. “I don’t give a damn about the money or the girl, and neither do you. Men like us, we live only for the competition.”

“Or die for it,” answered the Kid.

“Or die for it,” agreed the man. “You’re the Forever Kid, aren’t you?”

The Kid nodded.

“I’ve heard of you.”

“I don’t know if I’ve heard of you or not,” replied the Kid.

The man grinned. “I’m fresh out of business cards, but my name is Jimmy the Spike.”

“You know, I was wondering if you were in that batch,” said the Kid, indicating the dead bounty hunters as the sun glinted off their weapons. “But from what I knew of you, I didn’t figure you could be.”

“My reputation precedes me. How very gratifying.”

“I’ve been looking forward to meeting you,” said the Kid.

“I’d kind of hoped we might get together over a drink someday, and maybe swap stories,” answered the Spike. He sighed. “But I suppose this way is better.”

“Much,” agreed the Kid, as a number of avians began circling lazily overhead.

“I notice you haven’t told me to go back to my ship,” said the bounty hunter with an amused smile.

“That’s because I don’t want you to.”

“You are a man after my own heart!” chuckled the Spike. “In another life, we could have been great friends.”

“Well, you’re going to get to that other life first,” said the Kid. “Maybe when I finally join you, we’ll be friends after all.”

“I hope so,” said the Spike. “Where we’re bound, I have a feeling a man needs all the friends he can get.” He glanced at the boarding house. “The little girl’s in there?”

The Kid nodded his head.

“Is she alone?”

“It doesn’t make any difference,” said the Kid. “You’ve got to get past me first, and you’re not going to.”

“That remains to be seen,” said the Spike, taking a step forward.

The Forever Kid reached for his sonic pistol. As he did so, Jimmy the Spike made a quick backhanded motion with his forearm, and a trio of long, ugly darts buried themselves in the Kid’s chest. He stood motionless for a moment, then stared in disbelief at the blood running down the front of his tunic.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he whispered, the trace of a smile on his face. “It finally happened!”

Then he fell to the ground.

Jimmy the Spike walked over to the Forever Kid’s body, rolled him over on his back, and looked down at him. He stared at the boyish face for a long moment, then sighed, and turned to the boarding house. He had taken only two steps toward it when the Mock Turtle stepped up to a window and aimed his weapon. There was a faint humming noise, and then the Spike collapsed, almost falling on top of the Kid’s lifeless body.

The Iceman stepped through the doorway and surveyed the carnage, followed a moment later by the Mouse, Penelope, and the Mock Turtle.

“What a waste,” muttered the Iceman.

“He sacrificed himself for us,” intoned the Mock Turtle. “He was a noble man.”

“You’re wrong on both counts,” said the Iceman.

“I don’t understand,” said the alien.

“First, there was nothing noble about it. He’s been trying to get himself killed for the better part of a century; he finally succeeded.” He paused. “And second, he didn’t sacrifice himself for us.”

“Certainly he did.”

The Iceman shook his head. “Someone else sacrificed him for us.” He turned and stared at Penelope. “Or am I wrong?”

“Leave her alone, Carlos!” snapped the Mouse.

He looked from the girl to the Mouse, back to the girl once more, shrugged, and walked off to see if he could identify the various corpses.

“I think I know two of them,” he announced. “This one’s Buzzard Stone, and that woman”—he indicated the woman who had done most of the talking—“is Nina Pallone. He wasn’t much, but she was supposed to be one of the best.” He paused. “I never saw the other five before.”

“What shall we do with the bodies?” asked the Mock Turtle.

“After I’ve had a drink, I’ll bury the Kid out behind the rooming house,” answered the Iceman. “You can help.”

“And the others?”

“Let’s leave ‘em right where they are,” said the Iceman. “There are two more ships due to land. Maybe this will give them something to think about.”

He turned and walked off to the restaurant.

The Mouse turned to the Mock Turtle. “Thank you for avenging the Kid’s death.”

“He meant no more to me than I meant to him,” replied the alien. “I was protecting the Soothsayer.”

“Well, whatever your reason, thanks,” said the Mouse. “Maybe you’d better start digging his grave out back. I’m sure Carlos will be by to join you in a few minutes.”

“Have I your permission to leave you, Soothsayer?” asked the Mock Turtle.

“Yes,” said Penelope.

The alien stepped down off the porch. “I have no digging instruments,” it announced.

“There’s a shed behind the building,” said the Mouse. “I’m sure you’ll find a spade or a pick inside it.”

The Mock Turtle walked around the rooming house without another word.

“Come inside, Penelope,” said the Mouse.

“Why?” asked the girl.

“We have to talk, and I’d just as soon not do it where we can be overheard, even by the Turtle.”

The Mouse walked into the house and walked across the foyer to the lounge, followed by Penelope.

“Sit down,” said the Mouse.

Penelope sat on a couch, and the Mouse sat down next to her.

“What’s the matter?” asked the girl. “You act like you’re mad at me.”

“I’m not mad, but there’s something I have to know.”

“What?”

The Mouse looked into Penelope’s eyes. “Was Carlos telling the truth?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said the girl.

“Did the Forever Kid have to die?”

“He wanted to die,” answered Penelope. “You don’t have to feel sad about it.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” said the Mouse. “Did he have to die?”

“Jimmy the Spike was faster.”

“But Jimmy the Spike was our enemy and the Forever Kid was our friend.”

“But he died the way he wanted to.”

“Look at me,” said the Mouse. “Did you interfere with the fight?”

Penelope met her gaze. “No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Don’t you believe me, Mouse?”

The Mouse stared at her for a moment, then put her arms around the little girl. “Yes, I believe you.”

“She’s telling the truth,” said a voice from the doorway.

The Mouse jumped up, startled. “I thought you were having a drink.”

“They locked up the building when the shooting started,” said the Iceman.

Suddenly the Mouse frowned. “If you agree that she’s telling the truth, what were you talking about before?” she demanded.

“You asked her the wrong question.”

“What do you think I should have asked.”

The Iceman stared at Penelope. “Ask her if the Kid would have lived if she had interfered.”

“Go away and leave me alone!” shouted Penelope, half-hysterical.

“Please, Carlos,” said the Mouse.

He nodded. “I’ve got a body to bury.” He turned to leave. “Besides, I already know the answer.”

Then the Mouse was alone with Penelope again.

“Well?” she said.

Penelope, her body still tense, continued to stare at the spot where the Iceman had been standing.

“Penelope,” said the Mouse, “is it true? Could you have saved him?”

“He wanted to die.”

“He was prepared to die,” said the Mouse. “That’s not the same thing.”

“It is.”

“No,” said the Mouse. “If he had wanted to die, he wouldn’t have drawn his guns against the first seven bounty hunters. He’d have just stood there and let them shoot him down.”

Penelope’s gradually relaxed, but made no answer.

“Could you have saved him?” asked the Mouse again.

“Maybe,” said Penelope grudgingly.

“That’s not an answer,” said the Mouse. “Could you have saved him—yes or no?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“By breaking the window just when the Kid tried to draw his gun. Jimmy the Spike would have been startled, not for long, but long enough for the Kid to kill him.”

“Then why didn’t you do it?”

“He didn’t care whether he lived or died.”

“But we care,” said the Mouse. “First, because he was our friend, and second, because we needed him to face the last two men—the two who haven’t landed yet.”

“They would probably have killed him,” said Penelope.

“Probably?” repeated the Mouse.

“It depends where they stood.”

“You could have told him where to stand.”

“What difference does it make?” asked Penelope. “He wasn’t important anyway. You’re the one I love.” She threw her arms around the Mouse and buried her head against her small bosom. You and Maryanne and maybe the Mock Turtle. He didn’t matter!” She started crying. “Say you’re not mad at me, Mouse.”

The Mouse stroked her blonde hair absently and stared out the window at the bodies on the street.

“No, I’m not mad at you, Penelope,” she said, her voice troubled.

“And do you still love me?”

“I’ll always love you.”

“And we’re still partners, and we’ll always be together?”

The Mouse sighed deeply, and continued stroking Penelope’s hair.

“You didn’t answer me,” said the little girl.

The Mouse hugged her tightly, but remained silent, a troubled frown on her face.

32

Night had fallen.

The Iceman had pulled a rocking chair out to the porch, so he could watch for the final two ships against the darkened sky. Penelope was sleeping in the lounge, where the Mock Turtle sat watch over her.

The Mouse, who had been walking restlessly through and around the rooming house, finally approached the Iceman.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” she began softly.

“And?”

“She’s been on the run all her life. She’s never stopped long enough for anyone to teach her right from wrong.”

“I know.”

“She’s not malicious,” added the Mouse quickly. “She doesn’t mean to hurt anyone. She just doesn’t know any better.” She paused. “She thought she was doing the Kid a favor by letting him die.”

“I’m sure she did,” said the Iceman. “But the end result is that he’s dead.”

“She needs guidance, that’s all,” said the Mouse.

“And you’re going to give it to her?”

“I’m going to try.”

“And what happens when she doesn’t agree with what you say?”

“I’ll just have to be patient, and explain it until she understands,” answered the Mouse.

“Children aren’t notorious for being patient,” he pointed out. “Most of them just cry, and a few break things. This one could destroy whole worlds.”

“I can’t kill her, Carlos. She loves me.”

The Iceman stared into the darkness for a long time before answering.

“Then you’d better never leave her side for an instant,” he said. “You’d better never give her a reason to doubt that you love her, or that she’s the most important thing in your life.” He paused. “The only important thing in your life.”

“She’d never harm me, Carlos.”

“She’s just a child, and an untrained one at that,” replied the Iceman. “She’ll have doubts and fears and jealousies, just like any other child—only she won’t recognize them for what they are.” He turned to her. “Other children wish terrible fates on their parents and siblings every day; it’s a normal part of growing up. The difference is that what she wishes will come true.”

The Mouse made no reply.

“And you’d better watch out for the Mock Turtle, too,” continued the Iceman.

“Why? He worships her.”

“You call it a ‘he’ and you give it a name like the Mock Turtle, and that makes you forget it’s an alien, with alien perceptions and alien motivations. It’s got a polite, almost servile manner, but it killed the Yankee Clipper in cold blood, and it showed no hesitation in shooting down Jimmy the Spike.”

“He was protecting her.”

“I know … but it’s going be giving Penelope as much input as you are, and for all you know it kills someone every day before breakfast.”

“He seems very gentle and very caring to me,” replied the Mouse.

“You’ve only seen it in the presence of a little girl that it worships. You know nothing about its beliefs and its ethics, except that it’s willing to kill humans for what it considers valid reasons.”

“What do you want me to do?” demanded the Mouse. “Kill both of them?”

“Kill the little girl and the alien doesn’t matter,” said the Iceman. “But if you let her live, then you’d better get rid of the alien, and the sooner the better.”

She stared at him. “You’re a hard man, Carlos.”

He was about to answer her when the sky was lit up by the retro-burn of an incoming spaceship.

“How far away would you say it is?” asked the Iceman when the ship had finally vanished from their sight and presumably landed on the planet’s surface.

“Four or five miles, just like the others.”

“Whoever’s flying it must have picked up the others with his sensor and decided that was the spaceport.” He paused. “Well, we’ve probably got until sunrise.”

“Why won’t he come after us right now?” asked the Mouse.

“Because for all he knows, we’ve got the whole route mined and booby-trapped,” answered the Iceman. “No, he’ll wait until he can see where he’s going.” He looked up at the sky. “Besides, his partner isn’t here yet.”

“How do you know who it is, or that he has a partner?” asked the Mouse.

“Because I saw who the Kid killed, and Three-Fisted Ollie wasn’t among them,” explained the Iceman. “Ollie is too good at his work to have lost our trail, and he’ll have kept in contact with Cemetery Smith.” The Iceman smiled grimly. “That’s who we’re waiting for.”

“Maybe we ought to mine the road,” suggested the Mouse. “We have enough time. It won’t be daylight for another four or five hours.”

“I don’t have the equipment,” said the Iceman. “Besides, it doesn’t make any difference.”

“Why not?”

“Because these are two of the best in the business. They’re not going to make a second foolish mistake.”

“A second one?” said the Mouse. “What was their first?”

“The same as yours,” he replied, leaning back on the rocking chair to wait for Cemetery Smith’s ship to streak through the atmosphere. “They thought Penelope Bailey was a helpless little girl.”

33

Dawn broke with surprising suddenness on Killhaven. One moment it was dark, the next moment it wasn’t, and a moment after that a score of avian raptors swooped down and recommenced feeding on the dead bodies that littered the street.

“They’re coming,” announced Penelope from inside the house.

“I’ll tell Carlos,” said the Mouse’s voice.

“Not necessary,” said the Iceman, still sitting on his rocking chair. “I’m awake.”

The Mouse appeared in the doorway and looked up the long dirt road.

“I can’t see them yet.”

“They’re probably still a couple of miles away,” said the Iceman.

“What do you plan to do?” asked the Mouse.

“I’ll play it by ear,” answered the Iceman.

“You mean you’re just going to sit here?”

“That’s what I mean.”

“That’s stupid, Carlos,” said the Mouse. “We still have time to take defensive positions. You could get on the roof, the Turtle can hide behind the restaurant, I can—”

“I’m too old to climb on top of buildings,” interrupted the Iceman.

“But you can’t just do nothing!”

“Why not?” replied the Iceman calmly. “It’s usually best.”

“What’s going on, Carlos?” she demanded. Suddenly she stared intently at him. “You’re going to join them, aren’t you?”

“I doubt that they’d have me.”

“Then what are you going to do?” she insisted.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, you’ve got about ten minutes to come up with an idea.”

“I don’t want one.”

She frowned. “What the hell are you talking about, Carlos?”

He turned to her. “If I don’t know what I’m going to do, then she doesn’t know what I’m going to do.”

“It doesn’t work that way, Carlos,” said the Mouse. “She sees lots of futures, and then tries to manipulate things so that the one she wants will come to pass.”

“Not knowing what I’m going to do will make it harder for her to manipulate anything,” answered the Iceman. “Maybe she’ll want me to sneeze when I’m going for my gun, and maybe she won’t—but if even I don’t know if or when I’m going for it, it’s got to hamper her.”

“If I were you, I’d be more worried about Three-Fisted Ollie and Cemetery Smith,” said the Mouse.

The Iceman shrugged. “They’re just killers.”

The Mouse stared at him again, then disappeared back inside the house.

The Iceman pulled a thin Castorian cigar from his pocket, lit it, and continued rocking on his chair. The sun peeked up over the restaurant, and he squinted up the road, wishing that he had remembered to bring a hat to shade his eyes.

And then two figures, one human, one definitely inhuman, came into view. As they came closer he saw that the alien wore a silver outfit, and had either one arm too many or one too few, and he knew that it was Three-Fisted Ollie. The other wore the dull browns and greens of a man used to blending in with his surroundings, but there was no doubt in the Iceman’s mind that it was Cemetery Smith.

“I am standing in the window of the lounge,” said the Mock Turtle’s voice. “I will keep my weapon trained on the human.”

“Don’t shoot until I tell you to,” said the Iceman. “We tried this the Kid’s way yesterday, and all we have to show for it is a batch of dead bodies and fat birds.”

“Two more dead bodies and we can leave in safety,” responded the Mock Turtle.

“These guys aren’t that stupid,” said the Iceman. “And they’ve worked as a team before. One of them will approach me, but the other will stay out of range, and if anything happens to his partner, he’ll blow the whole rooming house straight to hell.”

And, almost as if they had heard them, Cemetery Smith came to a halt some 800 yards away while Three-Fisted Ollie continued approaching with his powerful, lumbering walk.

“That’s close enough,” said the Iceman, getting off the rocking chair and stepping down from the porch when the alien was about fifty yards away.

“I know you,” said Three-Fisted Ollie, stopping and peering at the Iceman through his many-faceted eyes. “You’re Mendoza.”

“I know you too.”

“I haven’t seen you in many years,” continued the alien.

“I’ve been around.”

“Are you working for the girl now?”

The Iceman shook his head. “Just working.”

“We have come for her.”

“I know.”

“Do you plan to stand against us?” asked Three-Fisted Ollie.

“Not if I can help it.”

“Then step aside.”

“I thought we might talk first,” said the Iceman.

“Briefly.”

“You know that the Clipper’s dead?”

“Of course. We were on Calliope when he was killed.”

“Then who are you working for?”

Three-Fisted Ollie smiled a very alien smile. “I cannot tell you that, Mendoza. You might think of delivering her there yourself and claiming the reward.”

“The thought never crossed my mind,” said the Iceman, returning his smile.

“You have not changed, Mendoza.”

“Sure I have,” said the Iceman. “I don’t work for the Democracy any more.”

“Who do you work for now?” asked the alien.

“Me.”

“What has this to do with the girl?”

“I’ll buy her from you.”

Three-Fisted Ollie frowned. “That makes no sense, Mendoza. You already possess her.”

“You were never the brightest bounty hunter on the Frontier,” said the Iceman. “Think it through, Ollie.”

The alien was silent for a moment. “You are offering to pay us to leave?”

“That’s right.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want to kill you, and because she’ll help me recoup whatever I pay you.”

“You won’t kill me, Mendoza,” the alien assured him. “You are not a young man any more.”

“But I have friends.”

Three-Fisted Ollie suddenly tensed. “Oh?”

The Iceman nodded. “Nine of them. They’re in every building in town, and each of them has a weapon trained on you.”

“I don’t believe you, Mendoza.”

The Iceman gestured to the eight bodies that lay on the street. “Do you think I could have done that all by myself?”

“You were accompanied here by the Forever Kid,” said Three-Fisted Ollie. “He could have done that.”

The Iceman walked over to Jimmy the Spike’s body and turned it over with his foot.

“Could he have taken all eight of them at once, including the Spike?” he asked.

“No,” answered Three-Fisted Ollie. “Not including the Spike.”

“Then maybe you’d better accept my offer.”

“Where is the Forever Kid now?”

The Iceman pointed to the seed store. “In there, with a gun pointed at your head.”

The alien grinned again. “I almost believed you, Mendoza. But I know the Forever Kid, and if he was alive, nothing could keep him from facing me. Therefore, he is dead and you are alone.”

“You’re half right,” admitted the Iceman. “He’s dead. But I’m not alone.”

“We have spoken enough,” said Three-Fisted Ollie. “Now it is time for me to get the girl.”

“Two million credits,” said the Iceman.

The alien stared at him. “That was a fair price a year ago. Now she is worth much more.”

“But if you accept two million, you’ll walk away with it in your pocket. If you don’t, you’ll be buried along with the rest of them,” he said, indicating the dead bounty hunters.

“I do not fear you, Mendoza.”

“No one ever said you did. The question is whether you believe me.”

“I do not think so.”

“I’m offering you two million credits to say you do,” said the Iceman. “That’s a hell of a profit for avoiding a fight.”

Three-Fisted Ollie stared at him for a long moment.

“And two million more for my partner,” he said.

“Just take the money and tell him the girl isn’t here.”

“He knows that she is here,” said the alien.

“That’s pretty dangerous knowledge,” said the Iceman.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that every bounty hunter who knew she was here died for his trouble,” said the Iceman. “All the ones who believe she’s somewhere else are still alive.”

“You’re suggesting I kill him?” said Three-Fisted Ollie with another inscrutable grin.

“You don’t need a partner if she’s not here,” answered the Iceman. “And you won’t have anyone to split the money with.”

“I have always said that you were the most interesting human I ever met, Mendoza,” said Three-Fisted Ollie.

“I’ll accept that as a compliment.”

“Tell me,” continued the alien, “when you were a young man, would you have made me this offer?”

“Probably,” said the Iceman. “That’s how I lived to be a middle-aged man.”

“It’s a very interesting proposition, Mendoza,” said Three-Fisted Ollie after some consideration. “I think I shall have to discuss it with my partner.”

“I’ll wait here,” said the Iceman. “I wouldn’t want to intrude on your deliberations.”

“One thing first,” said the alien. “I must see the money.”

“How do I know you won’t kill me and take it, and still go after the girl?”

“How do I know you have the money at all?”

“We’ll have to trust each other,” said the Iceman.

“Maybe I’ll just kill you now.”

“You can try,” said the Iceman. “But there really is a weapon pointed right at you.”

“Now it’s only one?”

“Now it’s only one,” agreed the Iceman. “But one is enough. If I were you, I’d think very carefully before I did anything I might not live long enough to regret.”

The alien stood silent and motionless for a moment.

“Three million for the pair of us,” it said at last.

“Deal,” said the Iceman. “Signal him to join us.”

“I’ll take the money to him.”

The Iceman shook his head. “I’ve got to know he agrees to leave without the girl before I pay either of you.”

Three-Fisted Ollie seemed to consider it for a moment, then waved to Cemetery Smith, who began approaching the cluster of buildings.

The Iceman watched the human walk down the dirt road, and tried to keep his mind absolutely blank, to avoid even the hint of a decision about what he might do next.

“What’s going on here?” demanded Cemetery Smith when he was still about two hundred yards away.

“This is Mendoza,” said Three-Fisted Ollie. “Do you remember him?”

“Thought he was dead,” said Smith, continuing to approach them. He squinted in the bright sunlight. “You’ve changed, Mendoza.”

“He’s made us an interesting proposition,” said the alien.

“Yeah?”

“Yes. He has offered us three million credits to—”

As Smith turned his attention to the alien, the Iceman pulled out his hand weapon and shot the bounty hunter through the chest, then hurled himself to the ground, rolled over once, and fired at Three-Fisted Ollie. The alien clutched his belly and fell onto his side.

“All right,” said the Iceman, getting painfully to his feet and facing the rooming house. “You can come out now.”

The Mouse was the first one out the door.

“I didn’t think you could pull it off!” she exclaimed.

“Neither did somebody else, I’ll wager,” said the Iceman meaningfully, brushing the dust from himself and panting heavily.

Penelope and the Mock Turtle come out of the house and climbed down off the porch to join the Mouse.

“Well, we can finally leave,” said the Mouse.

“It can’t be that simple,” said the Iceman. He looked at the little girl. “Can it?”

Penelope glared at him, and suddenly the fear was gone from her face.

“No,” she said.

Suddenly the Iceman felt a searing pain in his hip and on the back on his left leg, as a laser beam burnt through cloth and flesh, right down to the bone. He fell to the ground and clutched his leg with his hands, turning his head to see what had happened.

Three-Fisted Ollie had propped himself up on his side, and held a laser pistol in his free hand.

“You lied to me, Mendoza!” he whispered hoarsely. He aimed the pistol at Penelope and tried to steady his hand. “We had a deal. If I can’t have her, nobody can!”

“Shoot him!” screamed Penelope, running toward the Mouse.

The Mouse instinctively threw her arms around the little girl as Three-Fisted Ollie’s laser pistol and the Mock Turtle’s silent weapon both came to life and meted out death.

Three-Fisted Ollie grunted once, rolled over, and died. The Mouse fell to her knees, a smoking burn mark on her torso.

“Penelope?” she said, trying to focus her eyes.

“I love you, Mouse,” said Penelope sadly, but with neither tears nor hysteria.

The girl stepped back, and the Mouse fell to the ground.

“I am sorry,” said the Mock Turtle. “She died to save you.” It paused. “I should have fired sooner. It was my fault.”

The Iceman, still clutching his leg, turned back to the girl and the Mock Turtle.

“You’re as big a fool as she was!” he grated. “Tell him whose fault it was, Penelope!”

“I loved her,” said Penelope.

“Then why didn’t you tell the Turtle to shoot sooner? You knew what he was going to do.”

“It’s your fault!” shouted Penelope, her face filled with childish fury. “You made her stop loving me!”

“You killed her, as surely as if you had fired the gun yourself,” said the Iceman, trying to ignore the burning pain in his leg.

“She wasn’t going to be my friend anymore,” said Penelope petulantly. “She was going to leave me.”

The Iceman looked at the alien.

“Well?” he demanded. “Aren’t you going to finish the job?”

The Mock Turtle turned to Penelope. “What is your desire, Soothsayer?”

Penelope looked at the Iceman, sprawled in the dirt, his leg blood-soaked and useless.

“He’s just an old man,” she said contemptuously. “He can’t harm us anymore.”

“You’d better kill me now,” said the Iceman. “If you don’t, I’ll come back and hunt you down.”

“You can’t hurt me,” said Penelope confidently. “No one can hurt me.”

“You were lucky,” he answered, his face contorted with pain. “Next time you won’t be.”

She approached the wounded man and stared down at him. “Do you really think it’s just luck that my friend and I are the only two who lived? Do you really think that?”

“Come, Soothsayer,” said the Mock Turtle placidly. “It is time to leave.”

The Iceman tried to reach his pistol, but it had fallen too far away, and he couldn’t drag his body over to it.

“I’ll find you,” he promised.

“No, you won’t,” said Penelope. “The Mock Turtle and I are going to go away now, not to Summergold, but to some place where no one can find me. And I’m going to grow up, and I’m going to learn more about being the Soothsayer, and someday, when I’m ready, I’ll come back.” She turned to look at the Mouse’s body. “And I’ll never love anyone ever again.”

“I’ll be waiting,” said the Iceman, his vision becoming blurred.

“You?” said Penelope. “You’ll be an old man with one leg.” She smiled. “If they don’t come out to help you, you won’t even live through the day.” She turned to the Mock Turtle and reached for its hand. “It’s time to go.”

“Yes, Soothsayer,” it replied, taking her hand and walking down the long dirt road to its ship.

The Iceman watched them until he lost consciousness.

34

When he awoke, he was in a hospital on McCallister II, and he spent the next few weeks getting used to his prosthetic leg.

After he had completely recovered, he went back to Killhaven. The twelve bodies had been buried out behind the boarding house. Since nobody had known who they were, there were no identifying markers on the tombstones. He arbitrarily decided that the one on the left belonged to the Mouse, and laid a handful of wildflowers on it.

Then he went to the restaurant before returning to his ship.

The pudgy woman wasn’t there, and nobody recognized him, and he had a quiet meal. Finally the waiter, a young man with dark brown hair and the start of a sparse mustache, approached him with his bill.

“I couldn’t help noticing you looking at the graves over there,” he said. “Were you related to any of them?”

“No,” said the Iceman.

“It was a hell of a battle,” said the young man, his face flushed with dreams of heroism. “I wish I’d been there.” He paused, then added confidentially: “They say the Forever Kid was one of them.”

“You don’t say?”

The young man nodded. “As near as anyone can tell, the whole thing was about some little girl. There were ten bounty hunters after her, and the girl was hiding right in the rooming house across street! Isn’t that exciting?”

“Sounds exciting to me,” agreed the Iceman, waiting patiently for his check.

“We ought to hang a plaque or something,” continued the waiter. “After all, ten people died because of her.”

“Twelve,” the Iceman corrected him.

“That’s right,” said the waiter enthusiastically. “I’d almost forgotten. There was a man and a woman who gave their lives to protect her.” He smiled. “At least they died heroes’ deaths.”

“If you say so,” replied the Iceman.

He paid his bill and walked out into the dry, dusty street.

This book is an Ace original edition, and has never been

previously published.

ORACLE

An Ace Book I published by arrangement with

the author

PRINTING HISTORY

Ace edition / October 1992

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 1992 by Mike Resnick.

Cover art by Keith Birdsong.

This book may not be reproduced in whole or

in part, by mimeograph or any other means, without

permission. For information address:

The Berkley Publishing Group,

200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.

ISBN: 0-441-58694-5

Ace Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.

The name “ACE” and the “A” logo are trademarks

belonging to Charter Communications, Inc.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

To Carol, as always,

And to Mark and Lynne Aronson,

close friends for half a lifetime

Contents

Prologue

Part 1

The Whistler’s Book

Part 2

The Injun’s Book

Part 3

The Jade Queen’s Book

Part 4

The Iceman’s Book

Part 5

The Oracle’s Book

Prologue

It was a time of giants.

There was no room for them to breathe and flex their muscles in mankind’s sprawling Democracy, so they gravitated to the distant, barren worlds of the Inner Frontier, drawn ever closer to the bright galactic Core like moths to a flame.

Oh, they fit into human frames, most of them, but they were giants nonetheless. No one knew what had brought them forth in such quantity at this particular moment in human history. Perhaps there was a need for them in a galaxy filled to overflowing with little people possessed of even smaller dreams. Possibly it was the savage splendor of Inner Frontier itself, for it was certainly not a place for ordinary men and women. Or maybe it was simply time for a race that had been notably short of giants in recent eons to begin producing them once again.

But whatever the reason, they swarmed out beyond the furthest reaches of the explored galaxy, spreading the seed of Man to hundreds of new worlds, and in the process creating a cycle of legends that would never die as long as men could tell tales of heroic deeds.

There was Faraway Jones, who set foot on more than 500 new worlds, never quite certain what he was looking for, always sure that he hadn’t yet found it.

There was a shadowy figure known only as the Whistler, who had killed more than one hundred men and aliens.

There was Friday Nellie, who turned her whorehouse into a hospital during the war against the Setts, and finally saw it declared a shrine by the very men who once tried to close it down.

There was Jamal, who left no fingerprints or footprints, but had plundered palaces that to this day do not know they were plundered.

There was Bet-a-World Murphy, who at various times owned nine different gold-mining worlds, and lost every one of them at the gaming tables.

There was Backbreaker Ben Ami, who wrestled aliens for money and killed men for pleasure. There was the Marquis of Queensbury, who fought by no rules at all, and the White Knight, albino killer of fifty men, and Sally the Blade, and the Forever Kid, who reached the age of nineteen and just stopped growing for the next two centuries, and Catastrophe Baker, who made whole planets shake beneath his feet, and the exotic Pearl of Maracaibo, and the Jade Queen, whose sins were condemned by every race in the galaxy, and Father Christmas, and the One-Armed Bandit with his deadly prosthetic arm, and the Earth Mother, and Lizard Malloy, and the deceptively mild-mannered Cemetery Smith.

Giants all.

Yet there was one giant who was destined to tower over all of the others, to juggle the lives of men and worlds as if they were so many toys, to rewrite the history of the Inner Frontier, and the Outer Frontier, and the Spiral Arm, and even the all-powerful Democracy itself. At various times in her short, turbulent life she was known as the Soothsayer, and the Oracle, and the Prophet. By the time she had passed from the galactic scene, only a handful of survivors knew her true name, or her planet of origin, or even her early history, for such is the way with giants and legends.

But she had an origin, and a history, and a name.

This is her story.

PART 1:

The

Whistler’s

Book

1

His real name was Carlos Mendoza, but it had been so many years since he used it that it seemed almost alien to him.

Here on the Inner Frontier, among the sparsely-populated worlds that lay between Man’s sprawling Democracy and the galactic core, men changed names with the ease, and occasionally the frequency, that their brothers in the Democracy changed clothes. Mendoza had had many occupations in his 61 years, some of which he wished to forget and some that he wished his enemies would forget, and he had had almost as many names, but the one that had stuck was the Iceman.

There were people who said he was the Iceman because he had once been the ruler of a planet totally covered by a mile-thick glacier. Others said no, that he got the name because he was a cold-blooded killer. A few suggested that he possessed a rare disease that threatened to kill him by lowering his body temperature, and that’s why he had finally settled on the hot, desert world of Last Chance.

The Iceman didn’t care what people thought about the genesis of his name. In fact, there wasn’t much that he did care about. Money, of course; and the power he exercised as the owner of the End of the Line, the only tavern on Last Chance—but over the years he had lost interest in most other things.

Except gossip.

Miners, traders, explorers, adventurers, and bounty hunters would stop on Last Chance to refuel their ships, or lay in their supplies, or register their claims, or occasionally to wait for their mail or their rewards to catch up with them, and they would come to the End of the Line, and they would talk. The Iceman never asked any questions, never volunteered any information, but he listened intently, and once in a long while he would hear some tidbit that momentarily brought a touch of animation to his impassive face. When that happened he would disappear for a week or a month, after which he would return to Last Chance as suddenly as he had left. Then he would sit in the bar and listen to more gossip, more tales of adventure and derring-do, of fortunes made and fortunes lost, of battles won and empires fallen, his face expressionless.

Those who cared about him—and they were few and far between—occasionally asked him precisely what he was hoping to hear, what it was that he went off to find on his rare excursions. He would politely sidestep their questions, for despite his reputation he was a courteous man, and shortly thereafter they would see him sitting at another table, listening to another traveler’s tale.

He was not a physically impressive man. He was an inch or two below normal height, and he carried about 30 pounds of excess weight, and his hair was thinning on the top and white on the sides. He walked with a decided limp; most people assumed that he had a prosthetic leg, but no one ever asked him and he never volunteered any information about it. His voice was neither deep nor rich, though when he spoke on Last Chance it carried a ring of absolute authority that very few men challenged (and none ever challenged it twice.)

He was known throughout the Inner Frontier, but nobody knew quite what he had done to acquire his notoriety. He had killed some men, of course, but that was hardly sufficient to establish a reputation on the lawless frontier worlds. It was rumored that he had once worked for the Democracy in some covert capacity, but by its very nature nothing was known about his job. Once, fourteen years ago, he had disappeared from Last Chance for a number of months, and word had it that he had been responsible for the deaths of quite a few bounty hunters, but no one could verify it and the details were so vague that very few people put much credence in the story.

There was one woman who had heard the story and believed it, and after many false starts she finally tracked him down in his refuge on Last Chance, half a galaxy away from the affluent, populous worlds of the Democracy. She was middle-aged, with blue eyes and nondescript, sand-colored hair. Her nose had a small lump at the bridge, as if it had been broken many years ago, and her teeth were too white and too even to be her own.

The End of the Line was filled with the usual crowd of adventurers and misfits, humans and aliens, when she entered it. The aliens—seven Canphorites, a pair of Lodinites, two Domarians, and one each from a trio of races she had never seen before—were clustered together at a number of small tables. Most of them couldn’t metabolize the bar’s offerings, and were obviously waiting for the large casino, which consisted of some two dozen tables and an equal number of exotic games of chance, to open its doors. A small sign, written in various human and alien languages, announced that that happy moment would occur at sunset.

The heads of a quartet of alien carnivores, each snarling in mute defiance, were positioned above the long hardwood bar, and in a glass case just next to the changemaker was a tattered copy of a poem written by Black Orpheus, the Bard of the Inner Frontier, which he had created and autographed when he had stopped on Last Chance for an evening some two centuries ago.

Twenty humans, some dressed in colorful and expensive garments, others wearing the dull browns and grays of miners and prospectors, stood at the bar or sat at tables. None of them paid her any attention as she entered the tavern, looked around for a moment, and finally approached the bartender.

“I’m looking for a man known as the Iceman,” she said. “Is he here?”

The bartender nodded his head. “Right over there, sitting by the window.”

“Will he speak to me?” she asked.

The bartender chuckled. “That depends on his mood. But he’ll listen to you.”

She thanked him and walked over to the Iceman’s table, giving the aliens a wide berth as she did so.

“May I join you?” she asked.

“Pull up a chair, Mrs. Bailey,” he said.

She looked surprised. “You know who I am?”

“No,” he answered. “But I know your name.”

“How?”

“You had to identify yourself when you requested landing coordinates,” said the Iceman. “Nobody lands on Last Chance without my approval.”

“I see,” she said, sitting down. She stared across the table. “I can’t believe that I’ve finally found you!”

“I wasn’t lost, Mrs. Bailey,” he said expressionlessly.

“Perhaps not, but I’ve been looking for you for more than four years.”

“And what’s so important that you would spend four years of your life trying to find me?”

“My name is Bettina Bailey,” she began.

“I know.”

“Does it mean anything to you?”

“Should it?”

“If the name Bailey doesn’t, then I’ve wasted an enormous amount of time.”

“I’ve never heard of anyone called Bettina Bailey,” he replied noncommittally.

“I’ve heard stories—rumors, really, to be honest—that you may have known my daughter.”

“Go on,” said the Iceman.

“Her name is Penelope.”

The Iceman pulled out a small cigar. “What did you hear?”

“I heard that you knew her.” Bettina Bailey paused, studying the Iceman’s face. “I’ve even heard that she spent some time on Last Chance.”

“That was fourteen years ago, Mrs. Bailey,” said the Iceman, lighting his cigar. “I haven’t seen her since.” He shrugged. “For all I know, she’s dead now.”

Bettina Bailey stared unblinking at him. “If we’re talking about the same girl, you know that’s impossible.”

The Iceman returned her stare for a long moment, as if considering his answer. Finally he took another puff of his cigar and nodded. “We’re talking about the same girl.”

“She would be 22 years old now.”

“That would be about right,” agreed the Iceman.

Bettina Bailey paused again. “I’ve heard other rumors, too,” she said at last.

“Such as?”

“That she’s living with aliens.”

“An alien,” the Iceman corrected her.

“Then you know where she is?”

He shook his head. “No. I just know who she was with the last time I saw her.”

“I’ve also heard that you’ve spent a lot of time looking for her,” continued Bettina Bailey.

He stared impassively at her and made no answer.

“And that you know more about her than any other man alive,” she continued.

“It’s possible,” he agreed.

“It’s more than possible. It’s a fact.”

“All right, it’s a fact. Now what?”

“I want my daughter back.”

“Pardon my pointing it out, Mrs. Bailey, but it took you long enough to come to that decision.”

“I have been looking for her for sixteen years.” She paused. “She was taken from me in the Democracy. The Democracy encompasses more than ten thousand worlds; it took me more than a decade, and most of my late husband’s money, to discover that she was no longer there, but was on the Inner Frontier.”

“She was on the Inner Frontier fourteen years ago, Mrs. Bailey,” said the Iceman. “She could be anywhere now—the Inner Frontier, the Rim, the Spiral Arm, the Outer Frontier, even back in the Democracy. It wouldn’t be difficult for someone with her abilities to hide from anyone who was looking for her.”

“She’s on the Inner Frontier,” repeated Bettina Bailey adamantly.

He stared at her, unable to totally conceal his interest. “How do you know?”

“When you are willing to be open and frank with me, I will respond in kind,” she replied. “For the moment, you will have to take my word that I know where she is.”

He paused for a long moment. “All right,” he said at last. “You know where she is.”

She nodded. “And I want her back.”

“And you want her back,” he repeated. “Why have you come to me? Why don’t you just go to wherever she is and take her home?”

“It’s not that simple,” she said. “She may not recognize me—and even if she does, she’s been with aliens for most of her life. She may not want to come back with me.”

“She’s an adult by now,” said the Iceman. “That’s her choice to make.”

“I’m willing to let her make it,” said Bettina Bailey. “But away from the influence of the aliens.”

“There’s only one alien that I know about.”

She shook her head. “She’s on an alien planet.”

“Which one?”

“I’ll tell you when we have an agreement.”

“What kind of agreement?” asked the Iceman.

“I want you to bring her back to me.”

“If you don’t think she’ll go with you, why do you think she’ll come with me?”

“I told you—I’ve studied you. You’ve had experience dealing with aliens and operating on the Inner Frontier. If you need help, you’ll know what kind to get and where to get it.”

The Iceman stared at her thoughtfully. “It could be very expensive, Mrs. Bailey.”

“How expensive?”

“A million Maria Theresa dollars now, another million when the job is done.”

“Maria Theresa dollars?” she repeated, frowning. “I thought they were only in use in the Corvus system. What’s wrong with credits?”

“We don’t have much faith in the longevity of the Democracy out here, Mrs. Bailey,” answered the Iceman. “We have even less faith in its currency. Credits are unacceptable. If you can’t get the Maria Theresa dollars, I’ll take double the amount in New Stalin rubles.”

“I’ll get the dollars,” she replied.

“How soon?”

“I can have them transferred here in three days’ time.”

“Then I’ll set the wheels in motion three days from now,” said the Iceman.

“What do you mean: set the wheels in motion?”

“I’ll select who I want to find your daughter.”

“But I thought you would be going.”

He shook his head. “She knows me, Mrs. Bailey—and I don’t think she’d be too happy to see me again.”

“But I chose you precisely because she does know you!”

“That’s not necessarily an advantage with your daughter,” he said dryly. “Now, where is she?”

Bettina Bailey was silent for a moment. Then she shrugged. “She’s on Alpha Crepello III.”

“Never heard of it.”

“It’s in the Quinellus Cluster.”

“And what makes you so sure she’s there?”

She leaned forward intently. “We both know that my daughter has a rare talent.”

“Go on.”

“Word has gotten back to Deluros VIII that there is a human female on Alpha Crepello III. The public isn’t supposed to know about her, but I’ve bribed sources within the government. No one seems to know if this female is in the employ of the aliens who inhabit Alpha Crepello III, or if she is their prisoner, but she is known as the Oracle.” She paused. “If I were to choose a name for Penelope, I couldn’t choose a more accurate one than that.”

“And that’s the sum total of your knowledge?” asked the Iceman. “No description? No communication with her or anyone who’s dealt with her?”

“Just that,” answered Bettina Bailey. “The Alpha Crepello system isn’t part of the Democracy, and has almost no commerce with it. It took me two years to ascertain that the Oracle was a human, and another two to determine that she was a female.”

The Iceman stared at her. “Do you know the odds against this being your daughter, Mrs. Bailey?”

“I’ve spent sixteen years piecing together these bits of information,” she replied. “I could die of old age before I came up with concrete proof.” She paused. “Do we have a deal?”

For just an instant the interest he had tried so hard to conceal flashed across his face. Then, just as quickly, the impassive mark was back in place.

“We have a deal,” said the Iceman.

2

The star charts called it Boyson III. Locally it was known as The Frenchman’s World.

In the beginning it had been a wild, untamed jungle planet, covered with dense vegetation and a plethora of exotic animals. Then Man had moved in, had killed most of the animals and plowed under the jungle, and had turned it into an agricultural world, supplying food for all the nearby mining planets. But within twenty years alien viruses destroyed the imported meat animals, the imported corn and wheat, and even the hybrid animals and crops. After that the colonists all went elsewhere, and Boyson III slowly reverted back into a jungle world over the next six centuries.

Then the Frenchman had arrived. They said that he’d spent his whole life collecting alien animals for zoos back in the Democracy, and that he had retired to Boyson III to spend his remaining years hunting for sport. He had erected a sprawling white house on the banks of a wide river, had invited some friends to join him, and eventually word of the hunting leaked out and a small safari industry developed.

All that had been more than 200 years ago. The Frenchman’s World hadn’t changed much in the interim, except that its wildlife had been pretty thoroughly decimated, and only a handful of guides remained, the rest having migrated to newly-opened worlds where their clients could fill their trophy rooms with less effort.

It was estimated that the permanent human population of The Frenchman’s World was now less than two hundred. One of them, who was said to be the last man to have been born on the planet, had moved into the Frenchman’s old house and created his own private landing strip by the river.

His name was Joshua Jeremiah Chandler. He had been a very successful hunter in his youth, but no one had seen him on the safari trail in almost a decade. He was known, initially on the Frenchman’s World and finally all across the Inner Frontier, as the Whistler, from a trick he had of whistling to get an animal’s attention just before he shot it. He was a very private, even secretive, man, who kept his business and his thoughts to himself. He was gone from the planet for long periods of time, and he did almost all his banking on other worlds. No mail or radio messages ever came for him, though from time to time a small ship landed at his strip by the river.

The Iceman’s ship was the most recent to touch down, and as he walked up the long, winding path to the house, he found himself sweating profusely in the heat and the humidity, and wondering why anyone would choose to live in such surroundings. He slapped a purple-and-gold flying insect that had landed on the side of his neck, barely avoided stepping on a nasty-looking horned reptile that hissed at him and scuttled off into the thick undergrowth, and mopped his face with a handkerchief.

When he emerged from the bush, he climbed a stone staircase and found himself standing on a large deck that extended far out over the river. The water was teeming with life: huge aquatic marsupials, delicate water snakes, long ugly reptiles, all swam among a plethora of colorful fish that dwelt near the surface. The forest that lined the water had been cleared from the far bank, so that observers on the deck could watch herbivores coming down to the river to drink. Right now there were clouds of butterflies flying low over the water, and a score of avians walked methodically across the clearing, pecking at the ground, while a handful of water birds waded in the shallows, searching for small fish.

The Iceman heard a glass door slide into a wall, and a moment later a tall, lean, auburn-haired man in his late thirties walked out onto the deck. He was dressed in a nondescript brown outfit that seemed to have pockets everywhere. A large-brimmed hat shaded his eyes from the glare of the sun.

“I see you made it,” said Chandler by way of greeting.

“You’re a hard man to find, Whistler,” replied the Iceman.

“You managed.” Chandler paused. “Care for a drink?”

The Iceman nodded. “Please.”

“I really ought to charge you,” said Chandler with an amused smile as he led the Iceman into the interior of the house. “I don’t recall you ever giving me a free drink back on Last Chance.”

“And you never will,” said the Iceman, returning Chandler’s smile. The room in which he found himself was quite large, and the cool stone floor, whitewashed walls, and widespread eaves helped to dissipate the heat. There were a few stuffed chairs, covered with the pelts of native animals, a rug made of the head and fur of a large carnivore, a small book-and-tape case, a subspace radio set, and a clock made of some strange translucent substance that seemed to be forever shimmering and changing colors. The walls were lined with framed wanted posters, each depicting an outlaw that Chandler had killed or captured.

“Interesting trophies,” commented the Iceman, gesturing to the posters.

“People make the best hunting,” answered Chandler. He walked behind a hardwood bar and opened a small refrigerator. “What’ll it be?”

“Anything cold.”

Chandler mixed two identical drinks and handed one to the Iceman. “This should do it.”

The Iceman took a long swallow. “Thanks.”

“Anything for a client,” said Chandler. He looked intently at the Iceman. “You are a client, aren’t you?”

“Potentially.” The Iceman looked out across the river. “Do you mind if we go back out on the deck? It may be a pain in the ass to get here, but it’s really lovely once you arrive.”

“Why not?” assented Chandler, leading him back out to the deck.

“It must be very convenient, to be able to stand right here and shoot dinner,” continued the Iceman.

Chandler shrugged. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Oh?”

“I never hunt within five miles of here. I don’t want to frighten the game away.” He paused. “Some animals are for eating, some are for sport, and some are for looking at. These are for looking at.”

“You know,” said the Iceman, “now that I think of it, I haven’t seen any weapons around here.”

“Oh, there are weapons,” Chandler assured him. “But not for the game.”

A delicate white avian landed atop one of the aquatic marsupials and began picking insects off its head.

“I miss this place whenever I’m away from it,” said Chandler, standing at the edge of the deck and looking across the river. “If I take this assignment, how long will I be gone?”

“I won’t lie to you,” said the Iceman. “This job doesn’t figure to be easy or fast.”

“What does it entail?” asked Chandler, sipping his drink and staring out at the river.

“I’m not sure yet.”

Chandler arched an eyebrow, but made no comment.

“Have you ever heard of Penelope Bailey?” continued the Iceman, after a pause.

“I think everyone must have heard of her, back about ten or fifteen years ago,” answered Chandler. “They were offering one hell of a reward for her.”

“That’s the one.”

“As I recall, everybody wanted her: the Democracy, a couple of alien worlds, even some pirate.” He paused. “I never did hear what happened to her, just that one day a bunch of bounty hunters turned up dead, and after that nobody seemed all that interested in trying to collect the reward.” He turned to the Iceman. “There was a story making the rounds that that you were involved in some way.”

“I was.”

“What was all the fuss about?” asked Chandler. “Hundreds of people were after her, but no one ever said what made a little girl worth five or six million credits.”

“She wasn’t exactly your normal, run-of-the-mill little girl,” said the Iceman wryly.

Chandler picked a few pieces of stale bread out of one of his pockets and laid them out on the railing, then watched as a trio of colorful avians descended, picked them up, and flew off with them. “If you want me to find her and bring her back, you’re going to have to tell me what made her worth all that money,” he said at last.

“I will,” said the Iceman, taking a sip of his drink. “And you won’t have to find her.”

“You know where she is?”

“Perhaps.”

“Either you do or you don’t.”

“I know the location of the person I’m sending you after,” replied the Iceman. “I don’t know if she’s Penelope Bailey.”

“Would you know Penelope Bailey if you saw her?” asked Chandler.

“It’s been a long time, and she’s a grown woman now,” answered the Iceman. “I honestly don’t know if I’d recognize her.”

“Then how will you know if I bring you the right woman?”

“There are other ways of telling.” The Iceman paused. “Also, if she is Penelope Bailey, there’s every likelihood that you won’t be able to bring her back.”

Chandler looked up at sky, which had suddenly clouded over. “It rains every afternoon about this time,” he said. “Let’s go inside and make ourselves comfortable, and you can lay it out for me.”

He led the Iceman back inside the house, ordered the glass portals to slide shut, and walked over to a pair of chairs that had been carved out of the native hardwood of the surrounding forest and covered with the pelts of some blue-skinned animals.

“All right,” he said, when both men had seated themselves. “I’m listening.”

“Penelope Bailey was eight years old when I met her,” said the Iceman. “The Democracy had taken her away from her parents when she was five or six, and an alien had stolen her from the Democracy. By the time I ran across her, she was in the company of a woman who used to work for me.”

“Why did the Democracy seize her in the first place?” asked Chandler.

“She has a gift—a talent, if you will—that they wanted.”

“What was it?”

“She’s prescient.”

“You mean she can predict the future?”

The Iceman shook his head. “It’s not that simple.” He paused. “She can see an almost infinite number of possible futures, and she can manipulate events so that the one most favorable to her comes to pass.”

Chandler stared at him for a long moment. “I don’t believe it,” he said at last.

“It’s the truth. I’ve seen it in action.”

“Then why isn’t she Queen of the whole damned universe?”

“When I first met her, she could only see those futures in which she faced imminent danger. By the time we parted, she could see the outcome of everything from poker hands to gunfights, and could manipulate things so they’d come out the way she wanted them to—but she could only see a few hours into the future.” He paused again. “If her power never extended beyond that, she could make herself a very rich, very powerful woman, but in the larger scheme of things she’d be no more than a nuisance.”

“But you think her talent has continued to mature,” said Chandler. It was not a question.

“I don’t know why it shouldn’t have,” replied the Iceman. “It grew more powerful almost daily when I knew her.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t try to kill her.”

“I did.” He patted his prosthetic leg. “This is what I got for my trouble.”

Chandler nodded, but said nothing.

“The last time I saw her she was with an alien called the Mock Turtle—I’ll swear that’s what it looked like—and to the best of my knowledge, no human has seen her since.”

“Why an alien?”

“It practically worshipped her, and it seemed convinced that once she developed her powers, she could keep the Democracy from assimilating its world.”

“Is the girl on its world?” asked Chandler.

The Iceman shook his head. “No. I’ve been there twice, and there’s no sign of them.”

“So that’s where you go when you’re not on Last Chance,” said Chandler, not at all surprised. “You’re hunting for Penelope Bailey.”

“It hasn’t done any good.” The Iceman grimaced and finished his drink. “If there’s someone better equipped to stay hidden than a woman who can see all possible futures, I can’t imagine who it is.”

“Then how did you find her?” asked Chandler.

“I didn’t,” answered the Iceman. “But a week ago I was approached by a woman who represented herself as Penelope’s mother. She thinks she knows where the girl is, and she hired me to bring her back.”

“Represented herself?” repeated Chandler. “That’s a curious choice of words.”

“She lied from start to finish.”

“What makes you think so?”

“She knew things she had no business knowing.”

“Such as?”

“She knew that Penelope escaped with an alien—but only about ten people on a little planet called Killhaven know that. She knew that I’ve been searching for her—but I’ve never told that to anyone.” He paused. “She knew that she was looking for the Iceman, and not for Carlos Mendoza.”

“She works for the Democracy, of course.”

The Iceman nodded in agreement. “Nobody else has the resources to spy on me for fourteen years.”

“They’ve been after her for fourteen years…” began Chandler.

“Sixteen,” interjected the Iceman.

“All right, sixteen. Why have they approached you now?”

“Because they think they’ve found her.”

“That’s not good enough,” said Chandler. “Why did they lie to you? Or, better still, if they’ve found her, why don’t they just go in after her themselves?”

“I’m sure they’ve sent their best people in after her and failed, or else they would never have approached me.” The Iceman suddenly noticed his drink, and finished it with a single swallow. “As for why they sent someone who pretended to be Penelope’s mother, it’s simple enough: the Inner Frontier doesn’t owe any allegiance to the Democracy, and they don’t know if I’d be willing to help them. Also,” he added, “I killed some of their bounty hunters fourteen years ago.”

“Why did you want to save her from a bunch of bounty hunters?”

“She was never in any danger from them,” answered the Iceman. “I was trying to save another member of her party.” He paused. “It didn’t help.”

“You make Penelope Bailey sound very formidable,” commented Chandler.

“She is,” the Iceman assured him seriously. “Make no mistake about it.”

“Where do they think she is?”

“A planet called Alpha Crepello III, out in the Quinellus Cluster.”

“And they’re sure it’s her?”

The Iceman shook his head. “They think it is; they don’t know for sure.”

“What makes them think so?”

“There’s supposed to be a young human woman there, living among the aliens, who’s known as the Oracle.”

“And that’s it?”

“Probably not,” said the Iceman. He paused. “Almost certainly not. But that’s all I’ve been told.”

“That’s not much to go on,” said Chandler. “What do you think they’ve kept back?”

“Probably something about how many men they’ve sent in and never heard from again. That’s the kind of thing that would convince them they’re right, and it’s also guaranteed to discourage a potential recruit.”

Chandler was silent for a long moment. Then he looked across at the Iceman. “I’ve got a question for you.”

“What is it?”

“This little girl cost you a leg, and I gather she killed a friend of yours.”

“Indirectly.”

“Then why aren’t you going after her yourself?”

“I’m a 61-year-old man with a pot belly and an artificial leg,” answered the Iceman. “If it really is Penelope Bailey, I’d be dead before I could get close to her. Maybe I could have done it 20 years ago, but not now.” He looked directly at Chandler. “That’s why I’ve come to you, Whistler—of all the men in this business, you’re just about the best. You’ve infiltrated half a dozen worlds, and you’re a better killer than I ever was.”

“Can she be killed?”

The Iceman shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“What kind of money are we talking about here?”

“Half a million up front, another half million when the job is completed.”

“Credits?” asked Chandler with a frown.

“Maria Theresa dollars.”

Chandler nodded. “Time limit?”

“If you haven’t gotten to her in six months’ time, you’re never going to reach her.”

“What if I come back empty-handed?”

“If you accept the assignment, the front money’s yours no matter what happens,” said the Iceman.

“Will Bettina Bailey agree to that?”

“Considering that she’s not really Bettina Bailey, I don’t see that she has any choice.”

“What about expenses?” asked Chandler.

The Iceman chuckled. “Not with a half million up front.”

“I may need to hire some help along the way.”

“I’d advise against it,” said the Iceman.

“Why?”

“The less attention you attract to yourself, the more likely you are to come out of this alive.”

“I may want to hire some men to draw attention away from me.”

“That’s your privilege.” The Iceman stared at him thoughtfully. “If you’re successful and you can prove to me that you needed them, you’ll be reimbursed.”

Chandler eyed him thoughtfully. “What do you get out of this?”

“Money, satisfaction, revenge—take your choice.”

Chandler smiled. “All of the above.” He paused. “Do they speak any Terran on this planet?”

“I don’t know … but according to my star charts, it’s got three terraformed moons that are inhabited by humans. They’re your logical starting point.”

“Why not just approach her directly?”

“If direct approaches worked, the Democracy wouldn’t have sought me out,” answered the Iceman. He paused. “Will you take the job?”

Chandler considered the proposition for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah, I’ll take it.”

“Good,” said the Iceman. “If it turns out that the Oracle isn’t Penelope Bailey, bring her out.”

“And if she is Penelope Bailey?”

“Once you know it’s her, find a way to get word back to me. There’s no way you’re going to bring her out if she doesn’t want to come, so kill her if you can.” He paused again. “If I don’t hear from you in six months, I’ll know you’re dead.”

“You mean you’ll assume I’m dead.”

“I meant what I said,” replied the Iceman seriously.

3

The radio beeped to life.

“You are now within the Alpha Crepello system,” said a mechanical voice. “Please identify yourself.”

“This is the Gamestalker, Registration Number 237H8J99, eight Galactic Standard days out of The Frenchman’s World, Joshua Jeremiah Chandler commanding.”

“We have no record of The Frenchman’s World, Gamestalker.”

“It’s the third planet in the Boyson system on the Inner Frontier,” responded Chandler.

There was a brief silence.

“What is your purpose for visiting the Alpha Crepello system, Gamestalker?”

“Business.”

“State the nature of your business, please.”

“I’m a salesman.”

“What do you sell?”

“Rare stamps and coins.”

“Have you a confirmed appointment with any inhabitant of the Alpha Crepello system?”

“Yes.”

“With whom is your appointment?”

“Carlos Mendoza,” replied Chandler, using the first name that came to mind. “I believe he resides on Alpha Crepello III.”

Another silence.

“We have no record of any Carlos Mendoza living on Alpha Crepello III. Is Carlos Mendoza a human?”

“Yes.”

“He does not reside on Alpha Crepello III,” said the voice with finality.

“Then perhaps he is merely a visitor,” said Chandler. “All I know is that I was supposed to meet him there.”

“The Alpha Crepello system is not a member of the Democracy,” said the voice. “We have no reciprocal trade agreements with the Democracy, we have no military treaties with the Democracy, and we do not recognize Democracy passports. No one may land on Alpha Crepello III without special permission of the government, and this permission is rarely given to members of your race.” There was a brief pause. “You may land on any of Alpha Crepello III’s terraformed moons, but if you attempt to land on Alpha Crepello III itself, you will be detained and your ship will be subject to confiscation.”

“Thank you,” said Chandler. “Gamestalker over and out.”

The Iceman had told him that he wouldn’t be allowed to land on the planet itself, so he was neither surprised nor disappointed that permission had been denied him. He sighed, stretched, and stared at his viewscreen.

“Computer,” he said, “bring up holograms, charts and readouts on Alpha Crepello III’s terraformed moons.”

“Working … done,” replied his ship’s computer.

There were three of them—Port Maracaibo, Port Samarkand, and Port Marrakech. Each had once been rich in fissionable materials, and had been terraformed by the long-defunct Republic almost two millennia ago. The inhabitants of Alpha Crepello III had objected, and the Navy had subdued them in a brief but furious battle. Then, when the Democracy had succeeded the Republic, Alpha Crepello III—which had been dubbed Hades by its human ambassador because of its reddish soil and incredibly hot climate—had declined to remain an active member of the galactic community and had cut all ties with its neighboring worlds as well as with Deluros VIII, the huge, distant world that had become the capital of the race of Man. Since the moons were virtually mined out by that time and Man had more immediate conquests and problems to deal with, Hades had been allowed to go its own way.

The three moons were of little or no use to the residents of Hades, and as the miners left, other Men moved in, men who were seeking worlds that had no official ties with the Democracy. Hades had originally objected, but the prospect of another war convinced them to practice a form of benign neglect toward the moons and their new inhabitants, and over the centuries the moons gradually became a clearing house for black market goods, a sanctuary for human outlaws, a gathering place for mercenaries, and a conduit between the free worlds of the Quinellus Cluster and the regulated worlds of mankind’s vast Democracy.

“Computer,” said Chandler, “how many humans reside on each of the terraformed moons?”

“126,214 on Port Maracaibo, 18,755 on Port Samarkand, and 187,440 on Port Marrakech,” replied the computer. “These figures are accurate as of the last census, taken seven years ago.”

“What form of currency is in use on each of the moons?”

“They accept all forms of human currency that are traded within the Democracy and on the Inner Frontier, plus the currencies of Hades, Canphor VI, Canphor VII, and Lodin XI. The value of each is pegged to the daily exchange rate of the Democracy Credit as determined on Deluros VIII.”

“Please give me their climactic and gravitational readouts.”

“All three moons were terraformed by the same Republic Pioneer team, and are identical in climate and gravity,” responded the computer. “Gravity is .98% Earth and Deluros Standard, temperature is a constant 22 degrees Celsius by day and 17 degrees Celsius by night, atmosphere is Earth and Deluros VIII normal.”

“Do they all have spaceports?”

“They possess spaceports for Class H and smaller ships. Larger ships are required to dock in orbiting hangars.”

“There doesn’t seem much to choose among them,” remarked Chandler.

It was neither a question nor a command, so the computer did not respond.

“Which one is closest to Hades?”

“Port Marrakech.”

“All right,” said Chandler. “Port Marrakech it is.”

His landing was uneventful, and shortly thereafter he made his way through the crowded spaceport. He spotted a few faces here and there that he remembered seeing on wanted posters, but he paid them no attention, concentrating only on making his way to the main exit. Once outside, he hailed a groundcar that took him into the heart of the nearby city—as far as he could tell the only city on Port Marrakech. The buildings boasted numerous exotic arches and angles, and most of them had been whitewashed. He was unaware of the genesis of the name “Marrakech”, but he assumed that it was a city somewhere in the galaxy that greatly resembled the one in which he now found himself; the architecture was too much of a piece, and too different from the other worlds he had seen, not to have been carefully planned.

“Where to now?” asked the driver as they entered the heavy traffic of the city center.

“I’ve never been here before,” replied Chandler. “Can you recommend a hotel?”

“With or without?”

“With or without what?”

The driver shrugged. “Whatever you want—women, men, drugs, gambling, you name it.”

“Without, I think.”

The driver grinned. “That may be a little harder. This isn’t the Democracy, you know.”

Chandler leaned forward and handed him a fifty-credit note. “Why don’t you fill me in?” he suggested.

“You thirsty?” asked the driver.

“Should I be?”

“I can fill you in a lot better if my mouth doesn’t go dry halfway through.”

“I’ve already given you fifty credits. You can buy a drink after we’re through.”

“You’ve already made a couple of mistakes,” said the driver meaningfully. “I can tell you about them while we drink, or you can learn about them the hard way.”

“Suddenly I’m thirsty,” said Chandler.

“I thought you might be,” chuckled the driver. “By the way, my name’s Gin.”

“Just Gin?”

“Gin’s my game, gin’s my drink, Gin’s my name.”

“Okay, Gin,” said Chandler. “Where do you think we ought to have this drink?”

“I’m already heading there,” said Gin. “It’s not real fancy, but they don’t water the booze and people will leave us pretty much alone.”

Chandler leaned back and observed the city as the vehicle sped through it. Most of the buildings were centuries old, and except for a handful of truly palatial structures in the downtown area, they looked their age. There was a definite seediness to the city, as if most of the residents were transients: small hotels and rooming houses greatly outnumbered apartments, and restaurants and bars were omnipresent, implying that almost no one ever ate or drank at home. There was an almost tangible gloom, partially due to the ambience, partially due to the fact that Hades cast its massive shadow across the moon’s surface.

“Here we are,” announced Gin, pulling up in front of a tavern that was indistinguishable from four others on the same block.

“Lead the way,” said Chandler, getting out of the vehicle.

He fell into step behind Gin and soon entered the dimly-lit interior. There were some two dozen tables and booths, half of them empty, the other half occupied by Men and aliens conversing in low voices. A very tired-looking woman was performing a very unenthusiastic striptease to recorded music in one corner; a Lodinite was observing her with clinical detachment, while none of the other customers paid her the slightest attention.

“How does this one suit you?” asked Gin, indicating a booth as far from the door as possible.

“Fine,” replied Chandler.

Both men seated themselves, and Gin raised his hand and made a swift signal in the air. An overweight waiter arrived a moment later with a pair of green-tinted drinks.

“What is it?” asked Chandler, staring at his glass and frowning.

Gin shrugged. “They call it a Dustbuster on Binder X. Here it’s a Number Five.”

“What’s in it?”

“Lots of stuff, most of it good for you,” answered Gin, picking up his glass and downing it with a single swallow.

Chandler raised his own glass, stared at it for a moment, then took a sip.

“Well?” asked Gin.

“It’ll do.”

“Best damned drink you ever had, and that’s all you’ve got to say?”

“You’re the one with the thirst. I’m just here to talk.”

“Right,” said Gin, signaling for another drink. “Hope you don’t mind,” he said, “but talking is mighty dry work.”

“I have a feeling that everything you do is mighty dry work,” said Chandler sardonically.

“Now that you mention it…” said Gin, and laughed. “By the way, you got a name?”

“Chandler.”

“Okay,” said Gin with a shrug. “But if I were you, I’d change it.”

“Why?”

“Why advertise that the Whistler has come to Port Marrakech?”

“There are a lot of Chandlers in the galaxy. What makes you think I’m the Whistler?”

“How many Chandlers come out of the spaceport with five guns and a knife hidden on their persons?” grinned Gin. “That was your first mistake. My groundcar’s got a security system that registers on the dash.”

“I know,” said Chandler calmly. “I spotted it the second you opened the door for me.”

“You did?”

Chandler nodded. “I figured it was for your own protection. After all, if it was against the law to bring weapons onto the planet, they’d have stopped me at Spaceport Security.”

“Makes sense,” admitted Gin. “Still, there are ways of landing here without being spotted. By morning, everyone will know that the Whistler is on Port Marrakech.”

“Do you plan to tell them?”

Gin shook his head. “I won’t have to. By now someone in Spaceport Security has checked out your ship’s registration, or run your retinagram through a computer, or just out-and-out recognized you. Especially if you used Chandler as your name.”

“So they know who I am,” said Chandler. “So what? From what I can tell, this place is loaded with killers and worse.”

“You didn’t come here for your health,” said Gin. “I’ve heard all about you: When the Whistler shows up, people start dying.”

“I’m not after anyone on Port Marrakech. If I was, nobody would know I was here.”

“Yeah, I believe you,” said Gin. He paused. “So what are you doing here?”

“You’re supposed to be answering questions, not me,” said Chandler. “What do you think was my other mistake?”

“You asked me for a hotel.” Gin smiled. “Not smart. A killer shouldn’t let people know he’s come to town, and he sure as hell shouldn’t let people know where he’s staying.”

“Unless what?” asked Chandler.

Gin stared at him. “Unless you want people to know you’re here.”

“That’s right.”

“Then you must be after someone on Port Samarkand or Port Maracaibo.” He frowned. “But that doesn’t make any sense. Why would you land here?”

“Why I landed here is my concern,” said Chandler as the waiter arrived with another drink for Gin.

“You sure you don’t want to tell me who you’re after, Whistler? I’ve got pretty good connections. Maybe I could help you find him”—he paused and grinned—“for a small consideration.”

“I’m not after a who, I’m after a what: information, remember?”

Gin sighed. “Have it your way. I was just trying to be helpful.”

“You’re not trying hard enough,” said Chandler. “We’ve been here ten minutes and you haven’t told me a damned thing.”

“What do you want to know?”

There was only one piece of information Chandler actually wanted, which was how to get to Hades—but he spent the next half hour asking numerous questions about Port Marrakech, at the end of which he knew more about the local trade in drugs, prostitution, and black market goods than he ever wanted to know.

“Sounds good,” he said at last. “Things have been slow on the Inner Frontier. I’m considering setting up shop here.”

“You’ll have lots of competition in your line of work,” said Gin.

“Not for long,” replied Chandler.

Gin stared at him and nodded his agreement. “No, I suppose you won’t—not if you’re half as good as they say you are.”

“Could be that I’ll need a driver who knows his way around, and can tell me where all the bodies are buried,” continued Chandler.

“Yeah?” said Gin, his face alive with interest.

“It’s possible. Think you might know anyone who’d be interested in the job?”

Gin grinned. “You’re looking at him.”

“You’ve got a job.”

“On a moon loaded with killers, I like the security of working for the best killer of all.”

“Well, you’re pretty good at talking, I’ll give you that,” said Chandler. “How are you at keeping your mouth shut?”

“You can trust me, Whistler.”

“If you come to work for me and I find that I can’t trust you, I don’t envy you your death.” Chandler paused. “Do you still want the job?”

“What does it pay?”

“More than driving back and forth to the airport and taking kickbacks from bars and hotels—and you’ll get it in cash.”

“I still need a figure. After all, I’ll have to use my own vehicle. I gotta figure my expenses.”

“How much are you making now?”

“Counting all the perks?” said Gin. “It comes to maybe 600 credits a week.”

“I’ll double it.”

Gin extended his hand across the table. “Deal!”

Chandler took the proffered hand. “Deal,” he replied. “You’re on my payroll, starting this minute.”

“Great!” said Gin. There was a momentary silence. “Uh … what do we do now?”

“We finish our drinks and I find a place to sleep.”

“And then what?”

“Eventually I wake up.”

“I mean, what do I do?”

“You’re on call around the clock,” answered Chandler. “I expect to see you parked outside of wherever I spend the night when I wake up in the morning. I also expect you to keep your eyes and ears open. If you hear of anyone who’s looking for someone in my line of work, you tell me. Even more important: if you see anyone watching me, you let me know.”

“Right,” said Gin. He signaled the waiter for another drink.

“And you show up sober,” added Chandler.

“You got it.”

“By the way, I don’t plan to confine my activities just to Port Marrakech. Have you ever been to Port Samarkand or Port Maracaibo?”

“I know ‘em almost as well as I know Port Marrakech,” Gin assured him.

“Good,” said Chandler. “That should prove helpful.” He paused. “What about Hades?”

“You don’t want any part of Hades, Whistler,” said Gin. “They got nothing but these blue-skinned aliens there—Blue Devils, we call ‘em. Even if you got a contract to knock one of them off, you’d never be able to tell ‘em apart.”

“You’ve been there?”

“No, but I’ve seen my share of Blue Devils. Ugly-looking sons of bitches.”

“Do any humans live on Hades?”

“Not to my knowledge,” answered Gin. He shrugged. “Hell, who’d want to?”

Chandler didn’t want to display too much interest in Hades, so he let the subject drop and spent another twenty minutes asking questions about the other two moons before he decided it was time to leave.

He checked into one of the better rooming houses, paid for a week in advance, and went to his room, confident that he’d made a decent start; he was in no hurry to get to Hades until he learned more about it. He’d go through the motions of setting up business on Port Marrakech, and in a day or a week or a month, Gin or someone else would tell him what he needed to know about Hades and the mysterious Oracle. In the meantime, he might even accept a contract or two, just to prove the authenticity to his cover story.

He had shaved and showered, and was just about to nod off to sleep when the vidphone blinked.

“Yeah?” he said, staring at a blank screen.

“You are the Whistler, are you not?” said a voice that might or might not have been human.

“My name is Chandler.”

“You are the Whistler,” repeated the voice tonelessly. It paused for a moment. “A word of advice, Whistler: go home.”

“Who is this?” demanded Chandler, trying without success to bring up an image on the screen.

“I will not repeat my warning, Whistler,” said the voice. “I know who you are, I know why you are here, and I tell you that your mission is destined to fail. If you are still here tomorrow morning, your life is at hazard.”

Then the connection went dead, and Chandler allowed himself the luxury of a satisfied smile.

4

Gin was waiting for him outside the rooming house when Chandler emerged the next morning. He had traded his company vehicle for his own somewhat battered landcar.

“Where to?” he asked as Chandler climbed into the back of the vehicle.

“Twice around the block.”

Gin merely grunted and did as he was told. When he had finished, and was once again parked in front of the rooming house, he turned to Chandler.

“No one’s watching us.”

“No one’s following us,” Chandler corrected him. “There’s a difference.”

“What’s up?” asked Gin.

“Nothing much,” said Chandler. “I got a message last night. Someone doesn’t want me here.”

“That figures,” said Gin reasonably. “A man with your reputation shows up, you’re going to cost someone some business.”

“They’ll have to learn to live with the disappointment.”

“I told you someone at the spaceport would spot you,” continued Gin. He paused. “So where do I take you now?”

“Around.”

“Around where?”

“Just around. I can’t go into business if people don’t know I’m here.”

“They know,” responded Gin. “Whoever tried to warn you off has probably told half the people he knows by now. I say we go get a drink and think about this.”

“I’ll let you know when you become an equal partner,” said Chandler. “Just start driving.”

Suddenly Gin grinned. “You’re not advertising,” he said emphatically. “You’re trolling! You want whoever you spoke to last night to move against you so you can take him out!”

“Drive.”

“Just a minute,” said Gin, withdrawing a sonic pistol from beneath the seat. He turned it over and checked its charge.

“Do you know how to use that thing?” asked Chandler as Gin pulled out into traffic.

“Maybe not as well as you,” came the answer, “but I can usually hit what I aim at.”

Chandler paused. “Don’t aim it at anything unless I tell you to,” he said at last.

Gin nodded and tucked the pistol into his belt. “Okay, boss,” he said. “Where are we going?”

“It’s your city. You decide.”

“Well, I can take you to where the rich folks hang out, or I can take you to where the people they hire hang out.”

“First one, then the other.”

Gin stared at a poorly-dressed man with bulging pockets who was standing on the slidewalk, staring at them, and as he did so the landcar came up fast on another vehicle. Gin swerved just in time to avoid an accident.

“You keep you eyes on the road,” said Chandler. “I’ll watch for potential enemies.”

“Ain’t nothing potential about it,” muttered Gin. “By noon you could have half a hundred of ‘em out for your scalp.”

“Don’t let your imagination run away with you,” replied Chandler as they began encountering heavier traffic.

“Don’t let your confidence run away with you,” said Gin. “The more I think about it, the more I think this isn’t such a good idea.”

“Thinking’s not in your job description,” said Chandler. “Until it is, I suggest that you leave the thinking to me.”

Gin shrugged. “Whatever you say.”

“That’s what I say,” answered Chandler. Suddenly he tensed. “Pull over and stop.”

The landcar came to a halt.

“Did you spot someone?” asked Gin, reaching for his pistol.

“That alien,” said Chandler, staring at a bald, blue-skinned humanoid who was standing across the street. “Is that a Blue Devil?”

“Yeah. So what?”

Chandler stared at it for another moment, then leaned back and relaxed. “Okay, start driving again.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” persisted Gin. “Why do you care about Blue Devils?”

“I’ve never seen one before.”

“You spent a long time looking at it.”

“I was curious.”

They drove in silence for another minute, and then Gin spoke again. “Why do you think a Blue Devil wants to kill you?”

“Did I say I thought so?”

“You didn’t have to.” Gin paused. “But for the life of me, I can’t figure out why a Blue Devil would give a damn whether you’re on Port Marrakech or not.”

There was a long pause, during which Gin decided not to push the subject and Chandler totally ignored it. Finally Chandler broke the silence: “How long before we reach wherever it is you’re taking me?”

“Another couple of minutes, give or take.”

“Tell me about the area we’re passing through.”

“Do you really care?” asked Gin.

“All morning long I haven’t been able to shut you up,” said Chandler with an ironic smile. “Now, when I want you to talk, suddenly you aren’t interested.”

Gin shrugged. “You’re the boss. This part of town is called Little Spica. It’s inhabited mostly by descendants of miners from Spica VI and shipbuilders from Spica II. A few Canphorites live on the outskirts, but the Spicans don’t think much of most other aliens.” He paused. “There’s a great whorehouse over on the next block, if that’s to your taste.”

“Not especially.”

“See this storefront here?” said Gin, slowing down. “They say that Santiago himself killed two women right there on the slidewalk about two hundred years ago. And that bar there, on the left? Best source of alphanella seeds in this part of town.” He paused again. “You ever chewed any seeds?” He shook his head and answered his own question. “No, I suppose not. A man in your line of work needs a clear head.”

“How many other cities are there on Port Marrakech?”

“Cities?” repeated Gin. “None. There are a couple of little villages, maybe 500 people apiece, halfway around the world, farming communities mostly. No, most of the people live right here.” They drove out of Little Spica and into an even seedier area, filled with the omnipresent domed, whitewashed buildings, most of them covered with grime, many in need of repair.

“The alien quarter?” suggested Chandler.

“You got it. Mostly Blue Devils. The rest of them are a pretty mixed lot.”

“Have you ever seen an alien that looked like a turtle?” asked Chandler.

“I don’t even know what a turtle is,” answered Gin. “Why?”

“Just curious,” said Chandler.

“A man like you isn’t subject to fits of idle curiosity,” replied Gin. “If you’ll describe it to me, maybe I can find out if there’s anything here that fits the description.”

“Some other time,” said Chandler, dismissing the subject.

They sped through the city, Gin pointing out sites of local, historic and criminal interest, Chandler asking an occasional question. During the next ten minutes their surroundings became progressively more elegant, and finally Gin slowed his vehicle and pulled up to a glistening hotel that looked like some ancient and exotic palace.

“Our first stop,” said Gin. “This is the most expensive hotel in town.”

Chandler nodded, then got out of the landcar.

“You want me to come with you?” asked Gin.

“Not necessary,” answered Chandler. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

He entered the lobby, allowed the sparkling slidewalk to take him around a fountain that was engineered so that its thousands of jets of colored water met in such a manner that it formed an almost-solid representation of a nude woman. As quickly as the figure lost its structural integrity, new jets of gold and red and white water would meet in midair, re-forming the figure. The slidewalk deposited him at the registration desk, where a uniformed man approached him from behind a broad, gleaming counter.

“May I help you?” he asked.

“It’s possible,” said Chandler. “Do you have a Carlos Mendoza registered here?”

The man asked his computer, which replied in the negative.

“That’s curious,” said Chandler, frowning. “I was supposed to meet him here.”

“There are no reservations in the name of Mendoza,” said the man.

“Well, I’m sure he’ll show up sooner or later.”

“We’re fully booked for the next three months, sir.”

“That’s his problem,” said Chandler with a shrug. “I wonder if I could leave a message for him.”

“Certainly, sir.”

“Good. If Mr. Mendoza should show up, please tell him that the Whistler has completed his business here.”

“That’s all?”

“Not quite,” said Chandler. “When Mendoza gets my message, he’ll probably give you an envelope with my name on it. Please deposit it in your safe until I come by for it.”

“I may not be on duty when you return,” said the man. “If this is a financial transaction, we’ll need some form of identification before we can release the funds to you, sir.”

Chandler placed his fingers on the shining counter, then pressed down on it. “Did it register?”

The clerk checked a hidden screen behind the counter. “Yes, Mr. Whistler. We now have your fingerprints in our permanent file.”

“Good,” said Chandler, placing a 500-credit note on the counter. “I am sure I can count on your discretion.”

“Absolutely, sir.” He picked up the bill and placed it in a pocket. “How can we contact you if Mr. Mendoza should deliver the envelope?”

“I’ll contact you,” answered Chandler, turning on his heel and walking back out to the landcar.

He repeated the process at three more hotels. When he emerged from the last of them, he entered the vehicle, leaned back, and relaxed.

“All right,” he said to Gin. “I think I’ve announced my presence sufficiently.”

“I saw you slipping some money to each desk clerk,” noted Gin. “Are you paying them to spread the word?”

Chandler smiled in amusement. “I gave each of them 500 credits not to tell anyone that I was on Port Marrakech.”

“Let me get this straight,” said Gin. “You want to announce your presence, so you’re paying them to keep it a secret? I don’t understand.”

“At least a couple of them will decide that if it’s worth 500 credits to me to keep my presence here a secret, it ought to be worth a couple of thousand credits to someone else to know I’m here.” He paused. “By tonight just about everyone who might want to avail themselves of my services will know I’m here.”

Gin grinned. “I never thought of that!”

“You didn’t have to. I did.”

“Where to now?”

“If I weren’t on Port Marrakech, and you had a sizeable sum of money and wanted to have someone killed, who would you hire?”

“I’d go right to the Surgeon,” replied Gin without hesitation.

“The Surgeon?”

“His real name is Vittorio something-or-other, but everyone calls him the Surgeon. He can slice you into pieces before you even know he’s there.”

“Where can I find him?”

Gin shrugged. “Half a dozen places. He gets around. He’s got a little action here and a little action there.”

“Choose the likeliest spot and drive there.”

“This time of day he’s probably at The Wolfman’s. That’s a restaurant over in the Platinum Quarter, near where we were drinking last night.”

“The Platinum Quarter? I didn’t see anything that opulent last night.”

“It’s pretty run-down,” agreed Gin. “But right before Port Marrakech was mined out, someone discovered platinum, and there was one last flurry of activity before they decided that there wasn’t enough to make mining it worthwhile. The Platinum Quarter is what got built over where the mine used to be. The miners left so many tunnels there that you can get from almost any building in the Quarter to any other building without ever coming up for air—if you know your way around.” He paused. “Every now and then someone who doesn’t know the tunnel system goes down there, and as often as not he’s never seen again.”

“It’s not big enough to get permanently lost in,” commented Chandler. “I assume these missing people don’t live long enough to starve to death.”

“Whistler, we got guys living down there who haven’t seen the sun in ten years,” answered Gin. “You pay ‘em what they want for safe passage, or they take it anyway and leave your corpse for the worms.” He paused again. “You’ve never seen anything like a Port Marrakech worm. Damned things are a couple of feet long, and they’ve actually got teeth. You leave a body down there and they can strip it to the bone in less than a day.”

“Pleasant place.”

“The men who live down there are worse than the worms. Some people say they’ve got the worms trained to recognize ‘em and leave ‘em alone; others say that they eat the worms to stay alive.”

“Does the Surgeon ever go down to the tunnels?” asked Chandler.

“From time to time. ‘Course, everyone knows who he is, so they leave him alone. Mostly, they make their money from hiding anyone who’s got to disappear for awhile, and they pick up a little extra from people who’ve got no business being there in the first place.”

“Interesting,” commented Chandler noncommittally.

“Interesting, hell—it’s goddamned dangerous,” said Gin devoutly. “If you’re thinking of going down into the tunnels, you and me are gonna part company.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

They drove for another few minutes, and then Gin stopped in front of a small rectangular building that seemed out of place in this city of domes and angles. There were no signs on the windows or the door, but Gin assured Chandler that advertising was unnecessary, and that everyone who had a reason to be there knew where the Wolfman’s restaurant was.

“I’d better go in with you,” he announced as Chandler got out of the landcar. “You go around asking for the Surgeon without anyone knowing who you are and you’re liable to undergo an operation you hadn’t planned on.”

Chandler followed Gin into the restaurant, which seemed to be on the dismal side of normal, with cheap chairs and torn booths, scarred tables, a very small bar along the left-hand wall, and a surly-looking waiter and waitress.

Standing behind the bar was a creature out of a child’s worst nightmare. It stood and walked like a man, but its head was that of a wolf, with a prolonged foreface and impressive canines. Its ears were not quite human and not quite canine, but were quite large and pointed and set high atop its head. Its face, neck, chest and hands were covered with fur, and it wore an elegant formal outfit that covered the rest of its body.

Gin lead Chandler right up to it.

“Whistler, meet the Wolfman,” he said, stepping aside.

“I’ve heard of you,” said the Wolfman, extending a hand/paw.

“I’m surprised I haven’t heard of you,” replied Chandler, reaching out his own hand. “Cosmetic surgery?”

“Yes.”

“Why a wolf?” asked Chandler.

“Why not?” was the reply, as the Wolfman made a croaking sound deep in his throat that Chandler took to be a chuckle. “At least people remember me once they’ve seen me.” He paused. “Of course, I can see where that’s not necessarily an advantage in your line of work.” He stared at Chandler. “Why do I think you didn’t come here to sample my food?”

“I’m looking for someone.”

“Oh?”

“The Surgeon.”

“He’s not here,” answered the Wolfman.

Chandler looked questioningly at Gin, who had been studying the few occupied tables. Gin shook his head.

“You might try again tomorrow,” added the Wolfman. “He’s one of my best customers. He comes around four or five times a week.” The Wolfman pointed toward a table near the bar, one that backed up to a wall and gave the occupant a clear view of the doorway. “That’s his regular table.”

“Not any more,” said Chandler.

“Oh?”

“That table is mine now,” said Chandler. “You might pass the word.”

“I don’t know if the Surgeon is going to be real pleased with that.”

“That’s not my problem,” said Chandler. “He’s changing jobs or worlds—it’s up to him.”

“Does he know about it?” asked the Wolfman.

“He will,” said Chandler. “If you see him first, you can tell him.”

“Not me, friend,” said the Wolfman. “I spent four years having this face created. The Surgeon could slash it to ribbons in three seconds.”

“He won’t,” said Chandler. “You’re under my protection, starting right now.”

“I don’t want any part of this,” said the Wolfman nervously. He paused. “Maybe you’re as good as they say you are, and maybe not. But I’ve seen the Surgeon.”

“You won’t see him again,” said Chandler. “Remember: no one sits at that table except me.”

He laid a bill on the bar, then turned and walked toward the door. Gin caught up with him just as he stepped outside.

“Boy, I hope to hell you know what you’re doing!” exclaimed the driver. “I thought you just wanted to talk to the Surgeon.”

“If he’s a reasonable man, that’s all I’ll have to do,” answered Chandler. “But I’m setting up shop here. This is the easiest way to establish my credentials and get rid of my biggest rival at the same time.” He climbed into the vehicle. “Take me to the next spot on your list. I’d like to get this over with before dinner.”

Gin shook his head in wonderment. “You’re the first guy I’ve ever seen who was in a hurry to go up against the Surgeon.”

“You look unhappy,” noted Chandler.

“I was kind of hoping this job might last for more than half a day,” said Gin ironically.

“It will.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Gin. “You’ve got some Blue Devil out to kill you, and now you’re going out of your way to confront the Surgeon. You’re either awfully good or just out-and-out crazy.”

“I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?” said Chandler calmly.

“I guess we will,” said Gin, pulling into traffic and heading for his next destination.

Chandler leaned back on the seat and closed his eyes, totally at ease. He disliked waste, and for that reason he was sorry that he was going to have to sacrifice the Surgeon, especially since they were members of the same profession. But the Surgeon was a vital piece in the game upon which he had embarked: he had carefully mapped out his plan of attack, just as he used to plan his safaris in meticulous detail, and if he hadn’t overlooked some hidden factor, this would put him one step closer to the Oracle.

If he survived.

5

“Okay, we’re here,” announced Gin, getting out of the vehicle and approaching the dilapidated building.

“Where’s here?” asked Chandler.

“It’s called the Dreambasin.”

“A drug den?”

Gin nodded. “The Surgeon stops by here every couple of days.”

“Curious.”

“How so?” asked Gin.

“Professionals don’t usually mess with drugs,” responded Chandler. “It screws up the perceptions and destroys the reflexes.”

“Oh, the Surgeon’s no seed chewer,” said Gin. “But a lot of his clients are. If he’s here, he’s just tending to business.”

They walked up to the entrance, where Gin uttered a password and smiled into an overhead camera. The door slid back a moment later, and two muscular men confronted them.

“Who do you have with you, Gin?” asked one of them.

“He’s my new employer,” answered the driver. “I personally vouch for him.”

The man turned to Chandler. “Name?”

“Joshua Chandler.”

“Where are you staying?”

“The Souk,” answered Chandler. “It’s a boarding house on the west side of—”

“I know where it is,” interrupted the man. “Occupation?”

“Tourist.”

The man smiled. “Well, that’s original, anyway.” He held out his hand. “Two hundred credits. And two hundred more for your employee.”

Chandler handed over the money. “Can we go in now?”

“As soon as you check your weapons with us.”

“Does the Surgeon check his?” asked Chandler.

“What the Surgeon does is none of your business, Mr. Chandler,” was the answer. “If you don’t hand over your weapons, I’ll have to remove them myself.” He placed a hand on the hilt of his laser pistol, as if to emphasize the point.

“That wouldn’t be wise,” said Chandler softly.

Something in the tone of his voice made the man hesitate.

“Either you turn them over, or you can’t enter,” he said lamely.

“Don’t kill them,” Gin said to Chandler. “They’re just doing their job.”

“If there’s any killing done here, we’re going to do it,” said the second man, finally choosing to speak.

“You don’t know who you’re dealing with,” said Gin with such conviction that the second man, too, seemed suddenly hesitant.

Nobody moved for a few seconds. Then Chandler removed his pistols and his knife and handed them to one of the men.

“Let’s go,” he said to Gin, as the man stepped aside, staring at him with a mixture of anger and uncertainty.

They proceeded down a long, poorly-illuminated corridor, past a number of closed doors. The sickly sweet odor of palyp, an alien drug that humans had appropriated for themselves and now smoked in old-fashioned water pipes, permeated the air.

They passed one open door and Chandler glanced in. Four women lay suspended above the floor on cushions of air; he couldn’t tell whether they had been smoking or injecting, but three of them were near-catatonic. The fourth, her face contorted in agony, saw him and reached out a trembling, supplicating hand. Chandler stared at her for a moment with an expression of distaste, then turned away and continued walking.

Finally they came to a spacious lounge. There were no chairs or couches in it, just a number of large pillows on the floor. Some eleven men and eight women sat or lay upon them, some in clusters of two and three, some alone. Many of them looked bewildered, as if they were just coming down from a high; others looked anxious, as if they were preparing for one. A few merely looked bored. There were half a dozen Domarian actigraphs on the walls, three-dimensional creations of concentric circles and intricately weaving lines that pulsed with energy and had an almost hypnotic effect upon the viewer.

Suddenly Gin stopped and tensed.

“Where is he?” asked Chandler softly.

“See those two guys talking in the corner?” whispered Gin, indicating a bald, rotund man dressed in a blue satin outfit and a small, wiry man with a widow’s peak and an aquiline nose, who wore an expensively-tailored white tunic.

“Yes.”

“The fat one is Omar Tripoli. He’s a banker, and he owns a couple of nightclubs in the Antarrean Quarter. The little guy is the Surgeon.”

“He doesn’t look like much,” noted Chandler.

“The graveyards are full of people who didn’t think he looked like much.”

Chandler stared at the Surgeon for another moment, then turned to Gin. “Wait here,” he ordered the driver.

“He’s probably armed,” whispered Gin.

“Just do what I say,” answered Chandler, walking across the room and coming to a halt next to Omar Tripoli.

“We’re having a private conversation,” said the Surgeon without looking up.

“I know,” said Chandler.

“Then go away,” said the Surgeon.

Chandler remained where he was, silent and motionless.

Finally the Surgeon looked at the man who was confronting him and got to his feet. “You don’t listen very good, do you?”

“I haven’t heard anything worth listening to,” replied Chandler.

“You’re taking a big chance, friend,” said Tripoli.

“Not as big a chance as you’re taking, Mr. Tripoli,” replied Chandler.

“What do you mean?” asked Tripoli nervously.

“You mean the Surgeon hasn’t told you?” said Chandler with mock surprise.

“Told me what?”

“That he’s leaving Port Marrakech this evening and going into a different business. If I were you, I wouldn’t pay him another credit.”

“All right!” snapped the Surgeon. “Just who the hell are you?”

“Your successor,” said Chandler. He paused. “I think if you hurry, you can just make the flight to Binder X.”

“You’ve got balls, mister, I’ll give you that,” said the Surgeon. “I wonder how you’ll feel when you see them rolling across the floor?”

“Save your threats,” said Chandler calmly. “Mr. Tripoli isn’t impressed by them—and neither am I.”

Suddenly a wicked-looking knife appeared in the Surgeon’s right hand. “Are you going to tell me who you are, or am I going to have to take your ID off your body?”

“I’ve no objection to telling you. My name’s Chandler.”

“I never heard of you.”

“That’s just one of my names. Some people call me the Whistler.”

The Surgeon’s eyes widened briefly, but he didn’t lower the knife or back away.

“You can still walk out of here,” said Chandler. “In fact, as long as you’re turning your business over to me, I’ll even pay for your ticket.”

“You think you can buy me off with a spaceship ticket?” said the Surgeon with a harsh laugh.

“Not really,” answered Chandler. “But I thought I’d offer you the opportunity to live.”

“I’ve got a little something to offer you!” grated the Surgeon. He flipped his knife back and forth between his hands a number of times, then lunged forward with his left hand extended.

Chandler grabbed his wrist, sidestepped the thrust, and then, more rapidly than Tripoli or Gin could follow, delivered three quick blows, one to the groin, one to the Adam’s apple, and a final one upward against the nose, forcing the bones into the brain. The Surgeon was dead before he hit the floor. Chandler picked up the knife and tucked it into one of his many pockets. Everything had happened so quickly that most of the people in the room were still too stunned to react.

Chandler turned to Tripoli. “This is neither the time nor the place to conduct our business,” he said with perfect calm. “I’ll be in touch with you tomorrow or the next day; you’ll find that my prices are quite reasonable for the services I provide. In the meantime, you might tell your friends that the Whistler has come to town.”

He stepped over the Surgeon’s body and walked across the lounge, paying no attention to any of the men and women who stared in awe at him.

“Let’s go,” he said to Gin.

They walked back down the long corridor to the Dreambasin’s entrance, picked up Chandler’s weapons, and were in the landcar and driving away before anyone reported the killing.

“That was some show you put on, Whistler!” said Gin with the enthusiasm of a small boy for one of his sports heroes. “You were awesome!”

“Well, I’ve established my credentials, anyway,” said Chandler. He paused. “It was a necessary if wasteful object lesson.”

“Wasteful?” asked Gin, puzzled. “How?”

“I had to kill a man who had never met me, who presented no threat to me, and who was not my enemy. Wouldn’t you call that wasteful?”

“Not at all.”

“Then it’s a fortunate thing that you don’t have my ability to kill,” said Chandler.

“We’re growing a strange crop of assassins this season,” remarked Gin, amused.

“This was not an assassination,” said Chandler. “It was an execution.”

“Well, whatever you call it, he’s dead,” replied Gin, dismissing the subject with a shrug. “Where to now, Whistler?”

“Take me back to the Souk,” replied Chandler. “I think I’ve accomplished quite enough for one morning. I’m going to read for awhile and then take a nap.”

“Just like that?”

“I’m sorry his death was necessary,” said Chandler irritably. “I have no intention of joining the mourners.”

“I’d be surprised if there are any,” said Gin. He paused. “By the way, I think you can expect the authorities to come calling on you. As long as we confine our killing to each other, they won’t give you too much trouble, but they’ll have to at least talk to you, just for show.”

“It was self-defense,” answered Chandler. “I’ve got more than a dozen witnesses.”

“True,” agreed Gin. He paused again. “You want me on call outside the Souk?”

“Not for a few hours,” answered Chandler. “Right now I want you to make the rounds and tell everyone what happened.” He handed a pair of bills to Gin. “And since talking is such dry work, you can use this to lubricate yourself.”

“With pleasure,” said Gin, taking the bills and stuffing them into a pocket. “I never liked that mean-spirited little slasher anyway.”

“He was just a man doing a job,” said Chandler. “From now on I’ll be doing it.”

“Well, you’re the Man of the Hour, as they say,” enthused the driver. “By tomorrow the whole damned city will know you’re here to stay.”

“How soon will word of this reach the other moons?” asked Chandler.

“Before nightfall,” Gin assured him.

He wanted to ask if Hades would hear of it too, but decided not to. The one person for whom he was putting on this performance already knew who he was, and he would be surprised if she didn’t also know of the Surgeon’s death by the time he reached his rooming house. It was a perfectly logical step for a man in his business to have taken: you could work your way up through the ranks, or if you were good enough and strong enough, you could take on the top dog and assimilate his territory. He had evinced no interest in Hades, had made no inquiries about the Oracle, nor would he. He had come to Port Marrakech for business, and he now had a ready-made clientele to service. It was as simple and clear-cut as that.

The only question, he mused wryly as the landcar pulled up to the Souk, was whether she’d buy it.

6

The police woke Chandler from his nap and took him to the local station to record his statement concerning the Surgeon’s killing. He got the distinct impression that they were just going through the motions, that the death of an assassin, regardless of the circumstances, didn’t bother them in the least. When his deposition matched the various eyewitness accounts, they released him with the bored instructions to keep within the law during his stay on Port Marrakech.

Gin was waiting for him when the police dropped him off at the Souk.

“I see you had company,” he noted as the police vehicle sped away.

“They weren’t any problem.”

“They’d probably have pinned a medal on you if they could have gotten away with it,” said Gin. “The Surgeon wasn’t exactly the most popular guy in town.”

“Neither will I be, when I take over his client list.”

“Yeah. Well, in his case, it was a matter of preferring the devil they don’t know to the devil they knew.”

“I get the distinct impression that they’ll leave me alone as long as I don’t kill the wrong person.”

“That’s about right.”

“So,” continued Chandler, “I think until I know my way around a little better, I might be well-advised to confine my activities to the other moons and Hades.”

“I can help you out,” said Gin. “I know who to lay off of.”

“Thanks for the offer, but I don’t really want to stake my life on your expertise.”

“Okay,” said Gin with a shrug. “Have it your way. But you might as well forget about Hades. There can’t be a thousand Men on the planet.”

“That implies they’re pretty important men,” said Chandler. “Someone might want one of them dead.”

“Forget it,” said Gin with conviction. “Ever since the Oracle set up shop there, the place is a goddamned fortress.”

“Who is the Oracle?” asked Chandler. “One of the Blue Devils?”

Gin shook his head. “They say she’s a human woman. I don’t know if it’s true or not: almost nobody ever gets to see her.”

“Why would a human woman want to live on Hades?” asked Chandler.

“Beats me.”

“More to the point, if the Blue Devils hate us, why would they let her live there?”

“Who knows?” replied Gin. “I don’t pay much attention to politics.”

“Politics?”

“Well, maybe it’s not politics. But whatever it is, it doesn’t concern the three Ports, and if they leave us alone, that’s good enough for me.”

“It’s interesting, though,” said Chandler, “a woman living down there. Why do they call her the Oracle? Has she got a real name?”

“You got me,” said Gin.

“Could you find out?”

“I dunno. I never thought much about it.” Gin paused. “It wouldn’t do you much good, though.”

“Why not?”

“First, because you aren’t allowed to land on Hades. Second, the Oracle and the Blue Devils leave us alone. And third, because every now and then someone shows up on one of the Ports and starts asking too many questions about her, and then one day he just isn’t around any more. So, since you like being alive and I like being employed, let’s concentrate on the Surgeon’s client list.”

“Find out what you can, anyway.”

“Why are you so interested in her?” asked Gin.

“I never met an Oracle before. Maybe she could tell me what numbers to bet on next time I play roulette.”

“You can make a lot more money just doing what you do best, and you don’t have to risk your life trying to meet her.”

“Are you telling me that the Oracle kills people?”

“Whistler, I don’t know anything for sure about the Oracle,” said Gin in exasperation. “But I know the Blue Devils will kill you if you try to land on Hades without their permission.”

“Sounds like the Democracy ought to move in,” suggested Chandler.

“We keep waiting for them to, but so far they haven’t shown any interest in it.” He paused. “Now, can we let the subject drop?”

“You look nervous.”

“People who talk about the Oracle have this habit of disappearing,” answered Gin. “Me, I like it here.”

Chandler shrugged. “What the hell, I was just curious. It’s time to consider more important things.”

“Such as?”

“Such as dinner. Give me a chance to change, and then I want you to take me to the best restaurant in town. We’ll add it to Mr. Tripoli’s bill.”

“Have you heard from him?”

“I will,” replied Chandler confidently. “He has work to be done, and I’ve already proven to him that I’m better at it than the Surgeon.” He walked to the airlift. “I’ll be back down in about twenty minutes.”

He went to his room, took a quick Dryshower, shaved, and dressed in a semi-formal dark gray outfit that had been specially tailored to hide the bulk of three handguns—one sonic, one laser, and one projectile. Then, feeling somewhat refreshed and quite hungry, he left his room, strode to the airlift, and floated gently down to the lobby.

“Well?” he said, walking up to Gin. “Where are we going?”

“You’re going to the Green Diamond,” said Gin. “I’m taking my budget and my wardrobe to a place that’s more to my taste.” He paused. “I can supply you a companion, if you’d like.”

“Some other time.”

Gin shrugged and led the way to the landcar and drove through the early evening traffic.

“This looks familiar,” remarked Chandler as they began entering a seedy-looking area. “Isn’t this the Platinum Quarter?”

“Not bad for a guy who’s only been here once,” answered Gin.

“Are you sure we’re going to the best restaurant in the city?” continued Chandler dubiously.

“It’s a private club,” said Gin. “Don’t pay any attention to the exterior; they don’t want people wandering in off the street.”

“How am I going to get in if it’s private?”

Gin smiled. “Word about this morning has gotten out. You won’t have any trouble.”

“You’d better be right,” said Chandler. “I don’t like making a fool of myself.”

“Trust me,” said Gin, pulling up to a dilapidated building. The windows were boarded up, the walls badly needed a coat of whitewash, and the door was one of the few on the block that didn’t boast intricate carvings. “Well, here you are.”

“You’re kidding, right?” said Chandler.

“This is the Green Diamond, Whistler. Just walk up to the door.”

“No password, no secret knock?”

“Look, if you don’t want to eat here, just say so and I’ll take you somewhere else.”

“No,” said Chandler. “We’re here and I’m hungry.”

He got out of the vehicle and walked up to the door, then turned to Gin. “Be back in two hours.”

“Right,” said Gin. “If you finish early, I’ll be at the Wolfman’s. It’s about two blocks north of here.”

The landcar pulled away, and Chandler turned back to the door. Now that he was closer he could see that there was a very intricate computer lock on it, and he spotted a pair of holo cameras concealed in the shadows.

He waited for almost thirty seconds, then was about to knock on the door when the lock clicked and the door slid silently into a wall. A short, dapper man, clad in green, was standing a few feet from him in a diamond-shaped foyer.

“Good evening, Mr. Chandler,” he said smoothly. “Are you here for dinner or entertainment?”

“First one, then the other,” replied Chandler, entering the building as the door slid shut behind him.

“Your table is ready for you,” said the man, turning and walking toward a large, crowded room.

“Just a minute,” said Chandler.

“Yes?” said the man, stopping instantly.

“How did you know I’d be here tonight?”

“I didn’t.”

“Then why is there a table for me?”

“Every diner has his own private table,” explained the man. “This one belonged to your … ah…”—he searched awkwardly for the word—“predecessor. No one else may use it.”

“I see,” said Chandler. “And your name is…?”

“Charles.”

“All right, Charles. Lead the way.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Charles, starting off once again.

He led Chandler into a large room with a shining green floor and a prismatic ceiling that separated an artificial light from an unseen source into a variety of muted hues. The ceiling was some twenty feet high, and domed at the top, but the room was divided into some forty diamond-shaped alcoves, each with walls ten feet in height. There were artificial green diamonds everywhere—on the walls, sunken into the floor, on the waiters’ and waitresses’ elegant uniforms—and in the center of the room was a large, diamond-shaped fountain.

Charles led Chandler to an alcove, and suddenly the impression was one of intimacy rather than vastness. Chandler settled back on an expensively-upholstered booth, and a moment later a waiter approached him and rattled off the evening’s menu.

Chandler ordered a salad composed of vegetables grown on Port Samarkand, and a mutated shellfish in a cream sauce.

“Very good, sir,” said the waiter. “Would you care to start with a fine Alphard brandy? We just received a new shipment this morning.”

“Later.”

“As you wish, sir.”

“By the way, is Mr. Tripoli here?”

“No, sir.”

“If he should come in, please tell him I’m here.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And if anyone else is looking for me, let me know.”

The waiter nodded and scurried off, leaving Chandler to admire that portion of the room he could see from his alcove. A string quartet, which had been on their break, came out, stood beside the fountain, and began playing soothing if not brilliant music, and a blonde waitress stopped by his table carrying a hors d’oeuvre tray. He looked at the various selections, chose one, and a moment later his salad arrived.

He stared idly at the plate for a moment, trying to identify the various alien vegetables—and then he saw it. Maybe it was the light, maybe it was the texture of the vegetables, maybe it was simply the angle, but suddenly he saw the artificial light reflecting off something bright.

He picked up a fork and dabbed at it gingerly, then lifted it very slowly and brought it closer to his eye.

It was a tiny fragment of glass.

He moved a greenish leaf with his fork, then found another piece, and yet another.

He sat perfectly still, staring at the plate while he tried to sort things out in his mind.

Somebody had known he would be in the Green Diamond on this precise evening. Even Gin hadn’t known where they were going until he had come back from the police station. Of course, the driver had had time to tell someone while Chandler was showering and dressing, but he doubted it; if he survived, Gin had to know that he was going to have to answer some difficult questions, and he’d already seen Chandler in action.

That meant someone else knew—someone who didn’t have to be told where he would be dining, who simply knew.

And that meant that the Oracle was indeed Penelope Bailey.

The next question was more difficult: why did his would-be murderer use ground glass, when a poison would never have been spotted? If the Oracle had foreseen that he would be here, then she must have foreseen that he would spot the fragments of glass. Was this just a warning—or was there some limit to her abilities? The Iceman had said that even as a little girl, with her powers not fully developed, she could foresee potential threats to herself; surely he was more of a threat alive than dead. So was he being manipulated, or had she simply proven to be fallible?

He didn’t have enough information to answer the question, so he let it pass and moved on to the next one: somebody within the Green Diamond had tried to kill him. Who?

He stared at Charles, who was escorting an elderly couple to their table about forty feet away. It was a possibility. He looked for his waiter, but couldn’t spot him. Another possibility. But somehow he didn’t believe it: ground glass wouldn’t kill him instantly, and his reputation had preceded him here. They would have to know he’d live long enough to take them both out before the glass ripped his insides enough to totally disable him.

Then who? He thought about it for another moment, then signaled to Charles.

“Yes, Mr. Chandler?” said Charles, approaching his table.

“I’d like to see your kitchen,” he said.

“Certainly, Mr. Chandler. We’re quite proud of our operation. If you’ll come back tomorrow morning, I shall be happy to give you a tour.”

“I’d like to see it right now.”

“I’m afraid that’s out of the question, Mr. Chandler,” answered Charles. “This is our busiest time of the day.”

“That wasn’t a request, Charles,” said Chandler.

Charles blinked at Chandler as his hand went meaningfully into a pocket.

“You’re quite certain, Mr. Chandler?” he said, flustered.

“Quite.”

“Might I ask why?”

“You might,” answered Chandler. “But it wouldn’t do you any good.” He got to his feet. “Let’s go.”

“Please make no sudden or threatening movements,” said Charles. “We don’t wish to alarm our members.”

“Follow your own advice and we won’t have any problems,” said Chandler.

Charles turned and headed off toward a short but broad corridor that led to the kitchen, then stopped before a door.

“Do you wish me to enter with you, Mr. Chandler?”

“No, that won’t be necessary.”

Charles turned and began walking away.

“And Charles?” Chandler called after him.

“Yes, Mr. Chandler?”

“Would I be correct in assuming that you plan to immediately summon either the police or a bouncer?”

“Absolutely not, Mr. Chandler.”

“You’re a lousy liar, Charles,” said Chandler. “But there are two things you should know.”

“Sir?”

“If you send a bouncer after me, I’ll kill him. And if you call the police, I’ll charge the Green Diamond with attempted murder.”

“I beg your pardon?” said Charles, genuinely surprised.

“Someone put a little something extra in my salad, Charles,” said Chandler. “If you don’t want to call attention to yourself, just leave my plate where it is.”

Charles stared at him for a long moment, then turned and walked back into the dining room.

As Chandler approached the door, it instantly slid back, revealing the interior of the kitchen to him. There were numerous stoves, grills, ranges, freezers, and refrigerators, and some six men and women and two Lodinites, all dressed in light green, were carefully tending the food, arranging it artistically on dishes, or setting it carefully onto trays for the waiters who kept brushing past him. None of them paid him the least attention.

Then he saw what he expected to see.

A man and a Blue Devil entered from an alcove, each bearing half a dozen salads. The man noticed Chandler, stared curiously at him for an instant, then shrugged and continued walking toward a large counter.

The Blue Devil took one look at Chandler, dropped its tray to the floor, and ran back into the alcove.

Chandler raced across the kitchen, ignoring the yells and protests from the staff, and entered the alcove. The alien wasn’t there, but a door was just snapping shut, and as Chandler headed toward it the door slid open again.

He found himself in a dank, dimly-lit alley behind the building, and the Blue Devil was just disappearing around a corner. He immediately gave chase, and within a block had narrowed the gap between them from eighty yards to no more than forty.

Then the Blue Devil ducked around another corner. Chandler followed it, and suddenly found himself in a dead end, facing the wall of a large building with the Blue Devil nowhere in sight.

He came to a stop, withdrew his sonic pistol, and surveyed his surroundings. The alley led to a solid wall some twenty yards away, and there were no doors on any of the buildings. He looked up; there were no windows within reach. He walked along each wall; there were no alcoves where anything the size of a man or a Blue Devil could hide.

He walked back along the buildings that led to the dead end and stood there, trying to figure out where the Blue Devil could have hidden in the five seconds it had before he had turned the corner.

And then, as Port Samarkand moved overhead and cast its light down into the alley, he saw a manhole cover about ten feet away.

The Blue Devil couldn’t have pulled it up and entered the manhole in five seconds … but if he had been prepared for this eventuality, if he had left the manhole uncovered and programmed it to close as soon as he plunged into it, he would have just enough time to vanish before Chandler came into view.

Chandler frowned. What was it Gin had told him? Something about tunnels beneath the Platinum Quarter. He considered going to the Wolfman’s and getting Gin to act as a guide, but there was no telling where the Blue Devil would be by then, or even that he would still be in the tunnels, and Chandler wanted answers more than he wanted a guide.

His decision made, Chandler removed the manhole cover and, pistol in hand, entered the winding, twisting world that lay beneath the Platinum Quarter.

7

Chandler found himself in a small circular chamber, with tunnels going off in three directions.

Now he ceased being the assassin and once again became the hunter of The Frenchman’s World. The floor was damp, and he instantly saw that the water in a small puddle just in front of the left-hand tunnel was moving slightly, as if someone had walked through it within the last minute or so. Crouching slightly, ready to flatten himself against the wall in an instant, he carefully entered the tunnel.

Here and there he was able to detect signs in the millennia-old tunnels that showed him he was still on the right track, tiny disturbances that only the trained eye of a hunter could spot. He wanted to increase his pace, so that the Blue Devil didn’t get too far ahead of him, but the trail was difficult to follow, and there was no sense racing ahead if his prey had turned down one of the many branches.

After ten minutes he came to a larger chamber, and here he lost the Blue Devil’s trail, for a number of men had passed through it even more recently, no more than two or three minutes ago, and had obliterated all sign of his quarry.

The chamber branched into four more tunnels, and as he was trying to determine which one to follow, he heard a slight shuffling sound off to his right. He backed into the tunnel from which he had entered the chamber, crouched down, and waited.

A moment later a small man, a laser rifle tucked under his arm, entered the chamber, looked around, and uttered a shrill whistle. The whistle was answered from the depths of another corridor.

He whistled again, and again he was answered, this time from a new direction.

“I know you’re here somewhere,” he said.

Chandler remained still and silent.

“Come on,” said the man. “The more we have to look for you, the harder it’ll be on you when we find you.”

A second man emerged from a tunnel.

“Any sign of him?” he asked.

“No,” said the small man. “But he’s close. I can feel it in my bones.”

Two more trilling whistles reverberated through the tunnels, and in another moment four men, all armed, stood within the chamber.

“Come out now,” called the small man, “and all it’ll cost you is your money. You make us hunt for you, and it’ll cost you a lot more.”

Chandler heard yet another man coming down his corridor, and quickly stepped into the chamber, moving a step to his left and keeping his back to a wall.

“Drop the pistol, pal,” said the small man, as all four of them became aware of his presence and turned to face him.

“When you do,” answered Chandler.

The small man smiled. “There are four of us. What chance do you think you have?”

“There are five of you,” Chandler corrected him. “I don’t want to kill you. I just want some information.”

“He doesn’t want to kill us!” laughed one of the men.

“That’s right,” said Chandler. The footsteps stopped. “Come on in and join the party,” he said.

“I think I’ll wait here until it begins,” answered an amused voice from the tunnel he had just left.

“I’m looking for a Blue Devil who entered the tunnels about ten minutes ago,” said Chandler, his gun still trained on the small man. “Have you seen him?”

“We ask the questions down here, friend,” said the small man. “This is our domain, and there’s a fee for trespassing. How much money have you got with you?”

“I don’t pay tributes,” said Chandler. “But I do pay for information. I’ll pay five thousand credits to whichever one of you will lead me to the Blue Devil.”

“Five thousand credits,” said the small man, his face lighting up. “That’s a lot of money to be carrying around with you, friend.”

“Too much,” said one of his companions.

“‘Way too much,” agreed another. “A man carries that much money, he’s just begging to be robbed.” He paused and leered. “I think we’re going to have to teach you a little object lesson about carrying so much money around with you.”

“You’re making a mistake,” said Chandler ominously.

The small man trained his laser rifle on Chandler. “We’ve talked enough, friend. Drop your pistol or I cook you right now.”

The four men fanned out, and Chandler, with a shrug, dropped his sonic pistol to the floor, where it landed with a noisy clatter.

“Glad to see you’ve decided to use your brain, friend,” said the small man. “Now, it just so happens that the toll for walking to the next exit is exactly five thousand credits—unless you happen to be carrying a lot more.”

“And if I am?”

“Then we’d be very insulted that you thought you could buy us so cheaply.”

“And when we get insulted, we get greedy,” said one of the other men.

The small man grinned and nodded his head. “And nasty.”

“So I hope you only have five thousand credits,” said a third man, approaching him. “You wouldn’t like us when we’re nasty.”

“I don’t like you much right now,” said Chandler.

“That’s going to cost you another thousand, friend,” said the small man. “Or if you haven’t got it, we’ll take it out in trade.”

“Now just hold still,” said the third man, stopping in front of Chandler and reaching for his tunic pocket. “Or this is going to hurt you a lot more than it hurts me.”

“I doubt it,” said Chandler. He flexed his wrist and the concealed projectile weapon slid into his hand. He fired point-blank into the man’s chest, then used him as a shield while he sprayed the chamber with bullets.

Two seconds later he was the only man standing. Three of his antagonists lay absolutely still, and the small man was writhing in agony, clutching his belly in a futile effort to staunch the flow of blood.

“You in the tunnel,” said Chandler. “Come out with your hands up.”

He heard footsteps running away from him, quickly stepped to the entrance to the tunnel, and fired twice. The sounds of the explosion was deafening, but as they faded he was able to hear the weak, rasping moans of the man he had shot.

He quickly walked to the small man and appropriated his laser rifle.

“Help me!” hissed the man.

“The way you helped me?” asked Chandler caustically.

“I’m dying, damn it!”

“You’re probably good for another hour or so,” said Chandler. “Tell me where I can find the Blue Devil and I’ll send help for you.”

“You go to hell!”

“Warm up a seat for me,” said Chandler, straightening up and heading off into the left-hand tunnel.

“Wait!” cried the small man weakly.

Chandler turned but did not approach him. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

“A Blue Devil entered the tunnels about five minutes ahead of you.”

“Where can I find him?”

“Help me first!”

Chandler shook his head. “By the time I get you to a doctor, he’ll be long gone. Tell me where he is, and if I get done with my business in time, I’ll contact the nearest medics and tell them where to find you.”

“They won’t come down here.”

“That’s your problem. Mine is finding the Blue Devil.”

“You’ll never find him without me.”

“I’ll never find him if I waste any more time with you,” said Chandler.

“I’ll make a deal!” gasped the man. “Get me to a doctor and I’ll help you find him.”

“He’ll be back on Hades before you can get to a hospital.” Chandler turned toward the tunnel once more.

“You can’t leave me here!”

“That’s precisely what you were going to do to me,” replied Chandler. “You might consider it poetic justice.”

“Who are you?” demanded the man.

“I’m the man who killed you,” answered Chandler, heading off into the tunnel. The man’s protests and curses grew weaker and weaker, and finally vanished as Chandler turned a corner.

The tunnels were illuminated by a dim Eternalight every ten yards, and he soon saw a pattern to them: most of the lights were purple, but an orange one preceded a fork and a green one a chamber where two or more tunnels joined.

He continued going from one tunnel to another, borrowed laser rifle at the ready. From time to time he could hear the shuffling of feet in distant corridors, but by the time he approached them they were gone.

He realized that if the Blue Devil knew its way around the tunnels he was never going to catch up with it, than indeed it had probably already surfaced through some other manhole or exit. But Gin had never mentioned Blue Devils when describing the tunnels, and the man he had just killed hadn’t referred to the Blue Devil by name, so there was a better-than-even chance that the Blue Devil he was chasing had no more business being in the tunnels than he himself did, and that in turn meant there was at least a possibility that it was even now undergoing the same treatment that he had been threatened with in that first chamber.

A green light told him he was approaching another chamber, and he slowed his pace, listening intently. When he was within ten feet of the entrance he could hear two people—a man and a woman—conversing in muffled tones.

He made his way to the chamber in utter silence. They both had their backs to him, and were still speaking softly.

“They say it was the Whistler,” the man was saying. “He killed the Surgeon earlier today.”

“Why would he want to take over the tunnels?” asked the woman. “We’re small change to a high roller like him.”

“When you want to be a kingpin, you don’t worry about large or small,” answered the man knowingly. “You grab for it all.”

“Well, if he comes down here, he’s going to wish he’d stayed up top.”

“He’s already down here,” said the man. “Who else could have killed Boris and the others? It’s got to be the Whistler.”

“Whistler or not, if he shows his face, I’ll slice him.”

“Freeze!” said Chandler softly, stepping into the chamber. “Not a word, not a movement.”

Both of them tensed, but neither moved.

“Nobody’s slicing anyone,” continued Chandler, approaching them. “Turn around.”

They turned to face him.

“You’re the Whistler?” asked the man.

“Some people call me that,” answered Chandler.

“You’re not taking over the tunnels!” snarled the woman. “I don’t care how good you are, you can’t kill all of us!”

“I don’t want to kill any of you,” said Chandler. “I just want some information.”

“Then why did you kill Boris and his men?” she demanded.

“They wouldn’t give it to me.”

“We don’t turn on our own, Whistler,” said the man defiantly. “You might as well shoot us right now.”

“I don’t want one of your own,” replied Chandler. “I’m after a Blue Devil.”

“We got no Blue Devils down here,” said the woman. “Just Men.”

“He doesn’t work for you, at least I don’t think so. He entered the tunnels a couple of minutes ahead of me.” He paused. “I want him.”

“What for?”

“That’s none of your business, but it has nothing to do with the tunnels. I want no part of them.”

“Why should we believe you?” she persisted.

“Because the only other reason I could have for being here is to kill you, and you’re still alive,” said Chandler.

The man and woman exchanged looks.

“If we take you to the Blue Devil, that’s all you want?” said the man. “You’ll take him up top and leave the tunnels to us?”

Chandler nodded. “That’s all I want.”

“And you won’t ever come back down here again?”

“I can’t promise that. But I won’t come back down without a reason.”

The man stared at him for a long moment, then nodded his head. “All right, you’ve got a deal.”

“Lead the way,” said Chandler.

“I’ve got to find out where your Blue Devil is first.”

“Can you do it without leaving my sight?” asked Chandler.

“Yes.”

As the two men conversed, the woman’s hand had moved down to her belt and closed over the handle of a knife.

“Pull it out and you’re going to spend the rest of your life with one arm,” said Chandler ominously.

“Don’t be stupid,” snapped the man. “This is the Whistler you’re facing!”

She glared at him for a moment, then relaxed and dropped her hand to her side.

The man looked around the chamber, picked up two small stones, then walked to one of the corridors and clicked them against a wall in an irregular pattern. The sounds were still echoing in the dank air as he walked to a second corridor and clicked them again. He then repeated the procedure at the entrance to the corridor from which Chandler had emerged.

“It’s our own code,” said the man, returning to the center of the chamber. “If your Blue Devil is anywhere in the tunnels, we’ll know it in a minute or two.”

“If you’ve called for help,” said Chandler, “I want you to know that I have no intention of dying alone.”

“If we all keep calm, nobody has to die at all,” said the man. “You just make sure you take your Blue Devil up top and don’t come back.”

They fell silent again, waiting for a reply to the message. About 90 seconds later they heard a faint tapping, followed by a shrill whistle.

“All right,” said the man, turning to Chandler. “We’ve got the Blue Devil.”

“Let’s go.”

“It’s not going to be that easy. They’ve figured out that you’re the one who wants him.” He paused. “They’re willing to sell him to you.”

“How much?” asked Chandler.

“It’s negotiable.”

“You’re sure this is the one who entered just ahead of me?”

“It’s the only Blue Devil that’s entered the tunnels all night. They know what’s likely to happen to them down here.” He paused. “So are you willing to bid for him?”

“I’m willing to pay a reasonable price,” said Chandler.

“And if we don’t agree to your price?” asked the woman, still staring sullenly at him.

“Why don’t we worry about that when the time comes?” suggested Chandler. He turned to the man. “Lead the way.”

The man headed off into the right-hand corridor, and the woman stepped aside to let Chandler follow him.

“You go next,” he said.

She glared at him, but fell into step behind her companion, and Chandler brought up the rear.

They went almost fifty yards, then took a hard left, bore left at another fork, and then began a gradual descent. When they were almost a quarter-mile beneath the surface of the moon, they came to the largest chamber Chandler had yet seen.

The Blue Devil was tied to a post, and it was obvious that it had been badly beaten. Four men and two women stood near it, and another man, quite burly, with a neatly-trimmed beard and clad in colorful satins, sat on a crudely-constructed stone chair behind a makeshift granite desk at the far end of the chamber.

“Ah, Mr. Chandler!” said the seated man. “How nice of you to pay us a visit.”

“He’s not Chandler,” said the man who had guided him there. “This is the Whistler.”

“That is merely his professional name,” replied the man at the desk. “He is Joshua Jeremiah Chandler and”—he smiled—“he has had a busy day.”

Chandler stared at him, but made no reply.

“But where are my manners,” said the man, rising to his feet. “Allow me to introduce myself, Mr. Chandler. My name is Lord Lucifer.”

“Interesting,” said Chandler noncommittally.

“Accurate,” was the reply. “Lucifer’s domain is the Underworld of Earth, and mine is the underworld of Port Marrakech.” He paused. “Would you prefer that I call you Chandler or Whistler?”

Chandler shrugged. “Whatever makes you happy.”

“Excellent!” said Lord Lucifer with a smile. “I can tell that our negotiations are going to be cordial.”

“How did you know who I was?”

“I asked Charles to point you out to me.”

“Charles?”

“The headwaiter at the Green Diamond,” answered Lord Lucifer. “When I heard that you had killed the Surgeon, I knew it was only a matter of time before you showed up at the Green Diamond; sooner or later, anyone who is anyone shows up there. And since I myself am a member, I merely tipped Charles to tell me when you had arrived.” He paused. “When I saw you enter the kitchen, I became curious. And when you didn’t return, I found out that you had left in pursuit of a Blue Devil. Had the two of you stayed on the surface, there was no way I could enter the equation—but on the chance that the Blue Devil had escaped to the tunnels, I passed the word to my people to capture but not kill it, on the assumption that it might be of considerable value to you if it was still alive.” He smiled again. “And here you are.”

Chandler looked at the Blue Devil. “Does it speak Terran?”

“If it was working on Port Marrakech, it would have to,” answered Lord Lucifer.

“All right,” said Chandler, turning back to Lord Lucifer. “How much?”

“Well, we must take into consideration that you murdered five of my operatives this evening,” said Lord Lucifer. “And then there’s the effort we went through to capture the Blue Devil, and there’s my own time and overhead. And of course, both you and the Blue Devil can now identify me, so I shall have to take that into account too.”

“The price,” said Chandler in bored tones.

“On the other hand, I like you, Mr. Chandler, I truly do. How many men would actually place themselves in my power and continue to look so calm and collected? Make me an offer, my friend.”

“Five thousand credits.”

Lord Lucifer shook his head sadly. “I couldn’t possibly place such a small price on my fallen comrades.” He paused. “I really couldn’t consider less than thirty thousand.”

Chandler reached into a pocket and pulled out a wad of bills, then peeled five of them off and put the rest back. He then walked across the chamber and placed the bills on the desk.

“Five thousand credits,” he repeated.

“You are either a very brave or very foolish man, Mr. Chandler,” said Lord Lucifer.

“I’m on a budget.”

Lord Lucifer threw back his head and laughed. “Excellent!” he said at last. “I think you and I are going to become great friends, Mr. Chandler.” He paused, and the smile vanished from his face. “You can have the Blue Devil for five thousand credits, on one condition.”

“What is it?”

“You asked if the Blue Devil could speak Terran,” answered Lord Lucifer. “That implies that you wish to question it before killing it or giving it its freedom.” He stared at Chandler. “My condition is simply this: I want to be present when you question it.”

“Why?”

“You have done no harm to any Blue Devil since landing here, and I know that you haven’t been to Hades. No Blue Devil on Port Marrakech is in our particular line of business, Mr. Chandler, so I would like to know why this one wants you dead.”

“Still why?”

“Don’t be obtuse, Mr. Chandler,” said Lord Lucifer. “Murder is one of my organization’s most lucrative enterprises. If the Blue Devils are thinking of going into competition with me on Port Marrakech, I want to know about it.”

“I can assure you that they aren’t,” said Chandler.

“Doubtless you can,” answered Lord Lucifer. “But I would prefer to hear for myself.”

Chandler shook his head. “What it has to say doesn’t concern you.”

“Let me be perfectly clear, Mr. Chandler: my business interests start and end on Port Marrakech. If the Blue Devil had any other reason for attempting to kill you, it is of absolutely no interest to me. If you are afraid that I will act on such information as I may hear, let me assure you that I will not.” He met Chandler’s gaze. “I will order my people to leave the chamber, so that only you and I are here when you question the Blue Devil—but this is the only way I will accept five thousand credits as payment.”

Chandler considered Lord Lucifer’s statement for a moment, then nodded his assent.

“You heard us,” Lord Lucifer said to the others. “Leave us alone until I send for you.” He turned to Chandler. “If you should kill me, please believe me when I tell you that you will never live to see the surface again.”

The five men and three women filed out of the chamber, and Chandler and Lord Lucifer walked over to the post where the Blue Demon was bound.

“Have you got a name?” asked Chandler.

The Blue Devil stared at him and did not answer.

“Its name is Boma,” said Lord Lucifer.

“How do you know?”

“I wasn’t in quite as much of a hurry as you were,” replied Lord Lucifer with a smile. “I asked while I was in the kitchen.” He paused. “It’s been working at the Green Diamond for about two weeks.”

“And I talked to the Iceman about two weeks ago,” said Chandler. “She’s good, I’ll give her that.”

“Who is the Iceman?” asked Lord Lucifer. “And what ‘she’ are you referring to.”

Chandler ignored his questions and faced the Blue Devil.

“When did she tell you to kill me, Boma—two weeks ago or today?”

Boma made no answer.

“Can you contact her from Port Marrakech?”

The Blue Devil remained silent.

“How do I get in touch with her, Boma?”

No answer.

“Just tell me how and you can walk out of here in one piece,” said Chandler.

No answer.

“You’re sure it speaks Terran?” Chandler asked Lord Lucifer.

“Absolutely.”

“It understands what I’m asking it?”

“Yes.”

“All right, Boma,” said Chandler, withdrawing his laser pistol. “She can’t help you now. Only you can.” He paused. “If I have to burn off one finger and one toe at a time, I can. Then we’ll go to work on the joints. Sooner or later you’re going to talk to me.”

Boma looked into Chandler’s eyes.

“Never,” it said.

“See? You can speak when you want to,” said Chandler. “Now, just tell me how to contact her and you can save yourself a lot of pain.”

Boma stared at him and made no reply.

“Last chance, Boma,” said Chandler, deactivating the safety mechanism and holding the muzzle of the laser pistol next to one of the Blue Devil’s digits.

“You cannot win, Whistler,” said Boma.

“You think not?”

“She is the Oracle.”

The Blue Devil clenched its jaws together, hard, and instantly slumped over, held upright only by its bonds.

“Shit!” muttered Chandler, forcing the creature’s mouth open. “One of its fangs is broken off. It probably had an old-fashioned suicide capsule in there.” He straightened up, frowning.

“I should have guessed!” said Lord Lucifer, his face alive with dawning comprehension. “I knew Port Marrakech was too insignificant for you. You’ve come for her!”

“You know about her?”

“I know enough not to envy you, my friend.”

Chandler stared at the corpse of the Blue Devil for a long moment, then looked up.

“What kind of hold does she have over a member of an alien race, that it would rather kill itself than tell me how to contact her?”

“That should tell you precisely what kind of hold she has, Mr. Chandler,” said Lord Lucifer. “It preferred facing you in the flesh to displeasing her from a distance of some 300,000 miles. And it preferred death to relinquishing any information, no matter how trivial, that might aid you.” He paused, then shrugged. “Well, nobody ever said Blue Devils were smart.”

“I don’t quite follow you.”

“It could have told you anything you wanted to know,” explained Lord Lucifer.

“Why?”

“I should have thought the answer would be obvious, Mr. Chandler,” replied Lord Lucifer. “She can’t be killed.”

8

They were sitting in a small chamber whose leather furnishings and woven rugs were in total contrast to its stone walls and floor. Lord Lucifer held a large Sirian cigar between his fingers, and was sipping a century-old Alphard brandy, while Chandler took a long swallow of his beer and then set his glass down on an exquisite table of Domarian hardwood.

“Understand, Mr. Chandler,” said Lord Lucifer, “I’d help you if I could. I would very much enjoy working with a man of your abilities.” He sighed. “I have no love for any human who has sold out to an alien race, and I would certainly like the opportunity to expand my operations to Hades itself, but there is simply no way you can succeed.”

“You’ve never seen her,” replied Chandler. “As far as I can tell, nobody on this world except me even knows what her abilities are. So why are you so afraid of her?”

“I know the power she wields,” answered Lord Lucifer. “It is not necessary for me to know how she wields it.”

“All right. Tell me about her power.”

“The Democracy has never been stronger than it is right now, Mr. Chandler,” said Lord Lucifer. “It is expanding in all directions, gobbling up worlds right and left. It was all set to assimilate Hades about fourteen years ago.”

“Just a minute,” interrupted Chandler. “I thought the Democracy had no interest in the Alpha Crepello system once the Ports were mined out.”

“That’s the official story. In point of fact, the Seventeenth Fleet was positioned to, shall we say, pacify the inhabitants of Hades. Then she showed up. I don’t what she did, but suddenly the Fleet retreated and Hades was an independent world again. I also know that the Democracy has sent in five or six of their top operatives, and none of them has ever been heard from again.” He took another sip of his brandy. “I don’t have to know what her abilities are, Mr. Chandler. I know that she can hold the Democracy at bay, and that’s good enough for me. In fact, I’m surprised they were able to convince you to come here.”

“They didn’t,” answered Chandler. “I’m working for a private party.”

“This Iceman you mentioned?”

Chandler nodded.

“Well, whatever he’s paying you, it isn’t enough.” He took a puff of his cigar. “What have you actually accomplished tonight? You were fortunate enough not to die at dinner, and you’ve killed one of her operatives. And my answer to that is: so what? There are two hundred million more Blue Devils where Boma came from.”

“But only one Oracle,” said Chandler. “I wonder if it’s possible to lure her away from Hades?”

“How?”

“I don’t know yet. Perhaps by killing more of her operatives?”

Lord Lucifer shook his head. “I’m sure they’re all expendable.” He paused. “Why don’t you just find some way to obliterate the whole damned planet and be done with it?”

“First, because contrary to what you may think, I’m not a genocidal maniac. And second, because my instructions are to kill her only if I can’t bring her out.”

“Bring her out?”

Chandler nodded. “She’s a very valuable commodity. Nobody wants her dead—unless it looks like they can’t have her any other way.” He paused. “That’s the real reason the Fleet backed off when she arrived. They didn’t want to risk harming her.”

“You’ve piqued my curiosity more in fourteen minutes than she has in fourteen years,” said Lord Lucifer. “What is it about her that everyone wants? What powers does she have?”

“Just one: precognition.”

“She sees the future?”

“As I understand it, she sees a number of futures, and by her actions she’s able to bring about the one she wants.”

“That’s some talent!” said Lord Lucifer admiringly. “How do you approach someone who knows what you’re going to do long before you yourself know?”

Chandler shrugged. “I suppose I’ve got to put her in a position where there are no viable futures.”

“I don’t see how you can do it from Port Marrakech.”

“I know. They wouldn’t give me permission to land on Hades, so I thought I might at least establish a valid reason for being here while I probed for weaknesses.”

“So that’s why you killed the Surgeon.”

Chandler nodded. “If a killer comes to town, he’d better kill someone quick or people will wonder what he’s doing here.” He grimaced. “Obviously it didn’t work.” He paused, frowning. “At least, I don’t think it did.”

“You seem puzzled,” noted Lord Lucifer.

“I am. If I fooled her, why did she try to kill me? And if she tried to kill me, why did she fail?”

“Ah!” said Lord Lucifer, his expression brightening. “So she does have her limitations! Obviously proximity has something to do with it. She could foresee that you eventually planned to kidnap or kill her, because that would involve your being in her presence—but she couldn’t see what could happen here, some 300,000 miles away from Hades.” He stared at Chandler. “You look unconvinced, Mr. Chandler. Why? It makes perfect sense to me.”

“If she can’t see what will happen on Port Marrakech, how did she even know I was here?”

“Perhaps in one of those futures in which you confront her, you tell her so, and she worked backward to try to kill you.”

Chandler shook his head. “Boma was in place at the Green Diamond the day after I accepted the commission—and that took place a hell of a lot more than 300,000 miles from Hades.”

“An interesting point,” agreed Lord Lucifer.

They sat in silence, each sipping his drink, for a few moments.

“You’re going to have to go to Hades, you know,” said Lord Lucifer at last. “If she knows you’re alive, she’ll just keep making more attempts to kill you … and you’ll never get her to come out to Port Marrakech.”

“I know,” said Chandler. “My immediate problem is getting there. Then I’ll worry about approaching her.”

“Oh, getting there is easy enough,” answered Lord Lucifer expansively. “I’m not the Lord of the Underworld for nothing. But what you do once you get there—that’s the problem.”

“You know what I have do to.”

“I’m not making myself clear. I can smuggle you down to Hades easily enough—there’s a transport ship for Blue Devils every other day, and depending on how much money you can spread around, we can disguise you as a co-pilot or navigator, or at least hide you in the cargo hold—but if you have no official status, you’ll be picked up the moment you show yourself.” He shook his head. “No, let me think further on the matter. There’s got to be a better way.”

Chandler stared thoughtfully at his beer glass. “Why are you going to all this trouble for me?” he asked at last.

“First, because I like you,” answered Lord Lucifer. “And second, because the sooner you leave, the sooner there is, shall we say, a power vacuum at the top of our profession here on Port Marrakech, one which I hope to fill myself.”

“Are you a criminal kingpin, a killer, or what?”

“I am an opportunist,” answered Lord Lucifer calmly. “The Surgeon’s death and your departure present me with an opportunity.”

“Whatever your reasons, I want to thank you for your help.”

“My dear Mr. Chandler, I have every intention of letting you thank me in a substantial manner before you leave Port Marrakech for Hades.”

“How much do you want, and when can I leave?”

“I don’t know the answer to either question yet,” admitted Lord Lucifer. He paused and stared at Chandler. “Getting you there will be my problem. Staying alive until then will be yours.” He paused. “There are a lot of Blue Devils on Port Marrakech. If she tried to kill you once, she’ll very likely try again.”

Chandler got to his feet. “I’d better be getting back. When you’re ready, leave a message for me at the Wolfman’s.”

“Not the Green Diamond?”

Chandler shook his head and grinned wryly. “I’ve lost my faith in their cuisine.”

“Poor Charles! I hope he doesn’t take it personally.” Lord Lucifer suddenly arose. “I’d better escort you back,” he said. “It will keep you from getting lost, and it might also add to the longevity of some of my more aggressive subordinates.”

Lord Lucifer led the way through the labyrinth of ascending tunnels. Eventually they passed through the chamber where Chandler had killed Boris and his companions; nothing remained but a few bloodstains.

“Here we are,” said Lord Lucifer, when they reached the small circular chamber beneath the manhole through which Chandler had entered. “Do you know your way from here?”

Chandler nodded. “Yes. My driver should be waiting for me at the Green Diamond.”

“Maybe I’ll walk over there with you,” said Lord Lucifer suddenly. “I never did get around to having my dessert and coffee.”

They emerged into the alleyway, then walked the two blocks to the restaurant.

“There’s the landcar,” said Chandler, gesturing the Gin’s vehicle, which was parked near the door to the Green Diamond.

Gin saw Chandler approaching and got out to open the door for him. As Chandler reached the vehicle, Lord Lucifer’s voice rang out.

“Chandler—watch out!”

Chandler hit the ground instantly, his projectile weapon already in his hand as he rolled over. Gin was slower in reacting, and screamed an instant later as a laser beam seared the flesh of his left shoulder.

Chandler fired at the source of the beam, and a body that had been hiding behind another vehicle fell heavily to the pavement.

“Thanks,” said Chandler, getting to his feet and walking across to the corpse.

“Just dumb luck,” answered Lord Lucifer, joining him. “If I’d been looking in any other direction, I’d never have seen the movement.” He looked down at the body. It was a human male. “You’ve got more enemies than you thought, Mr. Chandler.”

“You don’t think he worked for the Oracle?” asked Chandler.

“If he did, he was the first human I’ve even known her to use.”

Chandler crouched down and began going through the body’s pockets. “Let’s find out,” he said.

He withdrew a ID packet, and frowned.

“You look troubled,” commented Lord Lucifer.

“I am,” said Chandler. He tossed the packet to Lord Lucifer. “He worked for the Democracy.”

“So?”

“It was the Democracy that hired the Iceman to bring her out. I’m just the subcontractor.”

“Then why did they try to kill you?”

“I don’t know,” answered Chandler. He frowned again. “Something’s very wrong here.”

PART 2:

The

Injun’s

Book

9

The dark-haired man hovered three feet above the floor, sprawled comfortably on his airbed, watching an adventure holo that was taking place about four feet away from him.

“Hey, Injun—you got company!” said one of his guards over the speaker system.

Suddenly the holo screen deactivated, and the door to his cell slid open. A tall, well-dressed man with a shock of white hair walked in and stared at him.

“So you’re Jimmy Two Feathers,” said the man, staring at him.

“If I’m not, you’re gonna get a hell of a nasty letter from my lawyer in the morning,” answered the Injun.

The man smiled. “They told me you had a sense of humor.”

The Injun shrugged and waited for him to continue speaking.

“You’ve got quite a reputation, Jimmy.”

“As a comedian?”

The man’s smile vanished as he shook his head. “As a thief, an arsonist, an extortionist, a blackmailer, and a murderer.”

The Injun shrugged. “I take it you disapprove of versatility?”

“No,” said the man. “Just of you.”

“You came all the way from Deluros VIII to tell me you disapprove of me?” said the Injun.

“What makes you think I’m from Deluros?”

“I can spot you government types a mile away,” answered the Injun. “And you’re too well-dressed to be from around here.”

“What else do you think you know about me?” asked the man.

“You act like you think your shit don’t stink. That makes you Military.” The Injun paused. “I know I was flying pretty high when they brought me in, but I’ll be damned if I can remember killing an officer.”

“You didn’t.”

“What a pity,” said the Injun, laying back and relaxing.

“Aren’t you interested in why I’m here?” asked the man.

“You’ll tell me when you’re ready to.”

“I’m ready right now.” The man paused. “How would you like to get out of here?”

“I suppose I could adjust to it.”

“You didn’t the last four times.”

The Injun shrugged. “A series of misunderstandings.”

The man smiled caustically. “You call twenty-seven dead men a series of misunderstandings?”

“Actually, I was performing a valuable social service. Most of them would have wound up in here; look at all the money I saved the government.”

“You have no regrets at all, do you?”

“Well, I regret getting caught.”

“You’re a bright man, Jimmy,” said the man. “Why do you keep getting caught?”

“You wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t read my record,” answered the Injun. “You know why.”

“You’re a seed chewer.”

“When I’m on the seed, I feel like I can take on a whole regiment—so sometimes I try to.” He grinned wryly. “Next time maybe I should settle for a platoon.”

“You’ve been clean for two years now.”

“Yeah, well, the prison chef doesn’t serve alphanella seeds with the roast beef, more’s the pity.”

The man stared at him and shook his head sadly.

“You got a problem?” asked the Injun.

“You’re the one with the problem,” answered the man. “You’re one of the most brilliant criminals of the past quarter century. You commit the insoluble murder or the perfect robbery, and then you start chewing the seed and tell everyone what you’d done. I wish I knew what makes someone with your talents just piss his life away.”

“Are you here to lecture me or offer me a deal?” asked the Injun in a bored voice.

“I’m here to offer you a deal,” answered the man. “You may not like it, though.”

“I’m sure I won’t—but why don’t you tell me about it anyway, and then I’ll tell you what I think of it.”

The man nodded. “All right.”

“By the way, have you got a name?”

“You may call me 32.”

“Well, I was close,” said the Injun.

“I beg your pardon?”

The Injun smiled. “You’re Covert Operations. I thought you were Military.”

“We frequently work in tandem,” answered 32 calmly. “May I proceed?”

“Be my guest.”

“What would you say if I told you that I have the authority to give you a full pardon, effective immediately?”

“I’d say that’s damned generous of you, and let’s get the hell out of here.”

“There are strings, of course.”

“Aren’t there always?” said the Injun wryly.

“You would have to come to work for me.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“And you would have to submit to certain surgical alterations.”

The Injun frowned. “Just what kind of freak do you plan to turn me into?”

“I assure you that this particular surgery will make no difference whatsoever to your physical appearance.”

“Yeah? And just what are your assurances worth?”

“Your freedom.”

The Injun stared at him for a moment, then sighed. “Okay, go on.”

“The third planet of the Alpha Crepello system is home to a race of aliens known as the Lorhn, which are more commonly called Blue Devils. Over the centuries they have resisted all of our efforts to assimilate them into the Democracy.” 32 paused for a moment, then began speaking in lower tones. “On Alpha Crepello III is a human woman named Penelope Bailey, a woman possessed of certain extraordinary talents. We have been trying to get her to return to the Democracy for almost sixteen years. Thus far all of our efforts have failed.”

“What makes her so special?”

“She is gifted with the power of precognition,” answered 32. “Do you understand what that means?”

“It means I’ll never bet against her in a card game.”

32 sighed deeply. “I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation. This is a woman who can foresee the outcome of various political and military actions, and our best information is that she has become a renegade, totally opposed to the goals of the Democracy. She is therefore potentially the most serious threat to the existence of the Democracy, and indeed the primacy of the human race, that has ever existed, and as such, her continued presence is unacceptable.”

“How many men have you sent after her already?”

“What makes you think we’ve sent any?” asked 32.

The Injun smiled. “You don’t recruit from the jails until your own killers have failed.”

32 stared at him for a moment. “We’ve sent eight men in. We would have been just as happy to bring her out as to terminate her—but new orders have just come down, and that is no longer an option.”

“What happened to your eight operatives?”

“Seven are dead.”

“And the eighth?”

32 shrugged. “He’s still there.”

“But you’ve lost faith in him?”

“No. From everything I’ve heard about him, he’s as good as they come.”

“Then why are you giving up on him?”

“Because our policy has changed. As I said, the order came down yesterday that she is to be terminated. The man who is on the scene had orders to try to bring her out alive.”

“He’s already there. Why not just tell him that there’s been a change in orders?”

“He’s operating covertly in enemy territory,” answered 32. “We don’t want to jeopardize his position by attempting to make contact with him.” He grimaced ruefully. “Furthermore, he’s from the Inner Frontier and has no interest in or loyalty to the Democracy. He’s basically a subcontractor whose sole loyalty is to his employer, and it is possible that his employer has reasons of his own for wanting to bring the Oracle out alive, reasons about which we know nothing.”

“Then why not just blow his cover, if you think he might screw up the works?”

“If he can actually make contact with her where seven of my finest operatives have failed, I want to know how he managed it. Besides,” continued 32, “there is no such thing as a cover when you are operating against someone who can see the future. There is no question in my mind that she knows he’s there.”

“I don’t understand,” said the Injun, frowning and running his hand through his unkempt black hair. “If she knows he’s there, why hasn’t she taken him out? And why are you concerned about contacting him?”

“She can see what will happen, but we don’t think she can see what’s happening now,” answered 32. “In other words, she knows that he plans to abduct her at some point in the future, but she doesn’t know where he is at this very minute.”

“You’re sure of that?” asked the Injun dubiously. “Maybe an hour ago she knew where he’d be right now.”

32 sighed deeply. “We’re not sure of anything. We know what her capabilities were when she was six years old, and from this our people have been able to extrapolate what they may have become…”

“Then you don’t actually know a damned thing, do you?” said the Injun.

“No, we don’t,” admitted 32. “That’s why I don’t want to expose this man. Thus far it has been impossible to get any of my people close to her; perhaps if he distracts her, if her attention is divided between the two of you, if he seems the more immediate threat, you might have a chance.”

“You want a suggestion?”

“I’d be grateful for any suggestions you might care to make,” said 32.

“Sue for peace,” said the Injun. “Based on what you told me, there’s no way you’re going to kill this woman. All you can do is make her mad at you.”

“Then you are refusing my offer?”

“Who said anything about refusing your offer?” demanded the Injun.

“But—”

“I’d much rather die with a weapon in my hand than locked in a cell.” He paused and stared sharply at 32. “Am I going to have a hand when you’re all through with this surgery?”

“Certainly,” answered 32. “I told you: you will look exactly as you do now.”

“I know what you told me,” said the Injun. “What you didn’t tell me is what you’re going to do.”

“We are going to turn you into a walking holograph transmitter,” said 32. “Your left eye will be removed and replaced with a prosthetic one. It will appear identical to the one we take from you, and it will be tied into your optic nerve center so that you will be able to see through it—but it will also transmit a three-dimensional image of everything you see to me. Also, a microscopic transmitter and receiver will be embedded inside your ear. Everything you hear will also be audible to me, and I in turn will be able to speak to you without anyone else being able to hear what I say.”

“Where will you be all this time?”

32 shrugged. “That’s undecided at present. If I can land on one of the uninhabited planets in the system, I will. Otherwise, I’ll be on Philemon II, the nearest Democracy world, about four light years removed. You’ll be sending and receiving subspace signals; the transmissions will be virtually instantaneous within a range of ten light years.”

“You’ve selected me because you think I’m good enough to kill her,” said the Injun. “So why do you have to monitor me?”

“I may be able to help.”

“How? All you’ll do is distract me.”

“I spent more time with Penelope Bailey than any member of the Democracy except her parents.”

“Yeah?” said the Injun. “How much time?”

“Almost six months.”

“Sixteen years ago?” The Injun snorted contemptuously. “Forget the surgery and just let me get on with business.”

“There is another reason for the surgery,” said 32, unperturbed by the Injun’s attitude.

“Oh?”

“You will be operating beyond the boundaries of the Democracy,” continued 32. “Based on your prior behavior, there is every likelihood that, once there, you will take your ship and head straight for the Inner Frontier—or, if you remain in the Alpha Crepello system, sooner or later you will be tempted to revert to your addiction.”

“And you think being able to whisper platitudes about duty and honor in my ear will stop me?”

“No,” said 32. “But I rather suspect that the miniature plasma bomb we plant at the base of your skull, which I can trigger from a distance of up to twenty light years, will act as a deterrent.” He paused. “Now, do we still have a deal?”

The Injun glared at him for a long moment, then nodded. “Yeah, we have a deal, you no-good bastard.”

10

“Can you hear me?”

Jimmy Two Feathers grimaced and rolled onto his side.

“Jimmy, wake up. This is 32.”

“32 what?” muttered the Injun.

“Wake up, Jimmy. You’re coming out of the anesthetic now.”

“I’m awake, goddammit! Now leave me alone.”

“Sit up, Jimmy.”

“Go away.”

“I am away, Jimmy. I’m more than five thousand miles from you.”

The Injun sat up groggily. “What are you talking about?”

“Open your eyes, Jimmy.”

“Don’t want to. My head is killing me.”

“It will pass.”

“It damned well better.”

“Now open your eyes, Jimmy.”

The Injun opened his eyes, and winced as the light struck his pupils—both the real one and the artificial one.

“It’s bright,” he complained.

“That’s just because your pupils are dilated. They’ll adjust in a minute or two.”

“The operation is finished?” asked the Injun.

“Yes. How do you feel now?”

“Like I’ve been on a week-long bender. Everything hurts. Especially my head.”

“We did a lot of work on your head. Look around the room.”

The Injun did as he was instructed, and found himself in a large hospital room. A nurse, dressed in sterile white, sat in a corner, observing him intently. From the smarting in his left arm, he expected to find a number of tubes and wires tying him into a life support system, but evidently it had already been removed from the room. A number of small monitors were attached to his chest and neck, but they were more awkward than painful.

“Very good,” said 32 approvingly. “Now hold your hand up about six inches in front of your left eye.”

“Which hand?”

“Either one.”

The Injun held a hand up.

“The lenses adjust almost instantaneously,” noted 32. “Now turn your head to the left and look out the window.”

“I’m not a puppet,” said the Injun.

“Just do what I ask,” said 32. “I want to see how your vision adapts to a sudden change from a darkened room to sunlight.”

“Then what?”

“I don’t understand.”

“I don’t plan to spend the rest of my life jumping through hoops for you,” said the Injun.

“We’ve got to test out your new eye, Jimmy.”

The Injun sighed and turned to gaze out the window.

“Excellent!”

“What next?” demanded the Injun in a surly voice.

“Nothing,” answered 32. “Everything appears to be functioning properly. I assume you have no difficulty hearing me?”

“I wish I did.”

“Your surgery doesn’t seem to have improved your attitude,” said 32 dryly.

“I don’t like having a voice inside my head,” said the Injun.

“That’s not all you’ve got inside your head. Just remember that and we’ll get along fine.” The Injun made no reply, and 32 continued speaking. “Now we’ve got some private business to discuss. Ask the nurse to leave.”

The Injun turned to the nurse. “He wants you to leave.”

“In a moment,” she said, walking over and checking the readings on the monitors. She nodded her satisfaction, then left the room without a word.

“You’ve got her well-trained,” commented the Injun.

“She was only there in case your implants were malfunctioning. It could be very disconcerting to wake up alone in a room minus half your vision and with nobody to talk to.”

“It’s disconcerting just to hear you talking to me.”

“You’ll have to learn to put up with it, Jimmy.” 32 paused. “Do you see the nightstand to the left of your bed?”

“Yes.”

“Open the top drawer and pull out the envelope that’s in it.”

The Injun did as he was told.

“Now open it.”

“All right. It’s open.”

“Now let’s examine all the material carefully,” continued 32. “The holograph on the top is Penelope Bailey at age six.”

The Injun stared at the image of a thin, blonde little girl, with pale blue eyes. She looked drawn and tired, and most of the color was gone from her cheeks.

“The next holograph is a representation of the way we think she’ll look today, barring extreme overweight or anorexia. We can only guess at the style and color of her hair, of course, but based on her bone structure, this is probably pretty accurate.”

“You’ve wasted your artists’ time,” replied the Injun. “If she’s as important as you think, I’m going to have to plow my way through a hell of a lot of people to get to her. I’ll know her when I see her.”

“Possibly so, possibly not. Even among primitive races, the substitution of an expendable subject for the ruler is not completely unknown. If you run into a woman with brown eyes, or the wrong cheekbones, this may help you.”

“Then why the hell do I need a camera in my eye? Either you trust me to spot her or you don’t.”

“I think you have a chance of reaching her. A chance, not a certainty. I do not necessarily think that you have the skill or intelligence to terminate her without my help—or, quite possibly, even with it. Is that plain enough?”

“Thanks for your confidence.”

“Let’s be perfectly frank with one another, Jimmy. You accepted this assignment solely because it is the only way you were ever going to get out of your prison cell again, and you doubtless have every intention of reneging on your pact with me if the opportunity presents itself. I chose you because I have lost a number of excellent operatives; you are more adept at deceit and murder than any of them, and you are expendable. Do we understand one another?”

“One of us does,” replied the Injun sullenly.

“Then let’s get back to business. The next item is your identification packet. We considered trying to change your retinagram and erase your fingerprints, but there was still the matter of your voiceprint, and if they found too many surgical changes, you’d be a marked man the instant you touched down. Therefore, you will retain your real identity, that of Jimmy Two Feathers, but we have changed every existing database—including the Master Computer at Deluros VIII—to show that you are a naval officer who has been officially attached to our embassy on Alpha Crepello III.”

“Just a minute,” said the Injun. “There are a lot of people on both sides of the law who know my name and my face. What about them?”

“You will fly directly from here to your destination. The embassy staff has been informed that you are working on a highly confidential assignment, and they will be ordered not to question you about it or to discuss your presence among themselves.”

“I could still run into a bounty hunter or a pusher on the street.”

“I think that’s highly unlikely, Jimmy. You’ve been out of circulation for two years; the average bounty hunter doesn’t live that long. Still,” 32 added, “that’s one of the reasons for your surgery. If you spot anyone who might recognize you, we will take him off Hades if necessary.”

“Hades?”

“That’s the informal name for Alpha Crepello III.”

“Sounds like my kind of place.”

“I very much doubt it,” said 32. “To continue: the next item before you is a map of Hades. As you’ll see, it’s a relatively underpopulated planet for a world that size. There are nineteen major metropolitan areas. The largest is the capital city of Quichancha, which I am certain I am mispronouncing. Next is a street map of Quichancha, with the location of our embassy highlighted.”

“The Oracle lives in Quichancha?” asked the Injun.

“We assume so, but we don’t know for certain.” 32 paused. “The next three packets contain all the information we have on Port Marrakech, Port Samarkand, and Port Maracaibo, the three human-populated moons of Hades.”

“What do I need them for, if I’m landing on the planet?”

“We have safe houses on all three moons. Assuming that your mission is successful, you may need a place to hide if your route back to the embassy is being watched.”

The Injun ripped up the three packets.

“What are you doing?” demanded 32.

“Let’s stop playing games,” said the Injun.

“I don’t understand you.”

“If I’m good enough to kill the Oracle, I’m too goddamned dangerous for you to let me live. Every last one of those safe houses is going to be filled with people just waiting to blow me away.”

“If I want to kill you, Jimmy, all I have to do is trigger the device we’ve inserted in your skull.” 32 sighed. “I’ll have another set of packets on the three moons made up and delivered to you.” He paused. “There’s only one item left. Are you ready to continue?”

“Yes.”

“Then pick it up and study it.”

The Injun held up a holograph of a tall, moderately handsome man with auburn hair and pale blue eyes, who appeared to be in his late thirties.

“Who is it?”

“His name is Jeremiah Joshua Chandler.”

“Should that mean something to me?”

“You may have known him as the Whistler.”

The Injun shook his head. “Nope.” He stared at the holograph again. “What’s he got to do with the Oracle?”

“He’s our distraction.” 32 paused. “He is a top professional, possibly the best on the Inner Frontier. He’s operating at a disadvantage: I had a feeling that the termination order would come through, so he, unlike you, was not provided with these maps—but that won’t prove much of a hindrance to a man of his abilities. He’s currently on Port Marrakech, but if anyone can make it to Hades in one piece, he’s the man. If that should happen…”

“You want me to work with him?”

“No.”

The Injun frowned. “Then why the hell am I looking at his holograph?”

“We hope that he’ll take the Oracle’s attention away from you. After all, he’s a covert agent who, according to my information, may already have killed one of her operatives on Port Marrakech, which means his presence is probably known to her. However,” continued 32, “as I mentioned before, his goal is different from yours.”

“If the Oracle is half of what you think she is, there’s no way he’s going to bring her out,” said the Injun with absolute conviction.

“I realize that the notion of kidnapping the Oracle seems ludicrous,” admitted 32, “but to be truthful, so does the thought of killing her. If she has a weakness, I imagine one is as likely as the other.”

“So what are you trying to tell me?”

“Simply this, Jimmy: we dealt with him in good faith, and I don’t wish to sacrifice him—but if at any point it seems that he might actually reach the Oracle before you do, you’re going to have to kill him.”

11

It took the Injun five hours to clear Customs on Hades, which refused to honor the concept of diplomatic immunity. The Blue Devils questioned him over and over again—more than long enough for them to feed his fingerprints and the retinagram of his right eye through their computers, and their allies’ computers, and those computers of their enemies to which they had access—and throughout the long interrogation, 32 kept feeding him the proper answers.

Finally he was allowed to leave, and found a driver from the embassy waiting for him.

“Lieutenant Two Feathers?”

“That’s me,” answered the Injun, declining to return the young driver’s snappy salute.

“I’m here to take you to your quarters at the embassy.”

“The sooner the better,” grunted the Injun. He looked around. “Where the hell’s my luggage?”

“It’s still being examined, sir,” said the driver. “Another member of the staff will retrieve it when it’s been cleared.”

“What do they think I’m smuggling, anyway?”

“Nothing, sir. It’s just their way of emphasizing their independence from the Democracy.” The driver paused. “By the way, I suppose I should introduce myself. I am Daniel Broussard, and I am at your disposal for the duration of your stay on Hades.”

“Jimmy Two Feathers,” replied the Injun.

“That’s a curious name, if I may be permitted to say so, sir.”

“Cherokee.”

“Cherokee? Is that a planet?”

“Not exactly,” said the Injun. “Let’s get the hell out of here. You can tell me your life story on the way.”

“Follow me, sir,” said Broussard.

“Just a minute, son,” said the Injun.

“Sir?”

“My name is Jimmy. That’s what people call me; that’s what I respond to. You say ‘sir’ and my first inclination is to turn around and see who’s standing behind me.” He paused. “If you get tired of Jimmy, you can call me Injun. I’ll answer to either.”

“Yes, sir,” said Broussard.

“Kid’s a real quick study,” muttered the Injun under his breath.

“He is to be your liaison, Jimmy. Don’t start by offending him.”

“He didn’t hear me.”

“I beg your pardon, sir… Jimmy?” said Broussard.

“Just talking to myself,” answered the Injun. “I do it all the time these days. Don’t pay me any attention.”

“As you wish, sir.” Broussard caught himself. “I’m sorry: As you wish, Jimmy.”

“Okay. Lead the way.”

The Injun followed Broussard through the small spaceport and out into the hot air of Hades, where a land vehicle was waiting for them.

“You’re supposed to sit in back,” said Broussard as the Injun opened the front door.

“I like it up front. Better view.”

“Please, sir—I’ll get in trouble if they see you riding up front.”

“Who’s the enemy, anyway?” muttered the Injun. “The embassy or the Blue Devils?”

“You know who the enemy is. There’s no point in making more.”

The Injun climbed into the back of the vehicle, and Broussard started driving through twisting streets that suddenly widened and narrowed for no discernable reason. The buildings bore no relation to each other, nor to any other structure the Injun had ever seen. No two looked remotely alike: some were tall, others were squat; some were round, some needle-shaped, some trapezoidal, some possessed so many sides and angles that he doubted there was a mathematical term in existence that could properly describe them.

The street itself was as strange as the buildings. It began as a gleaming, super-hardened ceramic near the spaceport, became a pothole-filled rubble in the midst of what seemed to be a commercial section, constantly changed grades and inclines, and moved from ceramic to dirt to gravel to plastic and back again for no reason that he could discern.

“How the hell do you find your way around this madhouse?”

“It takes getting used to,” answered Broussard, swerving to avoid a Blue Devil who was strolling aimlessly in the middle of the street. “I’ve been here almost two years, and I myself needed a guide for the first ten months or so. None of the buildings are numbered, and none of the streets are identified, not even in their native language.” He paused. “Most alien cities have a Human Quarter that makes some sense by our own standards, but we have such a marginal presence here on Hades that our embassy is right in the middle of their financial district. If I were you, I wouldn’t wander out alone until I was sure I could find my way back; once you’re out of sight of the embassy, you could get lost for weeks.”

“The city’s not big enough to get that lost in.”

“It’s not the size but the structure, sir,” said Broussard. “Many of these thoroughfares bear a striking resemblance to a mad city planner’s notion of a Möbius strip; they keep turning in upon themselves, and though you’re sure you’ve been walking in a direct line for a mile, you suddenly discover that you’re right back where you started.”

“Where’s the embassy from here?” asked the Injun, as they passed a building that seemed tall enough to act as a landmark.

“It’s no more than half a mile away, though I’ll have to cover about five more miles of these streets before we reach it.” Broussard grinned. “Actually, you could walk to it much faster than I can drive to it.” He paused. “You won’t find it too disconcerting once you become acclimated.”

“I’m not disconcerted.”

“That’s surprising,” said Broussard. “Most newcomers are.”

“You ever chew any seed, son?” asked the Injun.

“No, sir.”

“You ought to try it sometime. Then all the streets look like this one.” He leaned back and relaxed. “It’s like coming home.”

“You’re kidding me, right, sir?” said Broussard, a worried frown on his youthful face.

“Jimmy!”

“Right, Daniel.”

They rode in silence through fifty more right angles and obtuse angles and hairpin turns, and finally Broussard pulled into the driveway of the one building that seemed to make any sense.

“Here we are, sir,” he announced.

“Doors, windows, everything,” said the Injun, looking at the large embassy building. “I wonder how the Oracle likes where she’s living?”

“Subtlety, Jimmy. Remember: they don’t know why you’re here.”

“You ought to fire any of them who haven’t guessed yet,” replied the Injun.

“Fire who, sir?” asked Broussard, confused.

“Nothing,” replied the Injun. “Let’s go inside.” He waited until Broussard had entered the building, then muttered: “You keep talking to me and they’re going to change their minds and think I’m here for the Cure.”

He walked into a large, elegant, tiled foyer. The walls bore portraits of the last three Secretaries of the Democracy including the current holder of the office, plus an artistic rendering of the sprawling, planet-wide city that Deluros VIII had become.

Three uniformed men stood guard before a trio of doors, looking neither right nor left. Broussard escorted him to a large office where a black woman dressed in a severely-tailored outfit sat behind a polished chrome desk.

“Yes?” she said, not looking up at him.

“Lieutenant Jimmy Two Feathers, reporting for duty,” he said.

“We’ve been expecting you, Lieutenant,” she replied. “You are not on our duty roster, so you might wish to spend some time settling in and getting acquainted with the embassy and its staff.”

“Is there anyone I’m supposed to report to?”

She glanced at a computer screen. “No. You are to make your reports to your superiors by your own means. The embassy is to feed and house you and provide you with a guide, and otherwise leave you strictly alone.”

She dismissed him with a nod of her head, and Broussard led him out of the office and down a corridor to an airlift.

“Friendly sort, isn’t she?” remarked the Injun sardonically.

“She doesn’t have to be,” answered Broussard, as they floated gently up to the third level of the building. “She’s Commander Ngoma, the embassy’s Chief of Staff.” They stepped out into a corridor. “Your quarters are this way, sir,” said Broussard, heading off to his left. They passed four doors, then stopped before a fifth. “The computer lock is coded to your military ID number. Since I don’t know what it is, I can’t open the door for you.”

“How does the room get cleaned?” asked the Injun curiously.

“There’s a small household robot in each closet. Don’t let its appearance startle you—it looks like a cross between a tree stump and a large snake.”

“Thanks for warning me,” said the Injun. He approached the door and stared at the lock.

“293Y78Q1,” said the voice inside his ear.

He touched the appropriate numbers and letters, and the door receded into the paneling.

“Very nice,” he said, walking forward. The room was quite long, and very smartly furnished. To his right was a bed with a nightstand, to his left a sitting area with two cushioned chairs and a sofa, and straight ahead of him, facing a window that overlooked the carefully manicured grounds, was a desk with a small computer.

“This is the door to your closet,” said Broussard, “and this is the one to the bathroom. Each will slide away as you approach it, and the bathroom can be locked from within.”

“Very nice indeed,” repeated the Injun. “My most recent accommodation”—he smiled—“was somewhat more confining.”

“Any changes or additions to your standing orders will be stored in your computer,” continued Broussard. “It can be activated by your voiceprint and ID number.”

“Okay, I’m impressed,” said the Injun. “Now let’s get something to eat.”

“The commissary is in the basement, sir. I’ll be happy to escort you there.” He paused. “There’s every likelihood that your luggage will arrive before we’re through.”

The Injun shook his head. “Aren’t there any restaurants in the area?”

“Restaurants, sir?” repeated Broussard, surprised.

“Establishments where people who don’t want to eat at home go for dinner,” said the Injun sardonically. “Possibly you’ve heard of the concept?”

“I have, but the Blue Devils haven’t, sir. To them, eating is as private and personal a function as, well, going to the bathroom is to us.”

“You mean there’s not a restaurant in the entire city?” demanded the Injun.

“Actually, there are three, sir,” answered Broussard. “But they’re all in the grubbiest section of the city, a section where the Blue Devils rarely go, and they cater to all offworlders, not just humans. I don’t think you’d enjoy the experience very much, sir.”

“Choose one of the three and let’s go. The government will pay for it.”

“That might be unwise, sir,” said Broussard hesitantly. “We are not exactly the most popular race on the planet. There was an incident between a human and two Canphorites at one of the restaurants just last week…”

“I can’t get the feel of the city by sitting here in the embassy.”

“I’ll be happy to drive you around and give you a thorough tour, sir.”

“And I can’t get it from the inside of a vehicle,” continued the Injun. “You don’t have to come along if you don’t want to. Just tell me how to get to the nearest restaurant.”

“I won’t let you go alone, and I haven’t the authority to prevent you,” said Broussard with a sigh. “So I guess I’ll have to accompany you, sir.”

“Fine. Let’s go.”

They left the room, walked down the corridor, took the airlift back down to the foyer, and were soon outside in the incredibly hot air of Hades.

“Is it within walking distance?” asked the Injun. “I feel like getting a little exercise.”

“Well, yes and no, sir,” answered Broussard. “It’s probably no more than 400 yards away in a straight line. But we’ll have to walk for almost a mile to reach it.”

“A straight line could get mighty lonely on this planet,” replied the Injun. “Lead the way.”

“Let me suggest one last time that I drive you, sir. You’re not used to the heat, and it can sap your strength before you know it.”

“This is the best way I know to get used to it.”

They walked past a large, many-sided building that possessed neither windows nor, apparently, doors, then turned a corner and almost walked through the window of a crafts shop. Seventeen triangles of various woods and metals were on display, and the Injun queried Broussard about them.

“They’re not exactly religious symbols,” was the answer. “I mean, they can’t be equated with crosses. I suppose they’re more of an emblem, they way you might display a flag or wear a military insignia. As near as we can tell, each substance and color denotes a different ethnic group, though I really don’t know if the group represents a clan, a business, or even a military unit. But it’s the most common symbol on Hades.” Broussard looked up the street, which contained perhaps forty Blue Devils, some walking purposefully, some window-shopping, a few simply standing still for no discernable reason. “You’ll see that about half of them have the triangles, sir. Some wear them as pendants, some attach them to their clothing, some simply tie them around an arm or a leg.”

The Injun stared at the nearest of the Blue Devils, then shrugged and continued walking. A sickening odor wafted out to him and he peered into the interior of a building, where he saw the corpses of a number of small, six-legged animals hung on what appeared to be meat hooks.

“Slaughterhouse,” explained Broussard. “The Blue Devils like their meat on the high side.”

“Stupid place for a slaughterhouse. This looks like a retail area.”

“Not really, sir,” said Broussard. “They don’t cluster their businesses the way humans do. In fact, if there’s any order to the way the city was laid out, I’ve yet to figure it out.”

“Are there any businesses or shops around here that are run by humans?”

“No,” said Broussard. “The law doesn’t forbid us to own a business on Hades, but as I said, we’re not very popular here, and except for a medical center, no human enterprise has been able to obtain a license. The restaurants are owned by a Canphorite, a Lodinite, and a Mollutei.” He pointed to a spherical structure about one hundred yards away. “That’s the medical center over there.”

“It’s too small for a hospital,” noted the Injun.

“We have our own medical facilities at the embassy, of course, but this is for non-embassy personnel. There are currently less than one thousand Men on Hades; the center is more than capable of handling those problems that arise beyond the embassy compound.”

“You sound like you’ve been there.”

Broussard smiled. “Not as a patient, sir. But the young lady I’m seeing is a doctor there.”

“I hope my presence isn’t damaging your romance.”

“This is my job, sir. If I wasn’t with you, I’d be escorting someone else.”

“Good. I hate feeling guilty.”

They continued walking through the tortuously twisting streets, with Broussard pointing out an occasional landmark or point of interest to the Injun, and finally they arrived at the restaurant.

It was a small building, with an even smaller dining room. There were fifteen tables. Nine were empty, and the other six were occupied by a variety of beings, none of them human.

“As I told you, sir,” said Broussard, as they seated themselves at a table near the door, “very few humans leave their hotels to eat.”

“No problem,” answered the Injun. “I wanted to see the city.”

They turned to the small holographic menu that hovered above the table and ordered it to list its contents in Terran.

“I wouldn’t order the meat, sir,” advised Broussard. “It translates as beef, but Hades has no trade agreements with the Democracy, and actually it’s their local meat animal. Humans have some difficulty metabolizing it.”

“You’re not going to tell me that you’ve all become vegetarians?”

“No. The embassy imports all the food it needs from Port Samarkand—but these restaurants aren’t owned by humans, and they don’t especially cater to us, so I would consider their meat dishes suspect.”

“Well, I appreciate your concern, but I’ve eaten animals on two dozen worlds, and nothing’s ever upset my digestion yet.” He stared at the menu again for a moment, then requested the dish he wanted. As soon as it registered, the menu vanished.

“I think you’re making a mistake, sir,” said Broussard with a worried frown.

The Injun shrugged. “I’ll never know if I don’t try.”

“You’re being foolish, Jimmy.”

The Injun ignored the voice within his head and engaged Broussard in meaningless small talk, mostly about sports, until their meal arrived.

“Looks pretty awful,” said the Injun, staring down at the blue-green piece of meat on his plate.

“We can order something else if you’d like.”

“Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” muttered the Injun. He took a small mouthful and chewed it thoughtfully. “Tastes about the way it looks.”

Broussard turned to his own plate—a large salad—and the Injun took a few more small bites of his meat during the next few minutes, then announced that his experiment in alien cuisine was ended and that he would dine at the embassy for the duration of his stay on Hades.

“You can share some of my salad if you’re still hungry,” offered Broussard.

“No, thanks. That stuff killed my appetite.” The Injun shrugged. “When all is said and done, that’s just what a meal is supposed to do. I suppose I could get thin and healthy if I came here every night for a month.”

He waited for Broussard to finish, left his thumbprint and ID number with the tiny computer that had generated the menu, waited another minute until the embassy accepted the bill, and then the two of them left the restaurant.

He began complaining about the meal the instant they were outside, and kept it up until they were within thirty yards of the medical center. Then, suddenly, he clutched his stomach, doubled over as if in agony, and began moaning in pain.

Broussard decided that he was too ill to wait for an embassy car, and helped him into stagger to the medical center.

As he sat, moaning hideously, on the steps outside the building while Broussard raced off to find a doctor, he listened to 32’s scathing lecture on the stupidity of eating alien food and managed to fight back a grin of triumph. Then he closed his eyes and collapsed.

12

He felt them lift him onto a stretcher and carry him to an emergency room, then heard them leave in search of a doctor. He cracked open his right eye, looked around, and saw a very worried Broussard standing near him.

He sat up on the table, and as Broussard was about to say something, motioned him to silence. The young man stared at him curiously as he made writing motions in the air, finally nodded in comprehension, and handed him a pocket computer.

The Injun examined the voice-activated machine, then shook his head and made the same motions again. Broussard pulled a pen out of his pocket, found some paper on a nearby table, and handed both to the Injun.

DON’T SAY A WORD, wrote the Injun. AND LOCK THE DOOR.

Broussard read the message, frowned, and did as he was instructed.

NOW FIND SOME COTTON AND SOME ADHESIVE, AND TAPE MY LEFT EYE SHUT.

Broussard searched through a pair of drawers, came up with what was required, and taped the eye closed.

UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES ARE YOU TO SPEAK UNTIL I GIVE YOU PERMISSION. IS THAT UNDERSTOOD?

Broussard read the message and nodded, still frowning, then took the paper from the Injun and wrote: WHAT’S GOING ON? WHY CAN’T I SPEAK? WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOUR EYE?

I AM HERE ON A VERY SENSITIVE ASSIGNMENT, responded the Injun. I AM NOT AT LIBERTY TO TELL YOU THE DETAILS, BUT IT CONCERNS THE ORACLE.

A doctor began pounding on the locked door.

TELL HIM TO WAIT, wrote the Injun. MAKE UP ANY STORY THAT WILL WORK.

Broussard nodded, walked to the door, unlocked it, and stepped out into the hall. He returned a moment later.

ALL RIGHT, he wrote. NOW SUPPOSE YOU TELL ME WHAT’S GOING ON?

The Injun took the pen back. DURING MY ORIENTATION AND BRIEFING PERIOD, WHILE PREPARING FOR THIS ASSIGNMENT, I LOST A DAY SOMEWHERE. I WENT TO BED ONE NIGHT, AND WOKE UP IN MY HOTEL ROOM 32 HOURS LATER. BITS AND PIECES OF INFORMATION THAT I’VE BEEN ABLE TO PIECE TOGETHER LEAD ME TO BELIEVE THAT I HAVE BEEN TAMPERED WITH.

IN WHAT WAY? asked Broussard.

I SUSPECT THAT I HAVE HAD A CAMERA AND AN AUDIO TRANSMITTER IMPLANTED INSIDE MY HEAD.

WHY DIDN’T YOU REPORT THIS TO YOUR SUPERIORS AT THE TIME?

BECAUSE I DON’T KNOW WHICH OF THEM IS IN THE EMPLOY OF THE ORACLE. IF I TOLD THE WRONG ONE, I WOULD HAVE BEEN TERMINATED INSTANTLY. I MADE UP MY MIND NOT TO DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT UNTIL I REACHED HADES.

Broussard stared at him for a long moment. WHAT IF YOU’RE WRONG?

IF I’M WRONG, YOU’VE BEEN INCONVENIENCED FOR TEN MINUTES AND I’VE MADE A FOOL OF MYSELF, BUT NO HARM HAS BEEN DONE AND NO FALSE ACCUSATIONS HAVE BEEN MADE. BUT IF I’M RIGHT, THEN OUR COVERT OPERATIONS BRANCH HAS A TRAITOR IN ITS MIDST.

WHY WOULD THEY RIG YOU WITH A CAMERA AND AN AUDIO RECEIVER? asked Broussard.

The Injun shrugged. ANY NUMBER OF REASONS. THE ORACLE COULD BE TESTING HER SECURITY, SHE COULD BE CREATING A FILE ON ALL THE HUMANS ON HADES, SHE COULD MERELY BE HOPING THAT I’LL HAVE ACCESS TO SECRET INFORMATION.

SO WHAT DO WE DO NOW? asked Broussard.

NOW WE GET SOMEONE YOU CAN TRUST—MAYBE YOUR LADY FRIEND WHO WORKS HERE—AND WE REMOVE WHATEVER’S BEEN IMPLANTED WHILE WHOEVER’S AT THE OTHER END STILL THINKS I’M BEING TREATED FOR A BELLYACHE.

Broussard looked thoughtful. SHE’S NOT THE DOCTOR I JUST SPOKE TO, BUT I KNOW SHE’S ON DUTY. He paused. BUT I’D HAVE TO TELL HER WHAT’S GOING ON.

CAN YOU TRUST HER TO KEEP QUIET?

Broussard nodded.

OK—GET HER. AND TELL HER SHE’S GOT TO WORK FAST. IT CAN’T TAKE THAT LONG TO PUMP OUT A STOMACH FULL OF BAD FOOD.

Broussard smiled and took the pen back. I’LL HAVE HER MAKE A COUPLE OF STATEMENTS ABOUT SEDATING YOU. THAT SHOULD BUY US A GOOD EIGHT TO TEN HOURS.

The young man turned to leave, but the Injun grabbed him by the arm.

ONE LAST THING, he wrote. I’M ASSUMING A CAMERA AND A RECEIVER, BUT THERE COULD BE MORE THINGS IN THERE. TELL HER TO REMOVE ANYTHING SHE FINDS.

Broussard nodded again, then walked to the door and left the emergency room. He was back some ten minutes later with a pretty but grim-faced young woman in tow. She immediately took a pen out of her pocket and wrote a message on a notepad.

I AM DOCTOR JILL HUXLEY. DANIEL HAS EXPLAINED YOUR SITUATION TO ME, AND HAS VOUCHED FOR YOUR CREDENTIALS.

THEN LET’S GET ON WITH IT, wrote the Injun.

“You’ve been a very foolish man, Mr. Two Feathers,” she said aloud. “Daniel warned you against eating alien food.”

He managed a groan.

“It’s nothing life-threatening,” she continued while writing on her notepad. “And I’ve got a couple of patients who are in immediate need of my services. I’m going to sedate you now, and I’ll get around to emptying your stomach as soon as I get a chance.”

She tore off a sheet and handed it to him.

I WILL HAVE TO MOVE YOU TO AN OPERATING THEATER, it read. AND SINCE THIS IS TO BE DONE IN ABSOLUTE SECRECY, I WILL HAVE TO ASK DANIEL TO ASSIST ME.

Broussard read the message over her shoulder and suddenly looked somewhat ill.

HOW LONG WILL IT TAKE? asked the Injun.

IF YOU HAVE BEEN TAMPERED WITH, IT WILL TAKE ME ABOUT AN HOUR TO RUN A SCAN ON YOUR HEAD AND HAVE THE COMPUTER CONSTRUCT A HOLOGRAPHIC ANALOG. THE ACTUAL SURGERY WILL LAST ANYWHERE FROM ONE TO FOUR HOURS, DEPENDING ON HOW DEEPLY IMBEDDED THE DEVICES ARE. IF YOU’RE READY, NOD YOUR HEAD AND I’LL SEND FOR SOME ATTENDANTS TO MOVE YOU.

The Injun nodded, then lay back and waited.

Two husky young men arrived a moment later, transferred him to an operating room, and then departed. Broussard had remained with him, and Jill Huxley arrived almost ten minutes later.

WHAT WAS THE DELAY? asked the Injun.

She held up a pair of treated contact lenses, then placed them in a pocket.

IF YOU’VE GOT A CAMERA IN THERE, IT WON’T STOP FUNCTIONING JUST BECAUSE YOU’RE UNCONSCIOUS. I REALIZE THAT YOUR EYES WILL BE CLOSED INITIALLY, BUT IF I HAVE TO REMOVE THE CAMERA, IT WILL RECORD WHAT IS HAPPENING ONCE I OPEN THE EYE THAT CONTAINS IT. ONCE I DETERMINE THAT A CAMERA INDEED EXISTS, I’LL INSERT THE LENSES IN MY EYES, DARKEN THE ROOM, AND OPERATE IN INFRARED LIGHT ONLY.

GOOD THINKING, wrote the Injun. I NEVER CONSIDERED THAT.

THERE’S NO NEED TO ANESTHETIZE YOU UNTIL WE DETERMINE THAT SURGERY IS INDICATED, she continued. THE SCANNING PROCESS ITSELF IS QUITE PAINLESS.

He nodded his agreement, and a moment later she had wheeled him under a large device that looked like a cross between a punch press and an oversized camera.

IT IS ESSENTIAL THAT YOU HOLD STILL FOR THE NEXT TWENTY SECONDS, she wrote.

He made no reply, but simply handed the notepad back to her and stared up at the machine. It began whirring softly, and deep within its lens a small reddish light glowed faintly. He felt neither discomfort nor pain, and finally the whirring stopped, the light went out, and Broussard wheeled him away.

Jill Huxley gestured him to join her at a bank of computers along the far wall. One by one each screen came to life, displaying readouts that were totally meaningless to him, but finally one of them produced a three-dimensional rendering of his head, with three blinking yellow dots—one in his left eye, one deep inside his right ear, and one at the base of his skull.

HAVE YOU ANY IDEA WHAT THIS ONE MIGHT BE? she asked, pointing to the third dot.

He shrugged. WHATEVER IT IS, IT DOESN’T BELONG THERE. TAKE IT OUT.

She ignored him for the next half hour, creating cross-sections of his head on her various machines, checking and cross-checking the best routes to reach the artificial implants.

Finally she picked up the notepad and began writing again.

I CAN REMOVE TWO OF THE DEVICES, BUT THERE MAY BE A PROBLEM WITH THE ONE IN YOUR EYE. IT’S TIED INTO THE OPTIC NERVES SO INTRICATELY THAT I MIGHT CAUSE IRREPARABLE DAMAGE IF I REMOVED IT.

REMOVE IT AND GIVE ME A PROSTHETIC EYE, he answered.

She shook her head. ONCE THE OPTIC NERVES ARE DAMAGED, IT REQUIRES A SPECIALIST TO IMPLANT A FUNCTIONING PROSTHETIC EYE, AND PROSTHESES ARE NOT MY FIELD. She paused and stared at him, then wrote: YOU HAVE A DECISION TO MAKE, MR. TWO FEATHERS. I CAN LEAVE THE CAMERA IN, OR YOU CAN AWAKEN WITH VISION IN ONLY YOUR RIGHT EYE. THERE’S NO THIRD OPTION.

The Injun lowered his head in thought. He didn’t especially give a damn whether 32 could see what he was doing or not; his prime concern was to get rid of the explosive device, and secondarily to find a way to silence the voice within his head. But he had sold these two a story, and his answer would have to comply with it if he wanted to retain his vision.

Finally he bent over the notepad and began writing.

YOU’D BETTER LEAVE IT IN. THERE’S NO WAY I CAN REPLACE THE EYE ON HADES, AND MY MISSION MAY PLACE ME IN HAZARDOUS SITUATIONS WHERE DEPTH PERCEPTION IS ESSENTIAL. WHOEVER IMPLANTED IT HAS ALREADY SEEN DANIEL’S FACE, AND KNOWS WHAT MY QUARTERS LOOK LIKE. IF I MAKE SURE THAT I SPEND A MINIMAL AMOUNT OF TIME AT THE EMBASSY, I PROBABLY WON’T BE REVEALING ANYTHING THAT THE TRAITOR DOESN’T ALREADY KNOW.

BUT YOU WILL STILL BE TRANSMITTING EVERYTHING YOU SEE TO THE ORACLE, wrote Jill. WON’T THAT TOTALLY NEUTRALIZE YOU?

I’LL WEAR AN EYEPATCH, he wrote, smiling as the thought came to him. I’LL REMOVE IT ONLY IF AND WHEN I REQUIRE THE USE OF BOTH EYES.

ALL RIGHT, she replied. PERHAPS IT’S JUST AS WELL; I WAS UNCOMFORTABLE ABOUT OPERATING IN INFRARED LIGHT. I’LL PREPARE THE ANESTHETIC.

ONE MORE THING, he wrote, grabbing the notepad back from her. IT OCCURS TO ME THAT THE DEVICE AT THE BASE OF MY SKULL MAY HAVE BEEN PLACED THERE AS A MEANS OF CONTROLLING OR DESTROYING ME IF I GET TOO CLOSE TO THE ORACLE. HAVE YOU ANYTHING THAT CAN ANALYZE IT?

I DOUBT IT.

THEN TO BE ON THE SAFE SIDE, GET RID OF IT AS QUICKLY AS POSSIBLE.

SHOULD I GET RID OF THE RECEIVER, TOO? she asked.

NO, he replied. IT’S HARMLESS ONCE IT’S BEEN REMOVED, AND IT MIGHT TELL ME SOMETHING ABOUT THE NATURE—AND EVEN THE IDENTITY—OF THE ENEMY. SAVE IT FOR ME.

She nodded. REMOVE YOUR TUNIC, AND THEN LAY BACK ON THE TABLE. I’M GOING TO INJECT YOU WITH AN ANESTHETIC, WHICH WILL WORK ALMOST INSTANTANEOUSLY.

ONE LAST THING. THAT ALIEN MEAT REALLY IS MAKING ME SICK. CAN YOU PUMP MY STOMACH OUT WHILE I’M UNCONSCIOUS?

YES, she wrote. THAT’S PRETTY TERRIBLE STUFF. I’M SURPRISED YOU’RE NOT IN EVEN MORE DISCOMFORT.

He removed his tunic, tossed it to Broussard, who was standing around looking both uncomfortable and useless, and then he lay down on the table.

Suddenly he sat up and gestured for the notepad again.

DON’T SPEAK ONCE YOU’VE REMOVED THE AUDIO TRANSMITTER. THERE’S EVERY POSSIBILITY THAT IT WILL STILL BE FUNCTIONAL.

I’M WELL AWARE OF THAT, she replied.

Then, aloud, she said, “Well, as long as he’s sedated, there’s no sense bringing him out of it. Let’s go to work, and when he wakes up with the granddaddy of all stomach aches, maybe it’ll encourage him to be a little more intelligent about his choice of food next time he visits an alien restaurant.”

“Sounds good to me, Doctor,” replied Broussard, disguising his voice.

Then she leaned over and injected something into the Injun’s left arm, and he tried mentally counting backward from one hundred.

He was unconscious before he hit 98.

13

A voice disturbed the darkness that enveloped him.

“How do you feel?”

The Injun moaned and tried to turn away, then winced as his right ear touched his pillow.

“Wake up, Lieutenant Two Feathers.”

“Go away.”

“The surgery’s over, Lieutenant,” said Broussard. “It’s time to get up now.”

“What time is it?”

“Almost morning.”

“All right. Give me a minute to clear my head.” He lay motionless, trying to remember all the events of the previous evening until they finally came into focus. “How did it go?”

“About as anticipated,” answered Broussard. “She removed the transmitter and the explosive, and left the camera in.” He paused. “She woke you and checked you out briefly right afterward, then had me move you here for a few more hours.”

The Injun sat up abruptly, then moaned and held his head.

“No sudden movements for another day,” said Broussard, who was sitting in a chair by the foot of the bed.

“Jesus! It feels like someone’s inside my head, hammering to get out.”

“Jill said you’d have quite a headache when you woke up.”

“Was the thing at the base of my skull a bomb?” asked the Injun.

“Yes.”

“Where is it?”

“We dissolved it in acid.”

“Can you dissolve a bomb in acid?” asked the Injun dubiously.

“You can when it’s an organic device, like a plasma bomb,” answered Broussard. “The trick was getting it out without triggering it.” He smiled. “That’s why you’ve got a headache.”

“What about the transmitter?”

“It’s in the next room,” said Broussard. “I didn’t think you’d want it around until we had talked. I can destroy it if you like.”

“Not yet,” said the Injun. He paused. “Am I on any medication?”

“She loaded you up with antibiotics and glucose before she brought you in here, and you’ll be on pain medication for a couple of days.”

“Things look different,” said the Injun, frowning.

“I took the liberty of putting an eyepatch on you,” answered Broussard. “You can remove it whenever you want, but until I knew what you planned to do, it seemed best not to let the person at the other end of the camera know that you were awake and in a hospital room.”

“Good thinking,” said the Injun approvingly.

“Do you think you’re up to some breakfast?”

“Yeah, I could do with some in a few minutes,” answered the Injun. “Except for four or five bites of that alien meat, I haven’t had anything to eat since I arrived at the embassy yesterday afternoon.”

“Speaking of the embassy, I’m going to have to report in to them in the next few minutes, before they start sending out search parties.” Broussard paused. “I called them right after we wheeled you out of surgery and gave them some cock-and-bull story about your having a liaison with a girl you had met—but they’re going to start getting nervous before long.”

“How soon can I get on my feet?”

“Whenever you want.”

“Okay,” said the Injun. “Give me another hour and then take me back to the embassy.”

“I don’t think you can walk that far in your current condition, sir,” said Broussard. “Perhaps I’d better get the landcar and come back for you.”

The Injun nodded, then winced as a bolt of pain shot through his skull.

“Damn!” he said. “How long is this going to keep up?”

“What, sir?”

“Every time I move my head it feels like someone’s hitting it with a blunt instrument.”

“I really couldn’t say, sir. I only know that Jill said there would be some discomfort for a day or two.”

“Discomfort to a doctor is the torture of the damned to his patients. Get me the pain killer.”

Broussard reached into his pocket and withdrew a small inhaler. “Take one breath of this every four hours.”

The Injun grabbed it from him, inserted it into a nostril, and took two deep sniffs. “I haven’t got time for a slow recovery.”

“Is there anything else I can do for you before I leave for the landcar, sir?”

“Two things. First, where are my clothes?”

Broussard walked to a closet and ordered the door to open. “Right here, sir. And the second thing?”

“Bring me the transmitter—and don’t make a sound while you’re doing it. Then get the vehicle and pick me up in an hour.”

Broussard left the room and returned a moment later with an incredibly-miniaturized device, which rested on a soft sponge. He handed it to the Injun, saluted, and left the room.

The Injun waited until the door slid shut, then inserted the device up to his left ear.

“Good morning, you son of a bitch,” he said.

“How’s your stomach feeling today, Jimmy?” asked 32, his voice sounding distant and tinny.

“Never better.”

“I trust you’ve learned your lesson.”

“You wouldn’t believe all the things I’ve learned,” said the Injun.

There was a long silence.

“Aren’t you going to ask?” said the Injun at last.

“Ask what?” replied 32.

“Why you can’t see anything?”

“I assume you’ve got your eyes closed.”

“One of ‘em, anyway.”

“This is a very juvenile display of petulance, Jimmy,” said 32. “I’m here to help you, and I can’t do that if I can’t see what you’re seeing.”

“Actually, I’m here to help you,” replied the Injun. “And I think the first thing I’m going to help you do is renegotiate my contract.”

“What are you getting at, Jimmy?”

“We’re about to change the ground rules,” said the Injun. “How badly do you want the Oracle?”

“Very badly. You know that.”

“How much are you willing to pay?”

“We’ve already got a deal, Jimmy,” said 32. “Your freedom in exchange for the Oracle.”

“My freedom was just the down payment,” said the Injun, leaning back carefully against a pillow and wincing again. “Now we’re going to start talking money.”

“Forget it, Jimmy. I’m not going to let you or anyone else take advantage of the Democracy.”

“Who’s taking advantage?” said the Injun. “I want an honest day’s pay for an honest day’s work.”

“You’ve never done an honest day’s work in your life,” answered 32. “We have an agreement, and you’re going to stick to it.”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“Let me remind you that I possess the ability to terminate our agreement rather forcefully whenever I choose.”

“You’re welcome to try.”

“Why are you talking like this?” demanded 32. “What’s come over you, Jimmy?”

“Nothing’s come over me,” answered the Injun. “But a lot has come out of me. Want to see?”

He withdrew the transmitter, then faced a wall so that 32 couldn’t pinpoint his location from the view out the window, removed his eyepatch with his free hand, and stared at the tiny object.

“Look familiar?” he asked.

There was no response, and he realized that even if 32 was speaking, he couldn’t hear it until he re-inserted the transmitter into his ear. He covered his eye once again and then carefully put the transmitter back in place. 32 was just coming to the end of a long string of obscenities.

“I’d show you the bomb, too, but it’s already been destroyed.” The Injun grinned again. “Are you ready to talk price?”

“That’s extortion, and I don’t deal with extortionists.”

“No, you just wire them for sight, sound, and extermination.”

“You go after the Oracle on our original terms or you’re a dead man, Jimmy.”

“I can’t tell you how frightened that makes me feel.”

“I’m not kidding, Jimmy. You may be able to hide for an hour or a day or possibly even a week, but I promise you’ll never get off that planet.”

“Maybe I don’t want to.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The reason we’re going to negotiate a price, no matter how loudly you protest,” said the Injun, “is because you’re not the only game in town.”

“Who else is there?”

“I figure there are at least two other players,” answered the Injun. “First of all, there’s the guy who’s coming to take her out.”

“You don’t even know who he is.”

“You’ve already told me the name he uses, and if he makes it here, he won’t be that hard to spot.” He paused. “Once he learns that the Democracy wants him dead, I figure he ought to be more than happy to pay me to learn the identity of the man who double-crossed him.”

“Who’s the other party?”

“I would have thought that would be obvious,” replied the Injun. “There’s the Oracle.”

“You’d sell your own race out? I don’t believe it!”

“I’ve got nothing against her,” answered the Injun. “She’s never done me any harm—which is more than I can say for some members of my own race.”

“This is more than extortion!” snapped 32 furiously. “It’s treason!”

“No,” said the Injun. “It’s business.” He paused. “Now, I can transact it with you, or I can transact it with someone else. That’s the only decision you’ve got to make—and you’ve got exactly five minutes in which to make it. If we reach an agreement in that time, I’ll return to the embassy and go to work for you. If not, I guarantee you won’t find me before I find the Whistler and the Oracle.”

32 made no reply, and the Injun started counting down the seconds in his mind.

“Four minutes,” he announced.

Still there was no reply.

“Three minutes.”

“How much do you want?” asked 32 in strained tones.

“I’m a reasonable man,” said the Injun. “You keep telling me that the Oracle is probably the greatest potential threat the Democracy has ever faced. I don’t think ten million credits is out of line.”

“Ten million? You’re crazy!”

“Come on,” said the Injun easily. “You spend billions of credits waging wars against races that are no threat to you at all. I would think you’d jump at the chance to be rid of the Oracle for only ten million.”

There was a lengthy pause.

“Payable upon completion of the job?”

The Injun laughed aloud. “I’ve lost my faith in the Democracy. I want half down, and the other half where I can get it when the job’s done.”

“Give me a bank and an account number, and I’ll have five million credits transferred there by tomorrow morning.”

“I’m not that dumb even when I’m on the seed,” said the Injun. “It’ll go through so many middlemen that you’ll lose track of it before it’s halfway to its destination—and I don’t go to work until it’s where I want it to be.” He gave 32 the first step of the money route.

“What assurances do I have that you’ll go through with it once the money’s in place?”

“None,” answered the Injun. “Consider it an act of faith.” He paused. “Have we got a deal?”

There was a short pause. “I’ll have to think it over.”

“Think fast. You’ve got less than a minute left.”

“Will you reinsert the transmitter so that I can monitor your progress?”

“Not a chance. I work alone.”

Another pause.

“All right. It’s a deal.”

But, thought the Injun with a grin as he tossed the transmitter into an atomizer and began getting dressed, we didn’t shake on it.

14

The Injun lay back on his bed, staring at various two- and three-dimensional prints on the beige walls and wishing that the embassy had hired a bolder decorator. When the throbbing in his right ear and at the base of his skull finally began to subside, he decided to begin working.

“Computer, activate,” he ordered.

The computer on his desk hummed to life.

“Computer, do you know who I am?”

“You are Lieutenant James Two Feathers.”

“Do you know the nature of my assignment on Hades?”

“No, I do not.”

“Is anyone currently monitoring my room?”

“No.”

“Is anyone currently monitoring my conversation with you?” he continued.

“No.”

“Have I the authority to keep it that way?”

“I do not understand, Lieutenant Two Feathers,” answered the computer. “You must word your questions more precisely.”

“Is there a way that I can prevent anyone from monitoring this room?”

“No.”

“Can you warn me if and when the room is being monitored?”

“Yes.”

“I order you to do so.”

“Order received and enacted.”

“Good.” The Injun paused, trying to formulate his request properly. “I don’t want anyone to know what information I am about to request of you. Is there a way to make this and all future conversations between you and me private, so that no one else can access them?”

“Yes.”

“How do I go about it?”

“You must instruct me to seal your work under a Priority Restriction.”

“Please seal all my work under a Priority Restriction.”

“Order received and enacted.”

“All right,” said the Injun. “Now let’s get to work.” He paused as another surge of pain shot through his inner ear, then continued speaking after it had passed. “I have two missions on Hades. One is to assassinate the human woman known as the Oracle. The other is to prevent a man who is somewhere within the Alpha Crepello system from reaching her before I do. If I make contact with him, there is a possibility that I may have to kill him. Will your programming allow you to help me?”

“Yes,” replied the computer. “Helping you accomplish your mission will not set up any ethical conflicts within me.”

“Good. Do you have any information in your memory banks concerning a mercenary or bounty hunter who uses the professional name of the Whistler?”

“No.”

“He comes from the Inner Frontier. Can you access a computer that may have some information about him?”

“Possibly.”

Silence.

“Well?” demanded the Injun.

“You made no request, Lieutenant Two Feathers.”

“Try to access a computer that can supply you with data about the Whistler, and if you are successful, transmit that information to me.”

“Working…” There was a three-minute silence, during which time the Injun lay absolutely still and hoped the pain within his head would diminish. It had just begun to subside slightly when the computer spoke again. “The man known as the Whistler is actually Jeremiah Joshua Chandler. He is 38 years old. He is six feet two inches tall, weighs 178 pounds, and has auburn hair and blue eyes. He has no distinguishing scars or birthmarks. His home planet is Boyson III, which is known locally as The Frenchman’s World. He is a bounty hunter who has made 27 reported kills, and has brought in eleven living fugitives. It is assumed that he has made even more unreported kills, but the number cannot be ascertained.”

“Impressive,” said the Injun. “Can you supply me with a photograph or holograph of him?”

“Yes.”

The Injun waited for a few seconds, then grimaced. “Please do so.”

Instantly a holograph of Chandler, taken from his passport, flashed on the small screen.

“I’m too far away to see it,” said the Injun. “Make it larger.”

Suddenly an image of Chandler’s holograph, some four feet on a side, popped into existence just above the desk. The Injun studied the pale blue eyes, the high cheekbones, the humorless expression, trying without success to get some feel of the man from his image.

“Do you know if he’s landed on Hades yet?”

“No.”

“No, he hasn’t landed?”

“No, I do not know.”

“Don’t all humans have to report to the embassy?”

“Yes,” answered the computer. “But my understanding is that residents of the Inner Frontier do not recognize the authority of the Democracy. Therefore, it is possible that he has landed without reporting his presence to the embassy.”

“Can you check it out with spaceport security?”

“No. I am denied access to the spaceport computer.”

“I see,” said the Injun. He paused, still trying to order his thoughts. “His assignment is to kidnap the human woman known as the Oracle. What, in your opinion, is his most likely course of action?”

“He will come to Hades, gain access to her, and forcibly remove her from the planet.”

The Injun grimaced again. “Let’s take this one step at a time. If he wanted to come to Hades and keep his presence unknown, how would he do so?”

“He would not report his presence to the embassy.”

“That would just keep his presence unknown to you. How would he keep it unknown to the Blue Devils?”

“He has two options,” answered the computer. “Either he will have to keep his arrival secret from the spaceport security system, or he will have to disguise his identity.”

“How many humans have managed to avoid spaceport security?”

“I have insufficient data to answer that question.”

“How many are you aware of?”

“None.”

“Then let’s assume it can’t be done, and that he’ll be disguised,” said the Injun. “What type of disguise is least likely to be penetrated by spaceport security?”

“I have insufficient data to answer that question.”

“You mean nobody’s ever done it?”

“If it has been done successfully, by its very nature I am not aware of it,” answered the computer.

The Injun paused while he digested the information, then spoke again. “Hypothesize that he’ll accomplish it. Where will he go next?”

“I have insufficient data to answer that question.”

“You are a goddamned pain in the ass!” snapped the Injun. “All right, let me restate it: if a human doesn’t stay at the embassy, where is he most likely to stay?”

“There are four hotels that accept humans,” answered the computer. “None of their names can be pronounced or spelled in Terran. They are code-named Blue House, Red House, White House, and Green House by members of the embassy staff.”

“They don’t cater exclusively to humans, I take it?”

“That is correct.”

“Now hypothesize that he’ll stay in one of the hotels. Let’s assume Blue House. His next step will be to determine where to find the Oracle. How will he go about this?”

“First, he will use the vidphone directory. Then he will ask at the embassy. Then…”

“Stop!” commanded the Injun.

The computer was instantly silent.

“He doesn’t want his presence known, remember? Asking the embassy is like waving a flag.”

“I do not understand the reference.”

“Look,” said the Injun irritably, “there are certain facts that you must take into consideration for this hypothesis. First, the Whistler is here illegally, and if his presence is discovered, he will either be imprisoned or deported, or possibly even executed. Second, he may already be aware of the fact that the Democracy does not want him to succeed in his mission, and has ordered his death. Third, the Oracle is under the protection of the Blue Devils, and they will almost certainly be suspicious of anyone who asks questions about her. Now, taking his need for absolute secrecy into account, how do you think he will go about locating her?”

“I have insufficient data to respond to that question.”

“Why?” exploded the Injun, sitting up in frustration and groaning at the sudden sharp pain inside his head.

“While I have the ability to shield certain files against scrutiny, I myself have not been programmed to initiate covert activities.”

“I’m just asking you to hypothesize, damn it!”

“I am incapable of attempting this hypothesis.”

The Injun lay back on the bed, propped his head up against a pillow, closed his eyes, and waited for the pain to pass.

“You’re driving me crazy!” he muttered at last.

The machine made no response.

“Okay,” said the Injun as the pain subsided again. “Let’s skip the Whistler for awhile and concentrate on the Oracle. What information do you have on her?”

“The Oracle is known to exist.”

There was a long pause.

“That’s it?” said the Injun unbelievingly, as his whole body tensed in frustration and the pain returned.

“That is my only verifiable information. Everything else in my data banks is supposition or hypothesis.”

“Give it to me anyway.”

“The Oracle is believed to be Penelope Bailey, age 22. The Oracle is believed to be in the company of an alien being known as the Mock Turtle. The Oracle is believed to be a political renegade, and an enemy of the Democracy. The Oracle is believed to possess the power of precognition; if the supposition that she is Penelope Bailey is true, then the Oracle is known to possess the power of precognition. The Oracle is believed to have resided on Alpha Crepello III for between twelve and fourteen years. The Oracle is not believed to be a member of the government of Alpha Crepello III, but is believed to have considerable influence over its decisions.”

The Injun waited to make sure the computer was through, then spoke again:

“Does the Oracle reside in Quichancha?”

“I have insufficient data to answer that question.”

The Injun paused for a moment, considering his next question. “Does the Oracle ever grant audiences to humans?”

“No.”

“Does the Oracle ever grant audiences to members of alien races, other than the Blue Devils?”

“I have insufficient data to answer that question.”

“That means you don’t know of any such audiences?”

“That is correct.”

“Has the Oracle left Hades at any time during the past twelve years?”

“I have insufficient data to answer that question.”

“All right,” said the Injun. “Let’s assume that she came here twelve or thirteen years ago, and hasn’t seen a member of any race except the Blue Devils since then. Do you possess any information to the contrary?”

“That is correct.”

“Are there any spaceports on Hades other than the one in Quichancha?”

“No.”

The Injun analyzed all the information he had been given, and suddenly smiled. “Then I know how I’m going to find her. I wonder if the Whistler is smart enough to figure it out.”

The machine made no reply.

“Are you denied all access to the spaceport computer, or just to its security functions?”

“I am denied access to all aspects of spaceport security.”

“What about shipping and receiving?”

“I do not understand the question.”

“Can you access cargo manifests from the spaceport’s shipping docks?”

“Yes, provided the manifests do not include items associated with planetary security.”

“This is almost too simple,” said the Injun. “What this embassy needs is more killers and less bureaucrats.” He smiled again. “Computer, access the manifests of all goods received in the past two weeks.”

“Working … accessed, with the stated exceptions.”

“Good. Now go through them and access a list of all human foodstuffs that have been imported from Hades’ moons.”

“Working … accessed.”

“Now eliminate all those items that were ordered by the embassy or the four hotels that cater to humans.”

“Working … eliminated.”

“Now eliminate all those items that were ordered by the three restaurants in Quichancha.”

“Working … eliminated.”

“How many items remain?” asked the Injun.

“Four.”

“Were all four items in the same shipment?”

“No. They were in two shipments, spaced ten days apart.”

“To whom were they consigned?”

“To Vrief Domo,” answered the computer.

“Who or what is Vrief Domo?”

“A native of Alpha Crepello III.”

“A Blue Devil?”

“That is correct.”

“I knew she couldn’t make a steady diet of that goddamned native meat!” exclaimed the Injun triumphantly. “Computer, can you show me what Vrief Domo looks like?”

“Yes.”

Silence.

“Then do so, damn it!” said the Injun.

A holograph of a Blue Devil replaced that of Chandler.

“Shit!” muttered the Injun. “They all look alike to me.” He paused. “What data do you possess on him?”

“Vrief Domo is employed by the government of Alpha Crepello III.”

“The planetary government, not the government of Quichancha?” interrupted the Injun.

“That is correct.”

“What are his duties?”

“Unknown.”

“Where is his place of business?”

“The House of Rule.”

“The House of Rule?” repeated the Injun, frowning. “What’s that?”

“The House of Rule is the complex of buildings from which Alpha Crepello III is governed.”

The Injun considered this, then shook his head. “It’s got to be crawling with security.” He paused. “You must know something else about him. Give me everything you have.”

“Once every ten days Vrief Domo accepts a shipment of human foodstuffs at the Quichancha spaceport. That is the only information I possess about him.”

“Where does he take it?”

“Working…” There was a lengthy silence. “Unknown.”

“Do you know where he lives?”

“No.”

“Can you find out where he lives?”

“Working … yes.”

“Is his residence in Quichancha?”

“Yes.”

“What’s the address?”

“Quichancha has no addresses in human terms.”

“Can you pinpoint his residence on a map of the city?”

“Yes.”

The Injun waited patiently.

“Then do so, goddammit!”

The holograph of Vrief Domo was replaced by a three-dimensional grid of the city, with a tiny flashing dot pinpointing the Blue Devil’s living quarters.

“I want a hard copy of this.”

“Working … done.”

“And I also want a hard copy of Vrief Domo’s holograph. A two-dimensional representation is acceptable.”

“Working … done.”

“Where are they?” asked the Injun.

“My printer is in the large right-hand drawer of your desk. You will find the hard copies there.”

“How far is the embassy from Vrief Domo’s quarters?”

“Approximately 1,173 meters.”

“Approximately?”

“1,173.239 meters, to be exact.”

“Is that in a straight line, or following the streets?”

“A straight line.”

“How far is it via the streets?”

“The shortest route is approximately 4.2 kilometers.”

“Very good, computer. Make sure no one can access what we’ve just discussed.”

“You have already placed all your interactions with me under a Priority Restriction.”

“I was just reminding you.”

“I am incapable of forgetting.”

“Fine. Deactivate.”

The computer went dead, and the Injun got to his feet and walked over to the desk. He opened the right-hand drawer and pulled out his two hard copies. He carefully folded the map and put it into a pocket of his tunic, then held up the picture of Vrief Domo, his first tangible link to the Oracle.

“Gotcha, you son of a bitch!” he said.

If his head hadn’t begun throbbing again, he might even have felt sorry for the Blue Devil.

15

The Injun waited for two days.

By that time the pain had subsided, and he had made discreet inquiries to make sure that his five million credits was in the pipeline. 32 was still tracing it, of course, but the Injun was confident that it would become more and more difficult with every transaction until it was finally impossible.

He had the computer match the handful of incoming humans against the embassy’s list of anticipated arrivals, and wasn’t surprised when they checked out. If the Whistler was half as good as he was supposed to be, it was going to take more than an embassy computer to find him.

Finally, when he felt well enough, he summoned Broussard to his quarters.

“How are you today, sir?” asked the young man, entering the room a moment later.

“Much better.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“Really?” asked the Injun with a smile. “If I were you, I’d be heartbroken to hear it. I’m about to cut into your time with your doctor.”

“This is my job, sir.”

“Well, it’s time for me to get to work on my job. Pull up a chair.”

Broussard walked to a corner of the room, picked up a chair, and carried it over to the bed.

“Now sit down and get comfortable,” said the Injun.

Broussard sat on the chair and grinned wryly. “Well, the sitting part is easy, sir.”

“Who the hell furnished this place? You wouldn’t think something this dull would also be uncomfortable.”

“I’ve often wondered that myself, sir,” admitted Broussard.

The Indian looked amused, and then his face became serious. “So much for small talk. We’ve got more important things to discuss.”

“The Oracle?” suggested Broussard.

“Yes.”

“Before we speak further, perhaps we should go to a secure room.”

“Not necessary,” said the Injun. “I ordered the computer to let me know the instant anyone attempts to monitor us.” He tossed the map to Broussard. “Take a look at this and see if it makes any sense to you.”

Broussard studied the map carefully for a moment, then looked up.

“I take it that you want to reach the location that’s been highlighted?”

“Right.”

“On foot or by vehicle?”

“I’m not sure yet,” said the Injun.

“By day or at night?”

“It makes no difference.”

“Yes it does, sir.”

“Oh? Why?”

“Because the current temperature is 57 degrees Celsius, and there’s no way you can walk there and back without dehydrating and probably suffering heat stroke,” answered Broussard. “You may be feeling better, but it’s still only been two days since you underwent major surgery.”

“What will the temperature be tonight?” asked the Injun.

“Perhaps 44 degrees Celsius, which is still formidable,” answered Broussard.

The Injun grimaced. “Then I guess we drive.” He paused. “Too damned bad. Your vehicle is pretty easy to identify.”

“That’s an area inhabited almost exclusively by Blue Devils,” said Broussard. “A human walking through it would be even more conspicuous.”

“Have you got a safe house anywhere around there?”

“I don’t think so. We can ask the computer.”

The Injun shook his head. “Don’t bother,” he said. “I already asked. The computer’s not aware of any. I just thought there might be things that you didn’t tell it.”

Broussard looked puzzled.

“Any computer that can be built can be breached,” explained the Injun.

“Not this one, sir.”

“I admire your confidence,” said the Injun dryly. “But I’ve got half a dozen friends who could invade it in less than two hours.”

“I sincerely doubt that, sir,” replied Broussard firmly.

“I’m sure you do,” said the Injun, unimpressed. “I’m not here to argue the point. I just want to know if there’s a nearby safe house.”

“To the best of my knowledge, we don’t have one in Quichancha. I believe we have four on the entire planet, all in other cities.” Broussard fidgeted uneasily. “May I ask why you want to know?”

“There is every possibility that I am going to have to do some very unpleasant things to a Blue Devil,” answered the Injun. “I’d rather not have to do them in a building that’s filled with other Blue Devils. I’d much rather take him to a secure location first.”

“Is murder a possibility?”

“If he doesn’t tell me what I want to know, it’s an absolute certainty,” said the Injun. He paused thoughtfully. “It probably will be anyway. I don’t want him reporting what I know or identifying me to the Oracle, and I don’t want him around when the Whistler shows up.”

“The Whistler? Who’s that?”

“I’m afraid that’s restricted information.”

Broussard frowned. “You could cause some problems for the embassy, sir. If you kill a Blue Devil—and I assume this one is in some way connected to the Oracle—they’re going to assume the embassy ordered it, or at least sanctioned it.”

“Embassies exist to confront problems,” replied the Injun with no show of concern. “They’ll find a way.”

“I don’t know, sir,” said Broussard doubtfully. “It would be extremely difficult to convince the Blue Devils that we didn’t at least have prior knowledge of the killing, and that implies either consent or approval.” He paused. “After all, I drive an embassy vehicle, and as you pointed out before, it will stand out in a residential area.”

“So get an unmarked vehicle.”

“I’d have to put through a request for funds, and even if my request was approved, there’s still every likelihood that it could be traced to the embassy.”

“I don’t mean to sound insensitive,” said the Injun, “but I really don’t give a damn how much trouble I cause the embassy. My assignment is more important.”

“You don’t understand, sir,” said Broussard. “Even if I agreed with you, that’s all the more reason for not involving the embassy. It will simply put the Oracle on the alert.”

“Just killing the Blue Devil will do that,” said the Injun. Suddenly a plan began to take shape in his mind. “Unless…”

He fell silent for a moment, and Broussard waited patiently for him to continue.

“I think I’ve got a way to protect both our asses,” he announced at last.

“Yours and mine, sir?” asked Broussard, puzzled.

The Injun shook his head. “Mine and the embassy’s. Can you get your hands on some seed?”

“Seed, sir?”

“Alphanella seeds.”

“They’re illegal on every planet in the Democracy.”

“Allow me to point out to you that we’re not in the Democracy.”

“They’re illegal on Hades, too.”

“You haven’t answered my question,” noted the Injun. “Can you get some seed?”

“It’s possible,” said Broussard reluctantly.

“Within the embassy?”

Broussard shook his head. “No. But there’s a woman in Red House…”

“User or seller?”

“A user.”

“Good,” said the Injun. “Confiscate half a dozen seeds.”

“What’s the purpose of this, sir?” asked Broussard.

“Whether they trace the killing to the embassy or not, they’re going to know I’m after the Oracle the second I kill the Blue Devil.”

“What have the seeds got to do with anything?” persisted Broussard.

“If I take out most of the residents of the building and leave a couple of half-chewed seeds on the premises, the embassy could claim that I was a hopped-up chewer who’d gone on a binge and offer a reward for me, giving out a phony ID and hologram, which will get them off the hook while still giving me freedom of movement, and in the meantime it might hide my real reason for being there, at least temporarily.” He paused. “I’d have to do it at night, and I’d have to go there on foot. It wouldn’t do to have an embassy vehicle being seen transporting a maniac to the scene of the crime.” The Injun frowned. “I’ll still need your help, though. I can’t read or speak the language, and I’ve got to hit my Blue Devil’s quarters first, before I kill the rest of them. I don’t want him escaping if he hears any noise elsewhere in the building.”

Broussard considered what he had heard for a long moment, then shook his head. “No chance, sir,” he said at last. “The embassy will never be a party to this. You’re speaking about blithely killing dozens of innocent beings simply for the sake of misdirecting the Oracle.”

The Injun shrugged. “They’re just aliens.”

“The ambassador would point out that on this planet we’re the aliens.”

“Spare me his platitudes,” said the Injun. “The Democracy’s at war with the Oracle, and in a war, sometimes civilians get hurt.”

“I don’t know anything about the Oracle,” admitted Broussard, “but I do know that the Democracy’s not at war with Hades, and your proposed actions could precipitate one.” He paused. “I know the way the bureaucracy works. They’ll kick it all the way up to Deluros VIII, and even if their transmissions aren’t intercepted, your Blue Devil will probably have died of old age or disease before they make a decision.”

“Well, that’s that,” said the Injun. “I can’t do it without the embassy’s complicity. I might get my hands on the seed, and I might find the Blue Devil I’m after, and I might kill enough other Blue Devils to confuse the Oracle—but if the embassy won’t support the cover story, I’ll have both sides hunting for my scalp with no place to hide.” He sighed deeply. “I guess we go to Plan B.”

“Just killing the one Blue Devil?” asked Broussard.

“Yeah,” said the Injun. He frowned. “I hate to do it, though. Once he’s dead, there’s no way the Oracle can mistake what’s going on.” He paused, considering the situation. “And if he doesn’t talk,” he added, “I’m going to eliminate my only link to the Oracle.” He shook his head unhappily. “I just wish they didn’t all look so much alike.”

“If you could follow him, would you prefer it, sir?” asked Broussard.

“Much.” The Injun looked at Broussard. “Why? What do you have in mind?”

“There may be a way, sir.”

“Yeah?” said the Injun. “If you can come up with one, you’ve just made my life a hell of a lot easier.”

“I don’t think so, sir,” said Broussard seriously.

16

Port Marrakech, Port Samarkand, and Port Maracaibo were all high in the night sky as the Injun emerged from the unlit landcar half a mile from his destination.

“This is as close as I can go without attracting attention, sir,” said Broussard apologetically. “I’ll wait here for you.”

The Injun nodded absently and tried to get his bearings. The suddenly-broadening, suddenly-narrowing, always-twisting streets looked a lot different in person than they did on a map, and he already felt mildly disoriented.

He had a small lithium-powered flashlight in the pocket of his tunic, and his first inclination was to pull out the map and double-check his position, but Men with maps weren’t supposed to be here, and the light would only broadcast his presence.

He had wanted to approach his destination via alleyways, but there weren’t any. His next notion was to go underground and make his way via the sewer system, but they had no map of it, and he didn’t relish trying to find his way with no maps and no landmarks. So, keeping as near to the irregular buildings as he could, he began walking slowly and silently through the incredibly hot night. The humidity was minimal, but between the heat, the effort he was expending, and the tension, both his skin and clothes were soaked with perspiration before he had traveled more than one hundred yards.

He was fast approaching a very sharp corner, and suddenly he could hear voices—alien voices—somewhere up ahead of him. He turned and looked for the landcar, but it was lost in the shadows.

The voices grew clearer and louder, until he estimated that they were no more than thirty yards from the corner. He decided to duck into the doorway of the nearest building until they passed, then discovered that it didn’t have a doorway. He backtracked a few steps, found a small alcove between that building and the one he had just passed, and darted into it. Then he crouched down and waited.

Five Blue Devils suddenly came into view as they turned the corner. One of them had an extremely high-pitched voice, but he couldn’t discern any other difference among them. Four of them wore the triangles he had seen on his first day in Quichancha, and all five wore what appeared to be stoles made of some metallic fiber wrapped about their torsos.

As they reached a spot in the street opposite his hiding place, two of them got into what seemed to be an argument, and suddenly all five stopped walking. Voices grew strident, postures grew aggressive, and they remained where they were, gesticulating wildly.

The Injun felt his calves and thighs cramping up after a few minutes. He was horribly uncomfortable, his legs aching, his body pouring sweat, but he didn’t dare move while the aliens were there. It would be bad enough to be seen walking through this section of the city, but to be found skulking would be infinitely worse.

Finally he could stand the pain no longer, and he carefully leaned forward, momentarily assuming the position of a runner in the starting blocks, alternately stretching each leg out behind him. When he was through, he carefully brought one leg beneath him and moved to a kneeling position.

The Blue Devils were still arguing, but a moment later one of them made a gesture that the Injun couldn’t comprehend, and two of them stalked off into the darkness. The remaining three spoke among themselves for another minute and then continued walking in the direction they had been going.

The Injun waited for almost three minutes, long enough to make sure that none of them were coming back, and then carefully stood erect, stuck his head out, looked in both directions, and quickly walked to the corner.

As the map had shown, the street made a 160-degree turn, almost doubling back on itself, and simultaneously narrowed to a point where it was less than ten feet wide. The Injun felt very claustrophobic as he kept walking and the street kept narrowing. Within another fifty yards he had to walk sideways, with his back pressed against a wall, to pass between buildings on the opposite sides of the alien street.

Then it broadened again, not slowly and gradually, but instantly, and in a single stride he went from a street so narrow that it seemed like a corridor to a thoroughfare so wide that he thought for a moment that he had turned the wrong way and wound up in a public square.

There was no artificial illumination, nor, with the three moons overhead, was any needed. It was almost bright enough to read by the moonlight, and he realized that he had almost three hundred yards to walk before the street narrowed again, three hundred yards in which there were no parked vehicles, no lampposts, no benches, no trash atomizers, nothing to hide behind, and he would be the only living, moving thing.

He didn’t like the odds of crossing those three hundred yards without being seen, and he stopped, looking for some less exposed route. His first thought was to go via the rooftops, but very few of the buildings were remotely similar in height and structure. The sewers were out, too: even if he had a map, which he didn’t, he couldn’t spot a manhole and didn’t know how to go about finding an entrance to them.

Finally he decided that there was no alternative to simply walking as quickly and silently as he could, and this he proceeded to do, staying as close to the buildings on the left side of the street as possible. When he had covered slightly more than half the distance, he saw a Blue Devil staring at him from a third or fourth-story window.

Fighting the urge to run, he looked up, saluted, and continued walking. He expected to hear outraged screams, or sirens, or approaching footsteps, or something, but nothing happened, and in another ninety seconds he had turned another corner and found himself on a street that, for a change, seemed neither too wide nor too narrow.

He stepped into some deep shadows as two more Blue Devils came into view, and was prepared to wait, motionless, until they had passed him, but instead they entered a small building, and he began walking again. Then another pair of Blue Devils began approaching, and he once again hid in the shadows until they had walked by.

For some reason this stretch of the street had much more activity than he had encountered thus far, but fortunately the buildings and shadows afforded him instant hiding places. Four more groups of Blue Devils and one single being caused him to duck out of sight before he made it the final two hundred yards to his destination, but eventually he arrived at the building he sought.

And couldn’t find a door.

Whispering a curse to himself, he began circling the structure, looking for some means of ingress. He finally came upon a miscolored section and leaned tentatively against it.

Nothing happened.

He pushed harder, with no results. Finally he stood back a few feet and waved a hand, hoping that some hidden scanner might react to the motion. Still nothing.

He walked once more around the building, and came back to the miscolored section, convinced that it was the entrance. He stood a few feet away from it, trying to determine how to trigger the locking mechanism. Obviously it didn’t react to force, or to motion. He chanced shining his flashlight on it for a second, just long enough to make sure that there were no buttons, buzzer, bells, or computer locks.

Next he looked around the ground, hoping he might find some mechanism there, but he couldn’t see anything remotely promising.

Vrief Domo lived on the third level. He looked up, wondering if he could scale the building, and decided that he couldn’t.

He spent another five minutes trying to figure out how to gain entrance to the building, and couldn’t come up with an answer. At last he leaned against a wall next to the miscolored portion, mentally exhausted—and almost fell over backward when a four-foot-wide section of the wall slid behind the miscolored part of the building.

He looked around quickly, before the wall slid back and plunged the interior of the building into total darkness, and found a narrow staircase. He shone his light on it just long enough to fix the height of each stair in his mind, and then slowly, carefully, began ascending. Fourteen stairs later he reached a landing, felt around for the railing, couldn’t find one, flashed his light again for an instant, and discovered that the stairwell ended on the second level.

Deciding that he hated alien buildings even more than he hated 32, he stood still and tried to reason things out. As far as he could determine, there was only one door to the building, the one he had inadvertently triggered. If that was so, this was the only set of stairs leading up from the ground floor. Therefore, everyone living on a higher level had to come to this point before proceeding. Then what did they do?

He activated his flashlight again and examined the landing more carefully. There were four doors, each more familiar in shape than the one downstairs. Three of them possessed various markings; the fourth was absolutely plain.

Realizing that it was just as likely that there was only one apartment on this level and three stairwells leading up, he nonetheless decided to try the unmarked door. It slid up as he approached it, revealing another narrow staircase, and he decided to keep his light on. After all, if someone was coming down while he was going up, having his light in his pocket wasn’t going to keep his presence secret for very long, anyway.

When he reached the next landing—he was annoyed but not surprised to find that it took thirty-one stairs to reach it—he came to five doors, four marked and one plain.

Now he pulled out the map once more, turned it over, and looked at the symbols Broussard had drawn on the back.

The teardrop signified the domicile of a communal or family group of young Blue Devils, old enough to leave home but still bound together by some social custom that was beyond the comprehension of human psychologists. That eliminated the door on the left; Vrief Domo was a mature Blue Devil with a responsible position in the government.

He shone his line on the next door: there were seven symbols he didn’t understand, and one that Broussard had duplicated. It looked like a broken dagger, or perhaps a very twisted cane. Broussard hadn’t explained it, but had said that it was the most common symbol, and that for reasons that were too esoteric to go into, it wouldn’t be on the door he wanted.

That left the two right-hand doors. Each possessed the symbol that looked like a crescent moon, the one that Broussard said would signify a government employee.

The Injun was barely able to resist the urge to curse. Two government employees! How the hell was he going to know which was the one he wanted? They looked alike, sounded like, dressed alike—and if he chose the wrong one, he’d waste so much time before he discovered his error that the Whistler could wind up so far ahead of him that he’d never catch up.

Think, Redskin, he told himself silently. Think!

He studied both sets of symbols, trying to find something, anything, that matched the other symbols Broussard had said might be on Vrief Domo’s door. There weren’t any.

All right, he decided. Let’s try it the other way around.

He had a list of eleven symbols that would definitely not be on the door of the Blue Devil he wanted. He couldn’t find any of them on the second door from the right.

He turned his light on the right-hand door, carefully studying each symbol—and then he found it: the off-balance trapezoid with two right angles that denoted a member of the military. Both Blue Devils worked for the government—but Vrief Domo was a civil servant.

The Injun turned his attention to the second door from the right—Vrief Domo’s door. He had been prepared to spend hours decoding a computer lock, but instead all he found was a large keyhole, so large that he could insert his finger all the way through it. It took him less than thirty seconds to spring the latch, and then he was inside the Blue Devil’s quarters, his body tensed, listening for any sign that his quarry might be awake.

He remained absolutely still for almost a minute. Moonlight filtered in through the single window, and his right eye gradually adjusted to the semi-darkness. He hadn’t wanted to remove the eyepatch from his prosthetic left eye, hadn’t wanted 32 to have any idea of what he was doing, but he needed his depth perception, and he took the patch off and put it into a pocket.

He took a tentative step into the room, then another, searching for the object he sought. He carefully examined the furniture, both the functional pieces and the totally incomprehensible ones, but he couldn’t find it.

There were three doorways leading from the room, in addition to the one through which he had entered. The smell of spoiling meat wafted out from the doorway on his right, and he knew that it must be the kitchen. He quickly walked to it, considered using his flashlight once he determined that the room was empty, and then decided that he’d have too much difficulty readjusting to the darkness once he left the room.

The kitchen was small, filled with gadgets that he had never seen before, and arranged in a way that made no sense whatsoever. A slab of meat lay on a counter that had been constructed no more than eighteen inches above the floor. Chairs faced the walls, spices were piled on the floor in a corner, there was what seemed to be a sink with seven spigots, and there was nothing that remotely seemed to resemble a stove or a refrigerator. A large hectagonal chart was tacked on the wall at an odd angle; he studied it for a moment, but couldn’t begin to guess whether it was a calendar, a recipe, or something else.

Finally he returned to the room that he had originally entered, and tried to figure out which of the other two doorways led to the sleeping Vrief Domo. He paused, undecided, for almost a minute. Then he heard a gurgle of water running through a pipe off to his left, and immediately walked through the left-hand doorway.

He found himself in a large room, and this time he had no choice but to use his flashlight, as there were no windows, and the room was set at such an angle that none of the moonlight from the first room reached it. Now that he could see clearly, he took the eyepatch out of his pocket and put it back over his left eye to prevent 32 from monitoring his actions.

The walls were made of a beautiful alien hardwood that was streaked with various shades of brown and gold, and had intricate designs carved on each panel. The floor was covered by a hand-woven carpet; at first he thought the fabric was metallic, but then he realized that it was a finely-spun silk. There was a strong smell of chemicals in the air, and there were four large, hand-painted ceramic basins, each with drains at the bottom and gold-plated pipes running into the walls. He couldn’t tell which constituted a sink, which was a commode, and which served as a tub—and he had absolutely no idea what the fourth basin was for—but there was no question in his mind that he was in a Blue Devil bathroom. There were six fixtures on the walls, none of which seemed at all functional to him—all of which glistened with a plating that seemed like a dull chrome but on closer inspection proved to be a hand-rubbed alloy, not unlike pewter.

You guys take your ablutions seriously, I’ll give you that, he thought wryly.

There was a series of small porcelain boxes stacked against one of the walls, and he knelt down, placed the flashlight in his teeth, and began opening them one by one.

He found what he was looking for in the third box: a large triangle, the same type that he had seen so many of the Blue Devils wearing in the street.

He reached into another pocket and pulled out the small vial that Broussard had supplied him, opened it, and, using a clean cloth that had been supplied for this purpose, moistened it and then carefully rubbed it on the surface of the triangle. He waited a moment until it dried, then replaced the triangle in the box, put the other two boxes back the way he had found them, walked to the doorway, and shut off the flashlight.

He waited almost two full minutes for his eyes to adjust to the filtered moonlight, then, enormously relieved that he wouldn’t have to enter the sleeping Blue Devil’s bedroom, carefully walked across the main room of the apartment and gently opened the door, pulling it shut behind him. He reached into the enormous keyhole and manipulated the lock back into place.

He had no difficulty finding his way back to ground level, and a moment later he was back in the street, darting from shadow to shadow, hugging the wall as he reached the incredibly broad section, and then carefully squeezing between building as the street narrowed to less than a meter.

Broussard was waiting for him, and he entered the vehicle with an enormous feeling of relief.

“You did it?” asked Broussard.

“Yeah,” replied the Injun. “You’d just better be right about it.”

“I am,” answered Broussard confidently. “There were microscopic particles of a unique uranium isotope in that solution; some of them have to have stuck to his triangle. The radiation won’t do him any lasting damage, but with the equipment we’ve got back at the embassy, we’ll be able to trace him anywhere he goes.” He paused. “We’ll just wait for him to pick up his next shipment of human foodstuffs at the spaceport and then follow him right to the Oracle.”

“Sounds good to me,” said the Injun. “Now let’s get the hell out of here.”

“Right,” said Broussard, speeding off down a crazily-twisting street.

“Take it easy,” cautioned the Injun. “I didn’t risk my life back there to die in a goddamned traffic accident.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I guess I’m a little excited.” Broussard paused. “I would think you’d be running on pure adrenaline right about now.”

“This was just the first step. The next one might be a little more difficult.”

“Following the Blue Devil? No problem at all, sir.”

“The problem comes when we’re all through following him,” said the Injun, and suddenly his feelings of triumph and exultation faded away as he wondered exactly what he would do once he found himself in the presence of the Oracle. Parlor tricks like the one he had pulled off tonight certainly wouldn’t fool her, and he realized that it was time to begin considering exactly what would let him get close enough to her to accomplish his mission.

Then, as he relaxed and felt the tension finally leave his muscles, an old craving returned—and with it, the germ of an plan.

17

The Injun staked out the cargo area of the spaceport for four days with no success.

On the fifth morning, Vrief Domo finally showed up.

“He’s here, sir,” announced Broussard, pointing to a blinking indicator on the control panel grid.

“Damned near time,” said the Injun, leaning forward from the landcar’s back seat to look at the blinking light. “I was starting to think the Oracle had gone on a hunger strike.”

“He’s approaching the cargo dock.”

“How long will it take us to find out what he’s picked up?”

“We’re tied in to the embassy computer, and it in turn is monitoring the spaceport’s cargo manifests. I think we should have corroboration before he leaves the gate.”

“Just be ready to move out fast,” said the Injun.

Broussard nodded without replying, and concentrated on the panel.

“Okay,” he announced after another two minutes. “He’s made his pickup, and he’s on his way out.”

“Follow him.”

“The embassy computer hasn’t verified that he’s picked up foodstuffs yet. He could be carrying almost anything.”

“Follow him anyway,” ordered the Injun. “If he leaves the spaceport, there’s no need for us to stay here—and if he’s got food for the Oracle, I don’t want to lose him.” He paused. “Let him get a kilometer ahead of us.”

“I don’t dare, sir,” said Broussard. “The way these streets wind, that could give him a ten-minute lead.”

“So what?”

“If the Oracle’s not in the city, and he leaves Quichancha ten minutes before we do, he could get so far ahead of us that we lose his signal.”

“All right,” said the Injun. “But stay far enough behind so he doesn’t spot us. If he thinks he’s being followed, he could lead us all over the goddamned planet, or right into a trap.”

“I’ll do my best, sir,” said Broussard, moving the car into the heavy spaceport traffic and keeping a watchful eye on his panel. Another light blinked. “The computer just confirmed it!” announced Broussard excitedly. “He picked up human food at the cargo dock.”

The Injun made no comment, and Broussard began concentrating on his panel, making certain that he didn’t lose Vrief Domo’s vehicle on the small grid.

The Blue Devil didn’t seem to be in much of a hurry. He passed through a residential area, then turned to the south.

“He’s going to see her right now,” said the Injun, as the city came to a surprisingly abrupt end and they suddenly found themselves the vast expanse of red desert that had given the planet its name.

“He could be going almost anywhere,” responded Broussard, concentrating on the narrow road that seemed so out of place on the red sand.

The Injun shook his head. “He’s going to see her,” he repeated.

“How do you know?”

“We know she doesn’t live in the city, and we know that he’s transporting food to her.” The Injun paused. “I hope you’ve got more fuel than he does. I’d hate to think of losing him out here—and even more, I hate to think of roasting to death in this goddamned landcar. It must be 60 degrees Celsius outside.”

“It’s not a problem, sir,” answered Broussard. “This vehicle has an auxiliary power plant that utilizes solar batteries. The one place we won’t get stranded is the desert.”

“He’s not going to stay in the desert for long.”

“Oh?” said Broussard dubiously.

“If he was headed to the next city, it would have been more practical to ship the food via public transportation. His destination is somewhere up ahead, not too far away—and it won’t be in the desert, because any structure that was built here would stand out like a sore thumb.” He pointed to some large rock outcroppings about sixteen kilometers to the southeast. “My guess is that he’s heading there.”

“It makes sense when you say it that way, sir,” admitted Broussard. “But…”

“But you think it’s too pat?”

“Well, frankly, yes.”

The Injun smiled. “The simpler something is, the less can go wrong with it. That applies equally to machines and hideouts.”

Broussard shrugged. “You’re the expert.”

The Injun leaned forward again, checked the blinking light on the grid, then laid a hand gently on Broussard’s shoulder. “Come to a stop.”

“But we’ll lose him. He’s already eight or nine miles ahead of us.”

“Believe me, he’s going to stop at those rocks up ahead,” said the Injun. “But we’re starting to raise a cloud of dust from all the sand that’s blown onto the road, and I don’t want him to see it.”

“All right,” said Broussard, reluctantly slowing the vehicle to a dead stop.

“Pull off the road.”

Broussard shook his head. “I don’t dare, sir. We’ll sink into the sand.”

“It’s that soft?”

“And that deep,”

“I wonder how they ever managed to keep the road itself from sinking?” asked the Injun, curious.

“Beats the hell out of me, sir.” Broussard pulled out a pair of small Antarrean cigars and offered one to the Injun. “Care for a smoke, sir?”

“Filthy habit.”

“Would you rather I didn’t smoke?” asked Broussard.

The Injun shrugged. “Suit yourself. I figure everyone’s allowed at least one weakness.”

Broussard stared at the cigars for a long moment, then sighed and replaced them in his tunic.

“How long do you intend to remain here, sir?”

“How far ahead of us is he now?”

Broussard checked the grid. “About twelve kilometers.”

“I suppose we might as well get going again,” said the Injun as the last of the dust cloud dissipated. “If we start raising too much dust, stop. Even if we lose him on the screen, we’ll catch up with him at the rocks up ahead.”

The vehicle began moving forward, and when they were within six kilometers of the rocky outcroppings, Broussard announced that Vrief Domo’s vehicle had stopped.

“It’s somewhere in that field of rocks, as you said, sir.”

“There’s gotta be some buildings hidden in there,” said the Injun. “Is that grid of yours good enough to tell us which one he enters?”

“No problem,” answered Broussard. “I can pinpoint his location whenever you want.”

The Indian considered this, then shook his head. “Not good enough. If this is her headquarters, there could be half a dozen structures, and Domo could have business in three or four of them. I need to know where he drops off the food.” He paused. “Does the road run through the rocks, or around them?”

“Around them.”

“Can you tell if there’s more than one building in the rocks?”

“To be honest, sir, I didn’t know there were any buildings there.”

The Injun sighed. “Too bad. I guess we do it the hard way.”

“The hard way?”

“Get me as close to the rocks as you can and let me off. I’ve got to find out if there’s more than one building, and if there is, I have to figure out which one the Oracle is in.”

“That won’t be as hard as you think, sir,” said Broussard. “The grid detaches from the control panel. You can take it with you.”

“I’m going to carry that thing over uneven terrain in this unholy heat without being spotted by the best-protected person on the planet, and you don’t think it’ll be hard?” said the Injun wryly.

“I merely meant that—”

“Never mind, never mind,” said the Injun. “Just get me to the edge of the rocks.”

“It’s about three kilometers from one end to the other,” said Broussard as they approached the outcroppings. “Then the desert starts again. Shall I wait for you here or on the far side?”

“Right here. I don’t think we’ve been spotted yet. Why take any chances?”

“Actually, sir,” said Broussard thoughtfully, “I suppose it doesn’t really matter where I wait for you. If the Oracle’s got the gift of precognition, as most members of the embassy seem to believe, then she knows you’re here to terminate her.”

“No she doesn’t,” said the Injun confidently.

Broussard frowned. “But—”

“She can’t foresee what was never going to happen, and I have no intention of confronting her today. I just want to know where to find her.” He stared at Broussard. “You look unconvinced.”

“Whether you confront her today or tomorrow or next week, the end result is the same: you mean to do her harm at some point in the future. So why wouldn’t she dispose of you right now, before you can threaten her?”

“There has to be a limit to her powers,” answered the Injun. “The fact that I’m still alive means we’re still beyond it.”

“She might simply be waiting for you to approach on foot,” suggested Broussard.

“She might be,” agreed the Injun. “But I don’t think so. If planning to kill her was enough to elicit a response from her, she could have killed me, or had me killed, half a dozen times since I landed. I have a feeling that she either can’t foresee anything but an immediate physical threat to her, or else she’s so secure in her powers that she’s not concerned until she’s threatened. Either way,” he concluded with a wry smile, “I’ve got to find out exactly where she is before I can threaten her.”

“How do you even approach someone who can see the future?”

The Injun smiled. “When the time comes, you’ll be the first to know.”

“You seem awfully sure of yourself, sir,” said Broussard.

“This is my business, and I’m damned good at it.” The Injun glanced out the window. “Start slowing down, then stop behind that big rock that’s coming up on the right.”

Broussard did as he was instructed.

“Good,” said the Injun, detaching the grid, opening the door, and wincing as he stepped out into the oppressive heat. He took a few tentative steps along the side of the road, then turned back to Broussard. “The ground’s a lot harder here. Pull off the road and move alongside the rock. If anyone else comes along, they’ll pass right by and never know you were here.”

Broussard nodded and edged the vehicle off the road, and the Injun began climbing to the top of a rocky outcropping. He couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary, but he checked the grid and found that Domo’s position had not changed appreciably in the past few minutes, which implied there had to be something hidden back there among the rocks and boulders.

He had gone almost half a mile, keeping well off the road and hiding among the myriad outcroppings, when he finally saw the first building. It resembled nothing more than a purple glass pyramid some twenty feet on a side, and he was more annoyed than surprised to note that it possessed neither windows nor a discernable door. He looked at the grid again, and found that he was still half a mile away from Vrief Domo.

He continued his slow, cautious approach, and finally he came to it. He didn’t have to check the grid or search for Domo’s vehicle to know he had reached his goal. Nestled in a small depression beneath a huge outcropping was a building—palace would have described it better, as would fortress, except that both words seemed somehow inadequate—that covered the equivalent of a Quichancha city block.

The structure was irregular and many-sided. Walls rose to enormous heights and then angled back down for no apparent reason. The roof was a hodgepodge of colored quartz and a shining metal that seemed to shimmer with all the colors of the spectrum. A private road, covered by some incredibly hard plastic that showed no sign of melting in the heat, led up to a huge triangular door that he assumed was a garage for numerous vehicles. Here and there were artifacts that looked like fountains, but none of them seemed to have any water, and he had no idea what function they fulfilled.

The building was beautifully camouflaged: between the rocks and the depression, there was no way to spot it from overhead, and a huge row of boulders had been positioned in such a way as to shield it from the view of passing vehicles. Only in one location could a driver turn off the road and slip his landcar between two of the boulders and then onto the plastic surface.

Half a dozen Blue Devils were walking in intricate individual patterns around the grounds. They didn’t seem to be carrying any weapons, and the Injun couldn’t tell if they were guards, residents of the huge building, or were simply carrying out some duty so alien that he couldn’t begin to comprehend it.

The grid was going wild, and, afraid that it might start beeping as well as blinking, he quickly deactivated it. He was still wearing his eyepatch; he wanted very badly to remove it, to get a more thorough view of the building and its surroundings, but he was afraid that 32 would record the image and bring in some expert to identify the rock formations at this particular point, and he hadn’t gone to all the trouble of finding the Oracle’s hideout just to broadcast it to 32 and his whole department.

He squatted down in the shadow of a large overhang and spent the next ten minutes studying the layout, and taking holographs with the tiny camera he had brought along for the purpose. When he finally felt himself beginning to dehydrate from the heat, he carefully retreated, still staying well clear of the road, until he came to the spot where Broussard had hidden the vehicle.

“God, it’s hot out there!” he panted, leaning back and luxuriating in the conditioned air of the vehicle.

“People weren’t built to live in this kind of heat,” agreed Broussard. “Sometimes I think even the Blue Devils look uncomfortable in this weather.” He paused. “Did you find her?”

“I think so.”

“You think so?” repeated Broussard.

“I didn’t see her,” answered the Injun, “but I’ll be awfully surprised if she’s not there.”

“Did you find a way in?”

“I’m working on it.”

“What now?”

The Injun leaned back comfortably, clasped his hands behind his head, and shut his eyes.

“Now we go back to Quichancha and wait.”

“Wait for what?” asked Broussard.

“For any number of things,” said the Injun serenely. “For certain funds to be transferred. For the Whistler to show up. For the Oracle to make another mistake.”

“Another mistake?”

The Injun nodded. “She should have killed me this afternoon. I was unarmed and on foot, and I couldn’t have run fifty yards in that heat.” He paused. “She has her limitations. She can’t see far enough ahead to know that the next time I come back I’m going to kill her.”

“I still don’t see how you plan to do it, sir,” said Broussard, putting the vehicle in motion and starting to head back toward Quichancha.

The Injun smiled tranquilly. “Neither does she.”

“But you do have a plan?”

“Absolutely.”

“Would you care to share it with me?”

“You’ll know it when the time comes,” answered the Injun.

“If I know it, won’t the Oracle know it too?”

“Very likely.”

“Then she’ll be able to prevent it.”

The Injun shook his head. “Knowing it won’t do her the least bit of good.”

“I don’t understand, sir,” said Broussard.

“Neither will she,” said the Injun, smiling again. “I almost feel sorry for her.”

PART 3:

The

Jade

Queen’s

Book

18

Chandler remained in his rooming house for three days following the attempts on his life, leaving only to have dinner each night at the Wolfman’s restaurant. He considered meeting with some of the Surgeon’s former clientele and going through the motions of soliciting business, but decided against it. After all, both the Oracle and the Democracy had tried to kill him; there didn’t seem to be any reason to try to maintain his cover.

On the fourth night, as he entered the restaurant accompanied by Gin, who had resumed his duties though his injured shoulder was still heavily-bandaged, the Wolfman spotted him and immediately approached him.

“Follow me, please,” he said, leading them to a small circular room at the back of the restaurant, where Lord Lucifer sat at a hexagonal table.

“Good evening, Mr. Chandler,” said Lord Lucifer.

“Good evening,” replied Chandler, looking around the room as Gin seated himself at the table. Finally he took a small device out of his pocket and pressed it against a wall, where it remained when he took his hand away.

“What’s that?” asked the Wolfman.

“An anti-eavesdropping device,” answered Chandler. “It’ll scramble any signals that might leave this room.”

“You’re a very careful man, Mr. Chandler,” said Lord Lucifer.

“That’s how I stay alive.”

“Can I bring you anything, Whistler?” asked the Wolfman. “I just got in a shipment of Cygnian cognac.”

“Later.”

“Dinner, perhaps?”

“We’ll let you know.”

The Wolfman shrugged and went back into the restaurant while Chandler seated himself at the table and waited for Gin and Lord Lucifer to do the same.

“Well?” said Chandler, facing the dapper criminal.

“Finding a way to smuggle you onto Hades is proving to be more difficult than I thought,” replied Lord Lucifer. “Since Boma’s death the Blue Devils have taken additional security measures on their shuttle flights. It can be done, of course, but it will take a lot more time and planning than I had anticipated.” He paused and smiled. “She’s definitely not very anxious to see you in the flesh, Mr. Chandler.”

“If she’s everything she’s supposed to be, I don’t imagine she’s losing any sleep over the prospect,” replied Chandler. “This is probably the Blue Devils’ idea.” He stopped speaking, struck by a sudden thought.

“What is it, Mr. Chandler?” asked Lord Lucifer, staring at him intently.

“Consider what I just said,” answered Chandler. “There’s no reason why a woman who can foresee the future should be worried about me trying to kill her. Therefore, this has to be the Blue Devils’ idea.” He stared at Lord Lucifer. “What does that imply to you?”

“That they don’t want you to reach her.”

“Of course they don’t,” said Chandler impatiently. “But why not? They know the extent of her power—it’s what’s kept them out of the Democracy—so why should this worry them?”

“I see!” said Lord Lucifer, suddenly grinning.

“Well, I don’t see a damned thing,” interjected Gin. “Would someone please tell me what you two think you know?”

Chandler turned to the driver. “I’ve been hired to bring her out, and to kill her only as a last resort. I haven’t figured out how to kill her yet, and they have no reason to think she can be killed. What does that imply to you?”

Gin shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said, confused. “What should it imply?”

“That they’re afraid she’ll leave voluntarily with Mr. Chandler,” said Lord Lucifer.

“I’ve been operating on the assumption that she’s remained on Hades by choice,” added Chandler. “But what if that assumption was false?”

“You’ve told me about her,” said Gin. “How could they hold someone with her powers against her will?”

“You lock her in an electrified cell, surround it with a force field, and leave two guards on duty, and all the foresight in the world isn’t going to do her a bit of good,” said Chandler. “If every possible future has her incarcerated against her will, then that’s where she’ll stay.”

“It still doesn’t make sense,” protested Gin. “If she can see the future, why would she let herself be locked up to begin with?”

Chandler shrugged. “Who knows? She was only eight years old when she came to Hades. Maybe her powers weren’t that well developed then. She arrived with an alien called the Mock Turtle—maybe he betrayed her. Maybe she simply didn’t understand what they intended to do with her.” He paused. “Or maybe they were all bosom buddies until the day she decided to leave, and they realized that without her they were going to be assimilated into the Democracy.”

“Or maybe you’re dead wrong,” said Gin, unconvinced.

“Maybe,” said Chandler. “But lets assume for the sake of argument that I’m right.” He paused again. “It would also explain why the Democracy wants me dead. If they think there’s a chance she’ll come out with me, they’ll just have to go to the trouble of tracking her down again, and I gather she wasn’t an easy lady to find.” He paused. “Look at it from their point of view: the Blue Devils aren’t much of a military threat, and they haven’t made any major alliances with the Democracy’s enemies. If they can’t kill her, this is probably as safe a place to keep her as any. If she leaves, she could go to the Canphor Twins or Lodin XI or some other world that can make war on the Democracy.”

“I still think you’re making a mistake,” said Gin adamantly.

“Prove it.”

“Easy,” said the driver. “If she wants you to rescue her, why did she send the Blue Devil to kill you?”

“She didn’t. That was his idea—his or his government’s.”

“Then how did he know who you were and where to find you?”

“A very good point,” said Lord Lucifer. He turned to Chandler. “Have you an answer?”

“There are no answers when we’re dealing with such minimal information, just suppositions,” said Chandler. “But suppose she could foresee that Boma couldn’t kill me, that I’d spot the glass in the food—and suppose further that she knew it would lead me to the very conclusion I’ve just reached.” He paused. “Wouldn’t that be the best way she had of telling me that she was willing to leave?”

“That’s a lot of supposing,” said Gin dubiously. “I sure wouldn’t risk my life on it.”

“I don’t plan to risk my life on it, either,” answered Chandler. “Not yet, anyway.” He fell silent for a moment, collecting his thought. “Still, I’ve got a gut feeling that I’m right. I think a new course of action is called for.”

“What did you have in mind, Mr. Chandler?” asked Lord Lucifer.

“Well, we seem to be in agreement that I can’t go to Hades right now, not if they’re searching every shuttle.”

“Then what do you plan to do?”

“I would think the answer was obvious,” answered Chandler. “If I can’t go in after her, the only alternative is to get her to come to me.”

“She’ll never come up here,” said Lord Lucifer. “If she wants to leave with you, the Blue Devils will never let her. And if you’re wrong and she wants you dead, she’s got enough agents on Port Marrakech to do the job for her.”

“I have no intention of remaining on Port Marrakech,” said Chandler. “The Blue Devils know who I am, and the Democracy is also trying to kill me.”

“Then I still don’t understand what you’re going to do,” said Lord Lucifer, frowning.

“There are two other moons. Which one has the most Blue Devils on it?”

“Port Maracaibo,” offered Gin. “Port Samarkand is mostly farms and processing plants.”

“Then the Whistler is going to be captured by that famed opportunist, Lord Lucifer, who will incarcerate him in the tunnels beneath the Platinum Quarter until someone pays a ransom of, oh, not to price myself too cheaply, ten million credits.” Chandler smiled. “No one will pay it, of course. The Democracy wants me out of the way, the Blue Devils want me out of the way, and the Iceman isn’t about to dip into his own pocket to rescue me.” He paused. “And tomorrow, a man with a fresh and totally untraceable identity will show up on Port Maracaibo. He’ll dwell in total obscurity, shunning the spotlight there every bit as much as the Whistler sought it on Port Marrakech, and before a month has gone by he’ll have wrought such havoc among the Oracle’s agents that the Blue Devils themselves will insist that she take a hand in finding and capturing him.”

“You really think they’ll send her to Port Maracaibo to find you?” asked Lord Lucifer.

“They’re not going to be willing to live in a state of terror forever,” replied Chandler, “and they’re certainly not going to declare war against the moons and give the Democracy any cause for moving in to protect its human population. Sooner or later they’re going to decide that their best bet is to send the Oracle to Port Maracaibo to save them.”

“And if they decide she’s too valuable to risk losing?” persisted Lord Lucifer.

“Then,” answered Chandler wryly, “I’ve still got four months to think of something else.”

“I don’t mean to be insulting, Mr. Chandler, but that’s a pretty feeble answer.”

“It was facetious,” admitted Chandler. “Actually, if I can’t draw her up to Port Maracaibo, I think my chances of getting her out may actually be enhanced.”

“You lost me again,” said Gin.

“I’m afraid I don’t quite follow you, either,” added Lord Lucifer.

“If she’s totally committed to the Blue Devils, she’ll come after me the instant I start putting pressure on them. She probably considers herself invulnerable, so from her point of view there’s no risk involved; it’s just a matter of tending to security. And if she actually wants to leave Hades and they let her come anyway, then they feel they can control her, and I’ve overestimated her power.” He paused. “But if they’re afraid to let her come to Port Maracaibo, then her power is every bit as awesome as I’ve been led to believe it is and they don’t dare risk giving her any freedom of action at all. If that’s the case, all I have to do is figure out a way to open one door for her and she’ll do the rest.”

Lord Lucifer smiled. “You make it sound a lot simpler than I think it will prove to be.”

“Well, if it was easy, someone would have gotten to her before now,” admitted Chandler. He paused. “I don’t know about anyone else, but I think I’m ready for that cognac.”

“Sounds good to me,” agreed Gin.

Chandler turned to the driver. “Why don’t you go and tell the Wolfman to bring it in?”

“Sure thing, Whistler,” said Gin. He got up from the table and left the room.

“Find out everything you can about him,” said Chandler, lowering his voice.

“About Gin?” repeated Lord Lucifer. “He’s been around for years.”

“Do it anyway.”

“Do you have some reason to suspect he might be in the employ of the Oracle?”

“If she’s got any humans working for her, I’m not aware of it.”

“Neither am I,” admitted Lord Lucifer. He frowned. “Then why are you suspicious of him?”

“The Oracle’s not the only one trying to kill me, remember?”

“But Gin was almost killed by a Democracy assassin,” protested Lord Lucifer.

“And he spent two days in the hospital with a shoulder burn,” responded Chandler. “He should have been out on the street the next morning. They knew he was my driver; they may have gotten to him while he was being patched up. If they did, I want to know who he reports to.”

“I’ll take care of it,” promised Lord Lucifer. He paused thoughtfully. “Still, I think your fears are groundless. Look at him—the man practically worships you.”

“If I recall my theology, Judas practically worshipped Jesus, too,” answered Chandler wryly.

“Duly noted,” said Lord Lucifer. “By the way, it occurs to me that you could use a contact on Port Maracaibo.”

“You have one in mind, no doubt?” suggested Chandler.

“The very best,” answered Lord Lucifer. “But I see Gin is returning with our cognac, so perhaps we’d best discuss it later.”

“Right,” agreed Chandler.

“Good stuff,” said Gin, entering the room with a bottle and three glasses on a tray. “I had a little taste out there, just to make sure it was as represented.” He filled the glasses and passed them around.

“Let me propose a toast, Mr. Chandler.”

“Be my guest.”

“To the Oracle,” said Lord Lucifer. “She has certainly made our lives more interesting.”

“I’ll drink to that,” said Chandler, raising his glass to his lips. “Let’s just hope she hasn’t also made them briefer.”

19

There were major differences between Port Maracaibo and Port Marrakech, although they had been terraformed by the same team and possessed almost identical atmospheres, gravities, and climates.

The structures on Port Maracaibo were less exotic, more rectangular, less formal, more closely clustered in the residential areas. The city—which like its counterpart on Port Marrakech bore the name of the moon—had been carefully planned: its streets were laid out in a grid, its commercial center had clearly-defined borders, and a series of public coaches, powered by superconductivity, skimmed a few inches above the streets between the city center and the outlying areas.

Chandler sat in a coach, studying a map of the city he had picked up while passing through customs. From time to time he looked up to make sure that no one was watching him, but he didn’t seriously expect that he was being followed. Before leaving Port Marrakech he had died his auburn hair a dark brown, put brown-tinted contact lenses into his eyes, and had left all his weaponry on Port Marrakech. His new features perfectly matched the passport that Lord Lucifer had supplied him, and he hadn’t set off any alarms while going through spaceport security. He was just a down-on-his-luck traveler, hoping to find work on the farthest of Hades’ three moons.

His new name was Preston Grange, and Lord Lucifer had even arranged to give him a history that included four arrests and a pair of convictions for minor crimes. He probably couldn’t stand the kind of scrutiny he would receive if he were arrested, but then, if he were arrested he had more pressing problems to worry about anyway.

The address Lord Lucifer had given him was on Cleopatra Street. He hunted it up on the map, realized that he had to change coaches in order to reach it, and walked to a door. An electronic sensor picked up the heat from his body, relayed it to the coach’s brain, and the coach came to a stop at the next corner.

Chandler stepped out, looked for a public transit sign on the next cross street, and stood in front of it. A moment later he was in another coach, and a few minutes after that he was standing on Cleopatra Street. He checked a number and began walking toward the address he had been given.

The area quickly turned shabby and a bit rundown: bars, nightclubs and drug dens lined the street, and brightly-dressed men and women lingered in doorways, some beckoning, some engaged in whispered conversations, some merely staring out at the street in complete boredom.

Finally he came to number 719, a small, unobtrusive building stuck between an all-night restaurant and a sleazy nightclub promising acts that would shock any race in the galaxy, bar none.

He opened the door and found himself in a small octagonal foyer with no other doors. There was a small device on one wall, about five feet above the floor, and a recorded, slightly mechanical voice instructed him to peer into it. He did as he was told, and was soon staring at a hologram of a stunningly beautiful blonde woman doing a sensuous dance. The hologram vanished after thirty seconds, and the voice informed him that his retinagram had been taken, analyzed and cleared.

“Please step forward,” said the voice.

Chandler approached the wall, which slid aside to let him pass through, then moved back into place.

He followed a narrow corridor and emerged into a luxurious parlor, filled with plush furnishings, erotic paintings and holograms, and even a bronze sculpture of the same woman who had appeared in the little holo he had seen in the foyer.

The room was filled with women in various states of undress, including a pair who were totally nude. There were four men present—a huge, well-muscled bouncer, and three well-dressed men who were obviously clients.

A seductively-clad woman detached herself from a group of similarly-dressed young women and approached Chandler.

“Welcome to The Womb, the finest brothel on the three moons,” she said. “May I help you?”

“I’m looking for the Jade Queen,” replied Chandler.

“Is she expecting you?”

“I believe so.”

“And your name is…?”

He stared at her. “Just tell her that Lord Lucifer sent me.”

“Won’t you make yourself comfortable?” said the woman. “I’ll be back shortly.”

She left the room, and Chandler idly inspected some of the erotic artwork that hung on the walls. She returned a moment later.

“Follow me, please,” she said.

Chandler fell into step behind her as she led him into an airlift, ascended two levels, walked down a narrow corridor, then stopped when she came to the very last door.

“She’s in there.”

“Thanks.”

“Perhaps I’ll see you later?” suggested the woman.

“I doubt it.”

She shrugged and walked away, and Chandler turned to face the door. He heard the whirring of a holo camera, and felt the brief, always slightly unpleasant sensation of having his retina scanned, and then the door receded and he entered a huge octagonal chamber, furnished with artwork and exotic artifacts from more than a dozen worlds. The carpet rippled with a life of its own, and a golden loveseat designed for beings that bore no resemblance to humanity hovered inches above the ground off to his left. Dominating the room was a huge window that looked out upon sights more far more alien and savage than the jungles of The Frenchman’s World; Chandler looked for the holo projector that was casting the incredibly real images, but couldn’t spot it.

Seated behind a large desk that allowed her to observe both the door and the window was a woman, no longer youthful but not quite middle-aged, carrying a few pounds more than she should have, but carrying them well. She wore a jade necklace and a pair of rings with matching stones, and a golden outfit trimmed with the delicate feathers of some alien bird. Her eyes were large, green, and rather wide-set; her nose small and straight; her lips thin and painted an iridescent orange. Her hair was brown, but streaked with shades of gold and red, carefully coiffed and piled high atop her head.

“What can I do for you, Mr…?” she said in a voice that was just a little lower and a little deeper than he had expected.

“Grange,” he replied. “Preston Grange.”

“That idiot!” she snapped contemptuously.

“I beg your pardon?”

“He’s sent three Preston Granges to Port Maracaibo in the past four years. How long does he think he can keep getting away with it?”

“Serves me right for trusting anyone else,” said Chandler. “I’ll change it tomorrow.”

“Just out of curiosity, what is your name?” she asked.

“Chandler.”

“Do some people call you the Whistler?”

“From time to time.”

She nodded, as if to herself. “I thought it was you. Your fame precedes you, Mr. Chandler.”

“So, it would appear, does my alias,” he added wryly.

“No problem,” she said. “You’ll have a new identity before you leave my office.” She paused, then indicated a chair facing the desk. “Have a seat.” He did as she bade him. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“No, thanks.”

“Something to make you happier, perhaps, or mentally sharper?”

He shook his head.

She shrugged. “As you wish,” she said, walking to the cabinet and helping herself to a pair of small round pills. She stood perfectly still for a moment, as if waiting for the effect, whatever it was, to begin, then sat down opposite him.

“Write down the name you want to use so that there won’t be any discrepancy in the way it’s spelled. I’ll need your signature for the ID documents, anyway.”

“Have you got a piece of paper?” he asked, withdrawing a pen from a pocket of his tunic.

She opened the top drawer of her desk and handed him a monogrammed sheet of stationary.

“All right,” said Chandler, scribbling on the paper. “This is it.”

She took the sheet back from him and studied it. “Julio Juan Javier?”

Chandler smiled. “It’s so alliterative that no one will ever believe it’s not a real name given by a doting mother with terrible taste. No one would use a name like that as a cover.”

She shrugged. “All right. You’ll be Javier by tomorrow morning.” She paused for a moment. “I’ll start calling you that right now. I don’t want to get in the habit of calling you Chandler or Whistler and having it slip out at an inopportune time.”

“And what do I call you?” asked Chandler.

“My professional name is the Jade Queen. You may call me Jade.”

“May I assume that you own this place, Jade?”

“I own every building and business for two blocks in each direction,” she answered bluntly.

“I’m impressed,” said Chandler.

“You should be.”

“What’s your connection to Lord Lucifer?”

“Since he sent you here, there’s no sense hiding it from you,” she replied. “I suppose you could say that he’s my counterpart on Port Marrakech. Each of us has created an empire by preying upon the foolish, the gullible and the greedy.” She paused. “His holdings do not extend to Port Maracaibo, and mine do not extend to Port Marrakech. But,” she added, “each of us would like to establish a foothold on Hades itself, so it is in our best interest to help you in any way we can.”

“Good,” said Chandler. “I’ll take all the help I can get.”

“From what I hear, you’ll need plenty,” said Jade. “Does anyone else know you’re here?”

“Just my driver, a man named Gin. He’s back on Port Marrakech, under Lord Lucifer’s watchful eye.”

“Have you some reason to be suspicious of him?” she asked.

“No.”

“Then why—?”

“I just don’t have a very trusting nature.”

She nodded her approval. “You’ll live a lot longer that way.” She paused. “You’re sure he’s the only person other than Lord Lucifer who knows you’re here?”

“Except for you.”

“How long do you plan to stay here?”

“I’m not sure yet,” answered Chandler. “Possibly a month, hopefully much less.”

“Well, if you want me to help you while you’re on Port Maracaibo, perhaps you’d better tell me what you’ll be doing here.”

“You might be better off not knowing,” he suggested. “Once I tell you, you’re legally culpable.”

“Mr. Javier,” said Jade, “I own half the officials on this moon, and I rent the other half. If you want my help, you’re going to have to tell me what you intend to do. Otherwise, we can’t do business.”

Chandler paused for a moment, then nodded his acquiescence. “All right,” he replied. “I’ve come to Port Maracaibo to kill Blue Devils.”

“If you hate Blue Devils, there were plenty of them on Port Marrakech.”

“I wasn’t interested in killing those Blue Devils.”

“So I gather,” she said. “Why do you want to kill these particular Blue Devils?”

“I hope to elicit a response.”

“I don’t understand,” said Jade. “What kind of response—hatred? Fear? Panic?”

“All three.”

“That’s no answer. Why is it important that the Blue Devils on Port Maracaibo should feel fear or panic?”

“Because if they do, I hope they will make an attempt to prevent what I’m doing.”

She stared at him for a moment. “You think they’ll summon the Oracle to come to Port Maracaibo and hunt you down, don’t you?”

“That’s right.”

“That may not be the brightest idea you’ve ever had,” said Jade. “She’s supposed to be virtually invulnerable. How do you propose to kill her?”

“She’s much more valuable alive than dead,” said Chandler. “There isn’t a government or military organization in the galaxy that wouldn’t give its eyeteeth to get its hands on her. After all, how can you lose an election or a war when she’s on your side, telling you what to do next?” He paused. “The Democracy has been after her for sixteen years. I’ve been paid to bring her out, and to kill her only if there is no possible way of taking her away from Hades.”

“And you think that if you kill enough Blue Devils, she’ll come to Port Maracaibo?”

“It’s a possibility.”

Jade looked dubious. “Why should she?”

“Because she’ll be the only one who can stop me, and eventually the Blue Devils are going to get tired of being decimated.”

“What I meant was, what does she care about Blue Devils? Why should she leave Hades, where even the Fleet doesn’t dare attack her?”

“Because I have reason to believe that she wants to leave Hades, that in fact she may be incarcerated there against her will.”

“Oh?”

He explained his chain of reasoning to her, as he had done to Lord Lucifer two days earlier.

“So actually, you’ll be more encouraged if she doesn’t come to Port Maracaibo than if she does?” said Jade.

“If I’m reading the situation correctly, yes.”

“How long will you give her?” continued Jade. “How many Blue Devils will you have to kill before you decide that she isn’t coming?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Chandler. “I imagine it’ll depend on how much confusion I can cause here, and how much I can disrupt any lines of communication that exist between her and Port Maracaibo.”

“I still don’t know why you had to come here to do it, though.”

“My identity was known to too many people on Port Marrakech,” he answered. “Sooner or later the Blue Devils would have figured out who was behind the killings, and they would have come after me themselves. It makes much more sense to start on a new world with a fresh identity; they’re only going to use her as a last resort, once they themselves have failed to find out who’s responsible for the murders and the disruptions.”

Jade got up, walked to a wet bar, poured herself a Cygnian cognac, and turned to face him. “Well, you certainly have your work cut out for you, Julio Juan Javier.” She sipped her drink. “Where do I come in?”

“I’m an outsider here,” answered Chandler, “and I plan to keep it that way. Given a week or so, I could learn my way around the city, find out where the Blue Devils congregate, and set up a number of hideouts—but a lot of Men and Blue Devils would see me, and some of them might remember me, and the only way to make this an effective campaign of terror is for my identity to be completely concealed. In fact, I’d be just as happy if the Blue Devils think I’m one of them. Therefore, I need a guide, someone who can tell me where to go, or better still, provide me with some form of private transportation, and I need a place to return to when I’m done. One of the bedrooms at The Womb would serve my purposes, because that way if anyone ever does track me back here, you’ll be able to vouch that I’d been here all night.” He paused. “And there’s another reason I need you.”

“Oh?”

“I’m going to have to kill a number of alien beings. It’s strictly business, and I have no more use for them than they have for me. But it would be less wasteful and more useful if you could direct me toward those Blue Devils who might be in contact with the Oracle or whatever forces she controls. Since the object of this operation is to wreak enough havoc and cause enough disruption that the Blue Devils are forced to bring the Oracle here to confront me, then my most effective course of action is to kill those Blue Devils who might have some connection to her, or at least to the government of Hades.”

“I see,” said Jade, nodding thoughtfully.

“By the way, I’m going to need some weapons. Can you get them for me?”

“No problem.”

Chandler paused. “There’s one more thing you should know,” he added.

“Oh? And that is that?”

“Someone in the Democracy doesn’t want me to fulfill my contract. I don’t know if they don’t want me to bring her out, or if they don’t want me to kill her—but this person, or these people, whichever the case may be, tried to kill me back on Port Marrakech.”

“Is the Democracy your employer?” asked Jade.

“I think so.”

“You think so?”

“I’m just a subcontractor,” he answered. “I’ve never dealt directly with the person who’s paying for this.”

Jade frowned. “One thing puzzles me,” she said, returning to her chair and sitting down once more. “If the Democracy is your employer, why don’t they just call you off?”

“I don’t know for a fact that the Democracy is my employer—and at any rate, I’m not working directly for it.”

“Let me try it a different way,” continued Jade. “If they don’t want you to fulfill your mission, why are you going ahead with it?”

“Because I’m a businessman, not a patriot,” answered Chandler. “I was paid half the money up front, and I don’t get the other half until I complete the contract.”

“You’re a foolish man,” said Jade. “Whatever they’re paying you, it isn’t worth going up against the Oracle.”

“Then you’re an equally foolish woman for helping me,” replied Chandler.

“There’s a difference,” she said. “There’s an entire world for the taking. My gain is commensurate with the risk. Yours isn’t.”

“Half a world,” he corrected her.

“You’re referring to Lord Lucifer, of course?”

Chandler nodded.

“He’s out of the equation,” said Jade, her expression as cold and hard as Chandler’s own. “Or did you really think you were the only killer in this room?”

20

Jade ushered Chandler to a large, luxurious room next to her own. It possessed an ornate airbed, hard-carved furniture from the Domar system, and the same holographic display she had in her office.

“I’ll pass the word that I’ve got a special friend living here, and everyone will leave you alone,” she said.

“Won’t they want to see who your special friend is?” asked Chandler.

“What’s wrong with that?” she retorted. “The more people who know you’re here, the better. We’ll even have all your meals brought up here. The trick is not to let anyone see you leave.” She paused. “That’s a false closet,” she continued, indicating one of four identical mirrored doors lining one of the walls. “I’ll rig it to respond to your retinagram, so it will open whenever you approach it and stay open for, shall we say, twenty seconds? Behind it is an airlift that will take you down to my garage. You’ll enter and leave the building through it, and no one will know you’re gone.”

“I saw a number of doors down the corridor,” said Chandler. “How much business gets transacted on this floor?”

“Almost none, unless we’re overcrowded. Some of the girls sleep up here when they’re too tired or too busy to go home.” Jade paused. “It would probably be a good idea for you to meet a few of them and try to make friends with them; the more people who can vouch that you spend all your time up here, the better.”

“It sounds good,” he replied. “I’ll need to take a tour of the city tomorrow.”

“I’ll be off duty just before sunrise,” she said. “We’ll leave then.” She paused. “I’d better fetch you the first time, until you learn your way around.” Jade walked to the door. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”

He offered no reply, and she left the room.

Chandler took a Dryshower, shaved, and then lay down on the bed. He was asleep almost instantly, but some internal clock woke him up about twenty minutes before Jade was due back, and he was dressed and ready for her when she appeared.

“You look pleased with yourself,” he noted as she entered the room, dressed in a more practical outfit and handed him the weapons he had requested. “I take it the whorehouse did a good night’s business.”

“Actually, it was only average,” she replied. “But I did a good night’s business.” She tossed two small packets onto the bed.

“What are these?”

“The top one contains your new ID papers and passport.”

“Thanks,” he said, studying them with an expert eye. “That was fast.”

“You’re paying for it.”

“And what’s in the other one?”

“Take a look.”

He picked it up and opened it, withdrawing a sheet of paper on which were written a trio of incomprehensible alien symbols.

“What is it?” he asked.

“One of The Womb’s clients works for the Planetary Defense Department,” she replied.

“I didn’t know you had one.”

“When you live on a moon, and you’re outnumbered hundreds to one by a hostile population on the planet that you’re orbiting, you’d damned well better have one,” she said. “Oh, we couldn’t win a war with the Blue Devils. In fact, we probably couldn’t last ten minutes if they attacked us. But we monitor all their transmissions, and if we ever have cause to believe that an attack is being planned, we’ll send for the Navy.” She paused. “Anyway, this client specializes in translating and decoding the Blue Devils’ transmissions. And that,” she concluded, gesturing toward the paper, “is the way the Blue Devils refer to the Oracle in their own language.”

“How did you get him to write this down?”

“First, I got him a little drunk,” said Jade with a smile. “And then I appealed to his ego, which, alas, is the most massive thing about him. By the time he wakes up in the morning, he won’t even remember he wrote it.”

“All right,” said Chandler. “Now I know how to spell the Oracle’s name on Hades. So what?”

“Well,” said Jade, “it seems to me that if you’re trying to elicit a response, to use your own words, you can elicit it a lot faster if you’ll leave this symbol on each of your victims.”

Chandler considered her suggestion. “Not bad,” he admitted.

“It’s damned good,” replied Jade. “If they think the Oracle’s responsible for the killings, she’ll have to try to capture you to prove she’s innocent. And if they think she’s being set up, they’re going to want her to stop you from killing them with such impunity. She flashed him a triumphant smile. “They might even think you’re trying to elicit a response so that we’re justified in bringing in the Fleet.”

“That ought to shake them up,” agreed Chandler. He paused thoughtfully. “I’d like you to do something else for me.”

“What?”

“Contact the guy who gave this to you and see if he knows which Blue Devil is sending those messages—and also see if he can identify any other Blue Devils who work for the Oracle, or if he knows the location from which they’re being sent. I think we’ll get a much quicker response if I go after those Blue Devils who are in communication with her.”

“I’ll make a point of finding out next time he’s here.”

“How often does he show up here?” asked Chandler.

She shrugged. “It varies.”

Chandler shook his head. “Not good enough. He could stay away for weeks.”

“All right,” said Jade. “I’ll invite him to lunch after I show you around the city.”

“Will he come?”

She smiled. “If I invite him, he’ll come.” She paused. “Well,” she said at last, “are you ready to go?”

“Lead the way.”

She walked to the false closet, waited for it to open, and led him inside. A moment later they floated gently down to the basement level on the heavy air currents. There were two vehicles parked there: an elegant, chrome-and-gold groundcar that, like the public coaches, was capable of skimming just above the ground, but also possessed wheels for those streets that hadn’t been treated for superconductivity; and a very old, very nondescript vehicle that had seen better days and even better decades, but which would arouse almost no interest. She entered the latter, and he climbed into the front seat beside her.

“What do you think of it?” she asked.

“It belongs in a home for the elderly.”

“It might surprise you, Javier,” she replied with a smile. “I’ve had the whole thing rebuilt and customized beneath this exterior. It’s twice as fast as the showpiece over there,” she continued, indicating the groundcar.

“Interesting,” commented Chandler.

“Practical,” answered Jade. “It doesn’t draw attention the way the other one does, and as a result I can maintain my privacy when I have to go out.”

She pulled out of the garage and drove up a ramp to the street, then turned north.

“You’ve got to watch out for these damned coaches,” she commented, moving to the side of the street to allow a coach to pass her. “They’re omnipresent, and they’re responsible for 80% of the accidents in the city.”

“Where are we going?” asked Chandler.

“Blue Devil heaven.”

“That’s what it’s called?”

“It’s what it ought to be called,” replied Jade. “It’s the area where most of the Blue Devils congregate. There are a few shops, but no restaurants, no nightclubs, no whorehouses, nothing but apartment buildings. They’re a strange race, Javier—I’ve been on Port Maracaibo for eleven years, and I still don’t know what the hell they’re doing here. They’re not part of the economy, they don’t work, they don’t organize politically, they don’t interact with Men … they just hang around on street corners like a bunch of surly human teenagers.”

“They must emigrate here for some reason,” said Chandler.

“I suppose so,” she agreed. “But I’ll be damned if anyone I know can tell you what it is.”

“Maybe they just want some token presence here in case they ever try to reclaim the moons, some legal justification to prove they’ve never really relinquished them.”

She shook her head. “That’s a good, logical, human reason—so it’s probably not valid.” She looked ahead. “Here it comes,” she announced. “Once we cross this big street coming up, we’re in their neighborhood.”

Chandler looked out the window and studied the area. Most of the buildings had been built for human residents, and had fallen into various states of disrepair. Blue Devils lined the streets, most of them simply standing and staring, a few walking purposefully.

“What do they do for entertainment?” asked Chandler. “Have they got anything akin to holos or theaters?”

“Damned if I know.”

“I thought you’d been living here for eleven years.”

“We don’t bother them, they don’t bother us,” answered Jade. “Both races prefer it that way.”

“Drive by the heart of their commercial district,” said Chandler. “I want to take a look at it.”

She turned left for a block, then continued going north. In another moment they came to a single block that was lined with shops and stores, almost half of which were groceries markets.

“Go slower,” said Chandler.

Jade slowed the vehicle’s pace.

“It won’t work,” she said.

“What won’t?”

“Destroying some grocery stores,” she answered. “They’re not like us. You’re just as likely to disrupt them by killing some innocuous-looking Blue Devil who’s standing on a corner, minding his own business.”

“I’ll do both if I have to,” he replied. “I’d much rather find out which Blue Devils have some connection to the Oracle, though.”

“I told you I’d get your information,” she said irritably. “In case it’s escaped your notice, I haven’t been out of your presence since you first said you wanted it.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just that I find the thought of killing hundreds of Blue Devils wasteful. I’d rather kill two or three who matter to the Oracle and get the same response.”

“A moral assassin,” she said with an amused smile.

“Not everyone gets into this business because they like to kill people,” he replied.

“Then why do you do it?”

“Because I find all forms of business distasteful,” answered Chandler. “This one pays me enough so that I don’t have to work very often.”

“I suppose there’s a twisted kind of logic to that,” said Jade.

“Let’s leave this part of the city,” he said after a few more minutes had passed. “Go back to The Womb and then just start driving around that general area. I want to get the feel of it, and to make sure I can find my way back in the dark.”

She headed for The Womb, spent another twenty minutes crisscrossing the vicinity, and finally pulled into the sunken garage.

“I’m going to leave you here and try to get some more information,” said Jade. “Once you get back up to your room, just tell the computer what you want to eat and it will transmit the order to our kitchen.”

“You’ve got a kitchen?” he asked, surprised.

“Well, actually it’s in the restaurant next door, but the buildings are connected. In the meantime, I’ll see what I can find out about the transmissions.” She seemed about to open the door, then paused. “Can I ask you a question, Javier?”

“Go ahead.”

“Just what is it that makes the Oracle so valuable to the Democracy?” asked Jade. “We’ve all heard of her, but no one knows exactly who she is or what she does.”

“She sees the future.”

“Second sight?”

“More than that. If all she could do was see what was going to happen next, I think everyone except gamblers and stockbrokers would leave her alone.”

“What else does she do?”

“She not only sees the future, she manipulates it,” answered Chandler. “She sees every possible future, every permutation, and she tries to make the one she wants come to pass.”

“You’re kidding!”

“No, I’m not.”

“If she’s got the power to make anything happen that she can envision, why hasn’t she conquered the galaxy by now?”

He shrugged. “It’s a big galaxy. And I think her power has its limits.”

“What limits?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But if she didn’t have them, she would have conquered the galaxy by now—or at least changed it a hell of a lot more than she has.”

“Just the same,” said Jade, “I hope they’re paying you enough.”

“Sometimes I wonder about that myself,” he said, getting out of the vehicle.

He floated up to his room, ordered a meal, decided that it was a good thing the brothel wasn’t depending on the quality of its food to make a profit, then lay back on his airbed and watched a prerecorded game of murderball on the holo.

Jade entered the room just as the game, and its few remaining participants, had headed into overtime.

“How did you do?” he asked, getting to his feet.

“Well, I’ve got your first victim for you,” she said. “And with a little luck, I may have the Oracle’s location by tomorrow morning.”

“Oh?”

She nodded. “My friend is putting a tracer on their transmissions. He’ll be able to pinpoint the exact location on Hades that they’re being sent to.”

Chandler considered the possibilities for a moment, then grimaced. “I don’t know if that will be of much use to us,” he said. “It’s probably relayed half a dozen times before it reaches her.” He paused. “But I’d like to know where it’s sent from.”

“We’re working on it,” answered Jade. “In the meantime, you’ve got your own work cut out for you.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Blue Devil you want—the one who sent the transmission my friend told me about—is named Kraef Timo. I don’t know what his function is, but it must be something pretty damned important.”

“What makes you think so?” asked Chandler.

“He’s got half a dozen bodyguards.”

“How could your friend possibly know that? I thought he just checked transmissions.”

“I have other friends,” said Jade. “And one of them is a local policeman who’s on my payroll. Once I got Kraef Timo’s name, I asked him to run it through his computer, just to see if there was anything on him. And it turns out that they arrested Timo on a very minor violation about five months ago—it never even went to court—but when they went to his quarters to bring him in, he had to call off his bodyguards or there’d have been a real bloodbath.”

“Very interesting,” said Chandler. “Where do I find this Timo?”

“He’s one of the few Blue Devils who doesn’t live in their sector,” said Jade. “He’s got a suite of rooms at The Uncut Diamond—that’s a hotel about ten blocks from here.”

“I assume his bodyguards stay there with him?”

“Yes, they do.”

“Is Timo likely to be there after dark?”

She shrugged. “Since nobody knows what he does, nobody knows his hours.” She paused. “Are you really sure you want to go up against six armed Blue Devils?”

“I can think of things I’d rather do.”

“But you’re going to do it anyway?”

“I can’t think of a better way to start putting some pressure on her.”

“Maybe I can get another name from my friend, someone who sends transmissions and doesn’t have a walking arsenal following him around.”

He shook his head. “The bodyguards are precisely what makes this one such a desirable target.” He paused. “Why don’t you come back for me in about six hours?”

“What are you going to do in the meantime?” she asked.

“Take a nap,” he said, reclining on the airbed. “I’ve got a busy night ahead of me.”

He closed his eyes, and a moment later he was sound asleep.

Jade stared at him for a long moment, then left his room and returned to her own. And sat down. And for the first time, tried to decide whether she really wanted the Oracle to come to Port Maracaibo looking for Chandler and his confederates.

21

Chandler awoke just after sunset, ordered dinner, and spent the next half hour watching various sporting events on the holo screen. Then Jade entered his room and approached him.

“Are you ready?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Let’s wait another two or three hours. I want to give Timo’s bodyguards a little time to get sleepy.”

“Good,” said Jade, pulling up a chair and sitting down. “Because we have to talk.”

“What about?”

“About the Oracle.”

Chandler stared at her. “Go ahead,” he said. “I’m listening.”

“Why are you trying to lure her to Port Maracaibo?”

“I told you why,” said Chandler.

“I know what you told me,” she said. “Now I want you to tell me something else.”

“What?”

“How do you know this is your idea?”

“She’s no telepath,” he replied. “The man who hired me actually spent some time with her some years ago.”

“She doesn’t have to be a telepath,” persisted Jade.

“I don’t think I follow you.”

“You told me yourself: she can see an infinite number of futures, and manipulate things so that the future she wants will come to pass. Maybe she chose the one future in which you came to Port Maracaibo and devised this particular plan.”

“I doubt it,” said Chandler. “But even if it’s true, so what? My job is to bring her out.”

“What if she doesn’t want to go with you?” said Jade. “What if she just needs an excuse to leave Hades?”

“For what reason?”

“How should I know what reason?” responded Jade. “I just want to know how you can be sure she’s not pulling your strings right this moment.”

He sighed. “The answer to that is that I don’t know. I don’t think she is. I don’t think she has that kind of power, or, if she does have it, then I don’t think she can be held anywhere, even Hades, against her will. But even if she is manipulating me into getting her off Hades, why should I care about it? She’s just making my job easier.”

“I don’t know,” said Jade. “But I feel very uneasy about it. If she’s manipulating you, then she’s manipulating me, too, and I don’t like being manipulated.”

“I don’t know exactly what we can do about it either way,” replied Chandler.

“We can quit right now.”

“Not a chance,” he said. “I’ve got a contract to fulfill.”

“How do you know that she isn’t planning to go to war with the Democracy? Maybe Kraef Timo is the only voice in opposition to hers, and she’s manipulating us into killing him.”

“If she can do that from 300,000 miles away,” answered Chandler, “why doesn’t she just choose a future in which he chokes to death on his food, or trips down a flight of stairs and breaks his neck?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Jade. Her face hardened. “In fact, the more I think about this situation, the more things I don’t know.”

“Look,” said Chandler. “Either we’ve got free will or we don’t. If we do, then we’re doing the right thing. If we don’t, then we can’t do anything else anyway. So what’s the point of worrying about it?”

“Because we can stop right now if we decide to.”

He smiled. “And how will you know that the Oracle didn’t change her mind and choose a future in which we stopped?”

She wearily leaned back on the chair. “Where does it end?”

“Second-guessing fate?” asked Chandler. “Never. That’s why it’s a good idea not to start.”

“Doesn’t it bother you to think that your actions, your very thoughts, might not be your own?” she asked.

“But they are my own. Even if we’re being manipulated, the Oracle didn’t choose these thoughts and put them into my mind. She just arranged things so that these were the ones I’d think and act upon.” He paused. “Besides, I don’t see any viable alternative. If I assume she’s controlling me, then she’s controlling me whether I kill Kraef Timo or walk away from him.”

Jade considered his statement. “Well, it’s a practical approach,” she conceded. “But it’s not very satisfying. I think an animal in the forest might have that same viewpoint.”

“I spend most of my life with animals in the forest,” replied Chandler. “Very few of them have high blood pressure or heart attacks. Maybe they know something we don’t know.”

“They don’t know anything,” said Jade. “They just react.”

“They stay warm and dry and well-fed,” he noted. “When all is said and done, that’s all most humans are really trying to do.”

“You’re not a very comforting person to talk to, Javier,” she said. “I come to you with serious doubts, and you give me a lecture on animals.”

“I’m not in the comfort business.”

“I know. I suppose I’ll have to make my decision without any help from you.”

“What decision?”

“Whether I should help you or stop you,” Jade said bluntly.

“I’d very much like your help, though I can accomplish my mission without it,” said Chandler with equal bluntness. “I’d strongly advise you not to try to stop me.”

She stared at him for a long moment. “I still have to make up my mind,” she said at last.

“Let me know when you do.”

“You’ll be the first to know.”

She got up and left the room.

Chandler waited another twenty minutes, then got up and walked to the false closet. It opened after scanning his retina and registering it against its database, and a moment later he was standing in the sunken garage. He decided against borrowing Jade’s vehicle, since he didn’t know Port Maracaibo’s traffic laws and also had no idea where he could leave it while he went about his business.

He walked over to a gentle incline, followed it up to a door at ground level, opened it, and a moment later found himself in a small alley behind The Womb. He followed it for two blocks, then turned onto a main street, asked a passerby how to find The Uncut Diamond, and caught a coach that seemed to be going in the right direction.

He was annoyed that Jade had forced him to change his schedule: he’d have been much more comfortable visiting Kraef Timo after midnight, when the Blue Devil’s bodyguards had relaxed and a couple of them had perhaps gone off to bed. But if she decided to oppose him, there was no telling how she might go about it, and bringing in some hired killers was certainly not beyond her capabilities.

The coach passed The Uncut Diamond, a small, rather ordinary-looking hotel, and he got off at the next street, then walked back to the main entrance. He felt no need to keep to the shadows or hide his presence, since nobody here knew him anyway.

He walked into a darkened cocktail lounge off to the left of the registration desk, was struck by the rancid odor of alien intoxicants, realized that he was one of the few humans in the room, and dialed a beer on the computer menu. He nursed it for about fifteen minutes, keeping an eye on the hotel entrance. Though the hotel catered almost exclusively to aliens, no Blue Devils entered or left—he hadn’t really expected to see any—and he decided that it was time to find out where Kraef Timo’s suite was located.

There was no guest register, nor could he have read one if there was. The house vidphones were out of the question, too; he was sure the desk wouldn’t release the room number, and asking would just alert Timo to his presence. The hotel was only five floors tall; he could simply check each floor for Blue Devils, but it was unlikely that any of Timo’s bodyguards were posted outside the suite.

Finally he walked over to a public vidphone booth, entered it, checked the directory, and found a restaurant down the street that delivered around the clock. He quickly punched out its combination, then smiled into the camera when the connection was made.

“This is Mr. Timo at The Uncut Diamond,” he said. “I’ve been displeased with room service the last two nights. Can I get a sandwich and a beer sent over?”

The man at the other end took his order and asked for his room number.

“It’s in some alien script,” answered Chandler. “But you can’t miss it. It’s the third door to the right of the lift, on the seventh floor.”

He hung up, walked back to the cocktail lounge, and waited. Half an hour later a young man carrying a bag that obviously contained food entered the hotel, walked to the airlift, stepped into it, and stepped right back out, frowning. Chandler left the lounge and slowly approached the airlift as the young man walked to the desk and exchanged a few words with the Lodinite clerk. The two of them arrived together and floated up to the fourth level in silence.

The delivery man turned to his left, checking the numbers on the doors, and Chandler waited a few seconds, then began following him at a leisurely pace.

The man stopped at a door, touched a sensor, and waited for it to slide open. Chandler saw a Blue Devil approach the delivery man, after which the two exchanged heated words for a minute or two, and finally the man left and returned to the airlift.

Chandler leaned against a wall until he was sure the man wasn’t going to come back and make a second attempt to deliver his package and get his money. Then he walked silently down the corridor, stopped in front of Timo’s door, and reached out to touch the sensor.

The door opened instantly, and a powerful-looking Blue Devil appeared.

“I told you to go away!” it said in thickly-accented Terran.

Chandler reached out and slit his throat without a word, then leaped into the room. Three Blue Devils were seated in odd-looking chairs. He killed all three with a sonic pistol before they realized he was there.

A laser beam missed his ear by inches, and he hurled himself to the floor, rolling and firing back as he did so. A Blue Devil shrieked in agony and staggered across the room, an ugly green fluid trickling from its ears. He fired again and the alien fell motionless to the floor.

“Who are you?” demanded another voice, less heavily accented but definitely not human. “What do you want?”

The voice seemed to be coming from a bedroom off to his left, and, changing his sonic pistol for a laser gun, he fired a beam that seared through the wall at a height of about four feet.

“Who are you?” repeated the voice. “Why does she want me dead?”

Chandler felt a brief surge of satisfaction: the she that the alien mentioned could only be the Oracle, which meant that he had indeed chosen the proper target. For a moment he considered trying to take Timo alive and grilling it thoroughly about the Oracle and her plans, but he recalled that Boma, the Blue Devil they had questioned on Port Marrakech, took its own life rather than reveal any information about the Oracle, and with at least one more bodyguard unaccounted for, Chandler didn’t think the risk was worth it.

He fired through the wall once more, lower this time, and heard a body fall to the floor.

He waited a full minute for another sound, a movement, any indication of life within the bedroom, then cautiously approached it. When he reached the doorway he peered in, and saw a Blue Devil lying on the floor, a huge burn mark running the length of its torso.

He entered the room, turned the corpse on its back, and looked for some sign or symbol of identification. As he was examining the body, he saw a sudden motion out of the corner of his eye, and as he turned to face the final bodyguard a blue foot kicked the weapon out of his hand.

The huge Blue Devil leaned forward, reaching out for Chandler. He responded with two quick kicks against the Blue Devil’s leg joints, and as the surprised creature was struggling to maintain its balance, Chandler made a quick slashing motion with his hand, then stood back as blood spurted out of the bodyguard’s throat. It rasped hoarsely once, glared at Chandler for a moment, and died.

Chandler locked the door to the corridor and spent the next few minutes making sure there were no more Blue Devils around, then withdrew a small knife, made the Oracle’s mark on each corpse, and began thoroughly inspecting the suite, looking for anything, however insignificant, that might tell him something more about the Oracle and her organization.

He was rummaging through the very last compartment when Jade walked in, a pistol in her hand.

“You’ve had a busy night,” she said, glancing briefly at the corpse-strewn floor.

“How did you get in here?” he demanded.

“I own this building.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I came to stop you,” said Jade.

“Why?”

“Because I hadn’t decided whether or not I wanted you to kill these Blue Devils—and on my world, nobody kills anyone unless I give my permission.” She paused, then continued speaking with a cold fury. “You said you’d wait in your room for two more hours. You lied to me.”

“I changed my mind,” he said.

“You lied to me, and that’s all that matters,” she replied. “It could be that, for various reasons, you didn’t want me to come along. It could be that you’re simply a liar by nature. Or it could be because she made you lie.”

“You’re getting paranoid about her,” said Chandler.

“How can you be paranoid about someone with the ability to shape the future?” she retorted. “You can underestimate her capacity for harm, but I hardly think you can overestimate it.” She stared at him. “However, that’s not the issue here. You lied to me, and you killed seven Blue Devils without my permission. That’s tantamount to disobeying me.”

“How can I disobey you?” said Chandler irritably. “That implies that I take orders from you—and nobody gives me orders.”

“There are only two options for you while you’re on Port Maracaibo,” said Jade. “First, you can clear your plans with me and obtain my permission.”

“And what’s the second?”

She pointed the pistol at him. “I can kill you.”

22

“Put that away,” said Chandler. “You want to expand your operations to Hades, and I’m the only man who can make that possible. We’re still on the same side.”

“If you’re on my side, you don’t sneak off and commit murders without my approval.”

They heard the sound of footsteps outside the door, as a very heavy-footed alien walked to its room.

“This is neither the time nor the place to discuss this,” said Chandler. “These bodies aren’t going to stay undiscovered all night.” He paused. “Timo and one of his bodyguards were in one of the bedrooms. For all I know, they sent for help before I killed them.”

Jade considered his statement, then nodded. “All right,” she said, lowering her pistol. “We’ll continue this discussion back at the Womb.”

They walked quickly to the airlift, floated down to the lobby together, then left the building.

“Did you bring your vehicle?” he asked.

“It’s around the corner,” she replied.

They entered the landcar and drove back to The Womb in silence. She pulled into the sunken garage, and a moment later they ascended to his room and immediately went to her quarters.

“Well, what now?” she asked.

“Now we choose another target.”

She shook her head. “I’m not helping you until I know that I’m not being manipulated into it.”

Chandler shrugged. “Then I’ll have to do it myself.”

“Without my help, all you’ll be doing is slaughtering a bunch of innocent Blue Devils who may not have any connection to the Oracle at all.”

“I won’t have to kill that many of them,” responded Chandler. “If I put the Oracle’s insignia on each victim, she’ll either come up here to stop me in a couple of weeks, or I’ll know she can’t leave Hades and I’ll have to go after her.” He paused. “But it would save me a lot of trouble if I knew who worked for her or communicated with her.”

“Not until I sort things out,” said Jade adamantly.

“The only thing you have to know is that whether I kill her or take her out, you’re going to get rich—or, rather, richer,” said Chandler. “As for the rest of it, we simply don’t have enough information. You could consider the problem halfway to eternity, and you still wouldn’t know if we’re doing what she wants or acting on our own.”

“There’s one piece of information that you haven’t considered.”

“Oh? What is that?”

“You told me that the Democracy tried to kill you back on Port Marrakech. Why?”

“I don’t know. Probably they didn’t want me to fulfill my mission.”

“Which mission?” asked Jade. “Bringing her out, or killing her?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, it’s something you ought to consider,” she continued. “If they’ve managed to learn something about the Oracle since you were hired, something that makes them think she’s too dangerous to be allowed to live, then the last thing you want to do is bring her out alive.”

“By the same token,” he replied, “if you’re convinced she can manipulate you and me without our knowing it, she can probably manipulate them.”

“But why would she have them try to kill you if you were going to bring her out?”

“Any number of reasons,” answered Chandler. “First, she may be very happy where she is. Second, she may have arranged the attempt on my life, knowing I’d survive it, as a way of making me move my base of operations from Port Marrakech to Port Maracaibo, where I’d have a better chance of convincing the Blue Devils to bring her to me. Third, there’s every likelihood that she’s carrying a grudge against the man who hired me; maybe with me dead, he’d have to come here and try to fulfill the contract himself.” He paused. “There’s no way to know until I come face-to-face with her.”

“By that time it’ll probably be too late,” said Jade. “I don’t know if she can control events from Hades, but everything you’ve told me leads me to believe she can control them when she’s in the same room with you.”

“I haven’t come to kill her,” answered Chandler. “She’ll know that.”

“But you will kill her if you have to,” said Jade. “She’ll know that, too.”

“Unless I know for a fact that she’s amenable to coming away with me, I’ll probably have to kill her. She’s too dangerous to try to deal with.”

“She’ll know that.”

“Then I’ll have to put her in such a position where knowing it doesn’t do her any good.”

“There’s no possible way to do that.”

“We’ll see,” replied Chandler with more confidence that he felt. He paused. “Do you have anything more to say?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Then if you don’t mind, I’m going to go get something to eat.”

“You’d better have something sent to your room,” she said. “You’ll want whoever delivers it to be able to testify that you were there.”

He nodded, then left her suite and returned to his own quarters. He ordered a sandwich and an imported beer, and watched the artificial scenery through his window while he waited for the meal to arrive.

The vidphone flashed, and he activated it.

“Yes?” he said.

The image of a Blue Devil appeared above the phone.

“It won’t work, Whistler.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Go home, Whistler,” said the Blue Devil. “Go home and stay alive.”

It broke the connection.

He immediately returned to Jade’s suite, where he found her sitting at her desk, staring at a computer with a frown on her face.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, looking up.

“It worked,” he said. “Much faster than I thought it would.”

“What worked?”

“I’ve just been warned off.”

“By the Oracle?” asked Jade.

“In essence,” he replied. “By some Blue Devil.”

“How did they find you so quickly?”

He shrugged. “For all I know they’ve been watching me since I landed here.”

“And you led them right to The Womb?”

“Not on purpose,” said Chandler. “Besides, they contacted me, not you. They know who’s responsible for what happened at The Uncut Diamond. They have no reason to suspect you of any complicity.”

“If they saw you at The Uncut Diamond, then they saw me, too. What exactly did this Blue Devil say?”

“That what I was doing wouldn’t work.” He paused. “That’s her way of telling me to go in after her.”

“You’re jumping to conclusions.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Maybe the Blue Devils are trying to scare you off before they have to bring the Oracle to Port Maracaibo.”

Chandler shook his head. “This has the Oracle’s signature on it, believe me.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Because if she wanted me dead, the Blue Devils know where I am. They’d have sent me a bullet or a laser beam, not a vidphone call.” He paused. “But if she wants me to bring her out, this is exactly the way she’d tell me.”

“You killed seven Blue Devils tonight,” said Jade. “Why wouldn’t they retaliate regardless of her wishes?”

“Because she told them not to,” said Chandler. “And because she and she alone has manipulated things to keep them from being assimilated by the Democracy.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” said Jade. “First you make her sound like a prisoner, and now you’re telling me that they’re afraid to disobey her orders.”

“Maybe the two aren’t mutually exclusive,” suggested Chandler. “Maybe as long as she gives them valid information, they let her live … and if she ever misleads them, they’ll kill her. Under those circumstances, they’d give her the benefit of the doubt, because the alternative would be to kill her and they don’t want to do that if there are any other options. Besides, look at her message: it sounds like she’s dealing from strength and trying to frighten me off.”

Jade was silent for almost a full minute. Finally she looked directly into Chandler’s eyes.

“You can’t go,” she said.

Chandler frowned. “More doubts?”

“While you were in your room, I tied into the Master Computer on Deluros.”

“And?”

“And I told it to locate any information that was available about the Oracle,” she continued. “It qualified its information by saying that it was only valid if she had once been known as the Soothsayer—but some of the details matched what you’ve told me about her.”

“What point are you trying to make?” asked Chandler.

“When she was eight years old, she was able to kill some of the best bounty hunters on the Inner Frontier,” said Jade. “And that was when she was just a little girl. She’s a grown woman now, and it’s reasonable to assume that she’s even more powerful now than she was then.” She looked across her desk at Chandler. “She killed eight armed bounty hunters in a single afternoon on a planet called Killhaven. I don’t want any part of her—it’s not worth the risk.”

“If she was easier to kidnap or kill, the rewards wouldn’t be this great.”

“Don’t you see?” said Jade in frustration. “This woman has the power to hold the Democracy at bay. Those Blue Devils aren’t even cold yet and she already knows you killed them. If she’s being kept on Hades against her will, then I say: good for the Blue Devils, and let’s leave her there.” She paused. “The Blue Devil who contacted you gave you good advice: go home.”

“I’ve got a job to do first,” said Chandler. “Besides, aren’t you curious to see her, and find out what she can really do? I am.”

“I don’t want to be the one who turns her loose on the galaxy.”

“You don’t have to have anything to do with it,” he said. “I just need to find some way to get to the planet without being detected.”

“You aren’t going to have anything to do with it, either.”

“Don’t try to stop me,” he said ominously.

“I won’t let her escape from Hades,” she replied firmly.

“You don’t have a choice.”

“Of course I do,” she said, producing her pistol. “I told you once: you’re not the only killer in this room. I let you live before, but I’m afraid now you’ve left me with no alternative.”

“You really intend to kill me?” he asked.

“I do.”

“How do you know that this isn’t what the Oracle wants?”

Jade frowned, as if considering the question, and in that instant, as her concentration wavered, he made a swift motion with his hand. She grunted and dropped her pistol as a knife buried itself in her throat.

Chandler walked over to her. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But you were going to kill me.”

“You’re a fool,” she whispered hoarsely. “You’ve destroyed us all.” Then she slumped over and died.

He left her where she was sitting, pausing only long enough to retrieve his knife, then returned to his room, took the airlift down to the garage, and walked out into the Port Maracaibo night.

PART 4:

The

Iceman’s

Book

23

The Iceman took the shuttle down to Philemon II, made his way to the large hexagonal building that was his destination, and flashed his temporary pass at the door. Once inside he walked directly to the Information computer, queried it briefly, and walked to an airlift. He was required to display his pass again and undergo a retina scan, after which he descended almost 200 feet below ground level.

He stepped out into a maze of shining, brightly-lit corridors, waited for an armed soldier to approach him, displayed his pass a third time, and was ushered to a small waiting room. He barely had time to light a small cigar when a door slid back and another soldier stepped through.

“He’ll see you now, Mr. Mendoza.”

The Iceman walked to the door, then entered a large office as the soldier moved aside and the door closed behind him.

“Carlos!” said 32, looking up from his chrome desk and smiling. The wall behind him was filled with the memorabilia of a lifetime devoted to government service, including a personally inscribed holograph of the current Secretary of the Republic. “It’s been a long time.”

“24 years, give or take a month,” replied the Iceman.

“You haven’t changed much.”

“Maybe you’d better have your eyesight tested,” said the Iceman. “I’m a 63-year-old man with a pot belly and an artificial leg.”

32 smiled. “No, you haven’t changed at all, Carlos,” he said. “Always a little too blunt, always inclined to disregard a well-meant social lie.” He uttered a terse command to his computer and a chair floated over. “Won’t you have a seat?”

The Iceman sat down. “How about a drink?”

“Name it.”

“Whatever’s wet. Unless you’ve changed more radically than I think, you haven’t got anything cheap lying around.”

32 chuckled in acknowledgment. “How about some Alphard brandy?”

“Sounds good,” said the Iceman.

32 walked to a wall that appeared to be covered with bookshelves, pressed a certain spot on it, and a section of the holographic projection vanished, to be replaced by a well-stocked bar. He filled two glasses with brandy, handed one to the Iceman, and returned to his desk.

“Thanks,” said the Iceman.

“It’s from a new vineyard,” said 32, straightening the glowing fabric of his expensively-tailored tunic, which had wrinkled slightly when he sat down. “I’m anxious to have your reaction.”

The Iceman shrugged. “What the hell,” he said. “I’ve got all day. Let me know when you want to talk business.”

“You never believed in small talk, did you?” said 32 wryly.

“It’s your money,” replied the Iceman. “Chatter all you want. But when you’re through, I hope you’ll get around to telling me why you promised me three million credits if I’d come to Philemon II.”

“I didn’t think you’d come for less,” said 32 frankly. “It’s my understanding that you’ve become a very wealthy man.”

“I get by.”

“But you were still willing to come for three million credits,” noted 32.

“It’s a lot of money, just to take a trip.”

“There’s more where that came from.”

“I’m listening,” said the Iceman.

“We’ve got a serious situation on our hands, Carlos,” said 32.

“Who’s ‘we’?”

“You know who I work for.”

“All right, you’ve got a serious situation on your hands. What has that got to do with me?”

“Well, to be perfectly candid, Carlos, you’re working for me.”

The Iceman smiled. “So you sent Bettina Bailey, or whoever she really was, to Last Chance.” He paused. “I knew someone in the Democracy sent her, but I didn’t know who.”

“I sent her,” confirmed 32. “And you accepted her commission.”

“I’m working on it.”

“To be more precise, Joshua Jeremiah Chandler, alias the Whistler, is working on it. Am I correct?”

The Iceman stared levelly at him. “I see no reason to lie about it. He’s younger and stronger and a hell of a lot quicker than I am.”

“But I hired you.”

“In point of fact, you didn’t hire anyone. Your operative did—and I sent the best man for the job.”

“Well, it may interest you to know that the best man for the job has gone off the deep end,” said 32.

“I very much doubt that.”

“Have you been in contact with him since he reached the Alpha Crepello system?”

“No. But I didn’t expect to be, not this soon.” The Iceman drained his glass, then relit his cigar, which had gone out.

“I’d be surprised if he ever contacts you again,” said 32. “Do you know what he did when he landed on Port Marrakech?”

“Port Marrakech?”

“One of Alpha Crepello III’s terraformed moons.”

“Suppose you tell me,” said the Iceman.

“He murdered the best assassin on the moon and took over his business. Then he moved his base of operations to Port Maracaibo, where two nights ago he killed the woman who ran most of the brothels and rackets on that moon.” 32 paused. “Damn it, Carlos—the man has become the criminal kingpin of both moons, and I financed him!”

The Iceman shook his head. “You’re not telling me everything.”

“I certainly am. What he’s done is a matter of record.”

“I know the Whistler. He has no intention of leaving his home world; in fact, he only takes assignments to pay for that jungle world he lives on.”

“I tell you, the man has turned,” insisted 32. “He’s in business for himself now.”

“Slow down a minute,” said the Iceman. “He began just the way I’d have begun. He set himself up on the first moon. This would assuage any fears Penelope had that he had come after her, and would make it easier for him to buy information about her.” The Iceman paused. “Obviously he was successful. But if he was, there was no reason for him to move to the second moon.”

“He’s turned renegade.”

The Iceman shook his head again. “He wasn’t on the first moon long enough to consolidate his holdings. Something made him change his base of operations.” He stared at 32. “Something you’re going to have to tell me about if this conversation is to proceed any farther.”

32 stared at him, then sighed deeply. “Someone tried to kill him.”

“One of your men?”

“No. But one of the Democracy’s. We’re not the only department concerned with the Oracle.”

“Come on,” said the Iceman disbelievingly. “They were your men and you decided it was the most efficient way to eliminate him.” He paused. “So the Whistler found out you were trying to terminate him, and he moved to another moon. The only thing that surprises me is that he didn’t change his identity.”

“He did.”

“Then how do you know he was there?”

“He killed a woman known as the Jade Queen. A number of people who worked for her gave us his description.”

“I assume you haven’t picked him up?”

“He’s vanished completely,” said 32. “But it’s just a matter of time before he surfaces again. He hasn’t had time to establish his authority there yet.”

The Iceman looked amused. “The years haven’t made you any wiser, I see.”

“Where do you think he’ll show up?”

“He’s probably on Alpha Crepello III by now.”

“Then why did he kill the Jade Queen?”

“I have no idea.”

“I don’t buy it,” said 32. “Every move he’s made since arriving has been directed toward taking over the criminal networks on those two moons.”

“Have it your way,” said the Iceman nonchalantly. “I didn’t come here to argue with you.”

“You came here because I paid you to.”

“That’s right,” agreed the Iceman. “And for three million credits, the very least I can do is listen to your ramblings politely.”

“Look,” said 32 irritably. “I told you we had a problem. Even if you’re right about his reaching Alpha Crepello, we still have a problem.”

“I’m still listening.”

“Word has come down that we don’t want to risk bringing the Oracle out. My new orders are to terminate her.”

“I wish you luck,” said the Iceman.

“I need more than luck,” said 32. “I need results.” He paused. “Will the Whistler kill her?”

“Only if he can’t find a way to bring her out,” answered the Iceman. “In case it’s slipped your mind, that’s what you paid for.”

“Can you contact him and tell him the situation has changed?” asked 32. “After what happened on Port Marrakech, I doubt that he’ll believe me, even though I had nothing to do with the attempt on his life.”

“I doubt it,” said the Iceman thoughtfully. “If he’s on the planet, he’ll stay under cover until he reaches her.” He paused. “Your best bet is to send someone else in after her, and hope your new operative reaches her first.”

“I’ve sent eight men in,” said 32. “The first seven were killed.”

“What about the eighth?”

32 grimaced. “The eighth was a criminal that I had released from jail. Brilliant planner, brutal killer.” 32 paused. “I had him wired all the way—camera in his eye, transmitter in his ear, even a bomb in his skull to keep him in line.”

“And?”

“The son of a bitch found a way to disconnect me!” said 32 furiously. “He’s already held me up for more money, and he’s operating without any guidance or constraint!”

The Iceman grinned. “I like him already.”

“He’s also got orders to kill your man if he shows up on Hades.”

“Hades?”

“That’s the trade name for Alpha Crepello III.”

“Why is he supposed to kill the Whistler?”

“Because the Democracy has decided that it would rather have her dead than alive and abroad in the galaxy.”

“It won’t work,” said the Iceman after some thought. “The Whistler’s as good as they come. Your man won’t lay a finger on him.”

“I don’t care if he kills him or not!” snapped 32.

“Then I’m at a loss to understand your problem.”

“Damn it, Carlos—I’ve got two men down there. One of them is going to try to bring her out, and if she’s willing to go with him, then that’s the last thing we want. The other knows that ten million credits have been deposited in some secret account that even I haven’t been able to trace, and he knows he’s facing a death sentence if we get our hands on him.” He paused, trying to regain his composure. “My assignment is to terminate the Oracle, and I have no reason to believe either of the men on Hades will accomplish that.”

“You could be right,” agreed the Iceman calmly. “It looks like you’ve wasted a lot of money.”

“It’s partly your fault,” said 32.

“Oh? How do you figure that?”

“There’s only one man who knows Penelope Bailey well enough to do the job. You were the one I hired, Carlos; if you took the money, you should have done the job yourself.”

“I’m a fat old man with a limp,” answered the Iceman. “I got you the best there is.”

“He may be the best assassin, but he doesn’t know her. You do.”

“Look,” said the Iceman. “I want her dead even more than you do. She killed someone I cared about, and she cost me my leg.” He paused, and put his cigar out. “But I also know her capacity for harm. She’s potentially the most dangerous being in the whole damned galaxy, maybe in the history of the galaxy, so I passed up a chance for personal vengeance to hire you the man most likely to get the job done.”

“Well, he’s not getting it done. He’s killing criminals and taking over their operations.”

“I’ll bet you the three million you promised me that he’s either on Hades or en route to it.”

“But even if you’re right, he’s not going to try to kill her.”

“Not at first,” acknowledged the Iceman.

“You know her capacities,” said 32. “If she knows he’s there, and she isn’t willing to leave with him, what are his chances of killing her?”

“Just about nil.”

“My own man might be able to sneak up on her,” continued 32, “but he has no reason to. He’s been paid plenty, and he has no reason ever to contact me again.”

“You can’t sneak up on her,” said the Iceman. “She doesn’t have to see you to know you’re there. She can see what’s going to happen next, and if she doesn’t like it, she can change it.”

“You see?” said 32. “That’s the kind of thing that the Whistler and Jimmy Two Feathers don’t know! That’s why I need you!”

“Jimmy Two Feathers?” repeated the Iceman, surprised. “You sent the Injun in after her?”

“You know him?”

“I know of him. He’s a seed-chewer.”

“That’s why I had him wired.”

“Well, you can forget about him,” said the Iceman. “If he’s not under your control, he’s floating off in limbo somewhere.”

“There are no seeds on Hades.”

The Iceman stared at him. “You really believe that, don’t you?”

“We monitor every cargo shipment to Hades.”

“If there’s a planet they can’t smuggle seed to, it hasn’t been discovered yet.”

“That’s neither here nor there,” said 32. “If he’s on the seed, that’s all the more reason why you have to go in.”

“I don’t have to do anything,” said the Iceman. “You’re paying me three million credits to listen to you, nothing more.”

“There’s lots more.”

“I’m a rich man. I don’t need it.”

“And there’s the chance for vengeance.”

“You don’t take vengeance on a hurricane or an ion storm,” said the Iceman. “They’re forces of nature. If you survive an encounter with them, you count yourself lucky and you make sure that it never happens again.” He paused. “Penelope’s the same thing—a force of nature. I’d love to see somebody kill her, I don’t think it can happen, and I’m not dumb enough to volunteer. I had my shot at her when I was a lot younger and stronger, and I was lucky to come away alive.”

“You sound very cool and dispassionate,” said 32. “But I researched you thoroughly, Carlos. You followed every lead you could get your hands on for fourteen years. You traveled all over the Inner Frontier looking for her. That’s not the behavior of a man who’s afraid to face her again.”

“In the beginning I hunted her with a passion,” admitted the Iceman. “I won’t deny it.” He paused. “But a man can’t survive on hatred for fourteen years. After a while the blood cools and the passion fades, and toward the end I was hunting her more out of curiosity than hatred. I wanted to find out what she had become, how she had managed to stay hidden all these years, what her plans were.”

“She’s only two systems away from here,” said 32. “And you still don’t know the answers to your questions.”

“When she’s ready to move, we’ll all know.”

32 finished his brandy, and looked across the desk at the Iceman. “We can’t afford to find out,” he said. “We’ve got to kill her now.”

“Maybe all she wants is to be left alone.”

“If you had those powers, would you want to be left alone to live in obscurity?” demanded 32.

“No, but…”

“But what?”

“But I’m human,” said the Iceman. “She probably isn’t, not anymore.”

“That’s all the more reason to terminate her.”

“If you say so.”

“Ten million credits,” said 32.

The Iceman made no answer, but stared at some fixed point on the wall.

“Well?” said 32.

“Be quiet,” said the Iceman. “I’m thinking.”

“Computing expenses?”

“I said be quiet!”

32 looked at the Iceman, then shrugged and was silent.

The Iceman remained motionless for almost a minute, then turned back to 32.

“You’ve got a big problem on your hands,” he said.

“That’s what I’ve been explaining to you.”

The Iceman shook his head. “It’s not the one you think.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s been so long since I’ve seen her that I tend to forget what she can do,” said the Iceman. “You’ve got two men on Hades…”

“One that we know of.”

“Take my word, you’ve got two there,” said the Iceman.

“All right, for the sake of argument,” said 32. “What has that got to do with anything?”

“Why are they still alive?”

32 looked confused. “I don’t think I understand the question.”

“Why didn’t the Injun’s ship crash when it landed? Why was the Whistler able to kill whoever it was he killed on the moons?”

“You think she wants them alive?” asked 32. “Why?”

“There’s only one reason I can think of,” answered the Iceman. “She’s being held against her will, and wants them to bring her out.”

“Against her will?” repeated 32. “How is that possible?”

“I don’t know … but I know if she didn’t want to leave, the Injun wouldn’t have been alive long enough to get your tampering undone. The surgeon would have sneezed or flinched at the wrong moment, and he’d never have survived.” He paused. “You were right. If you can’t call the Whistler off, you’ll have to kill him. And probably the Injun, too. If she wants to leave Hades, then you’ve got to stop her.”

“My orders are to kill her.”

“Fuck your orders,” said the Iceman. “You had her when she was six years old and you couldn’t keep her even then. I tried to kill her when she was eight, and I failed. But now, somehow, the inhabitants of Hades have actually managed to keep her there against her will all these years, even though her powers have doubtless matured.” He stared at 32. “You let her off that planet and there will be hell to pay. She doesn’t need a navy to conquer a world; all she has to do is choose the one future out of a million in which its star explodes, or a meteor plows into it. Give her an army of five thousand men and she would win any battle against any force in the galaxy, just by picking and choosing which outcome she wants for each skirmish. She probably can’t be killed, but she can be contained—they’re containing her right now.”

“If you’re right, then these are the perfect conditions under which to assassinate her,” persisted 32.

“You still don’t understand,” said the Iceman. “Let’s say she’s locked up in a cell. If you tried to shoot her, she’d cough or sneeze or twitch or do something that would bring about the one future in which you blew the lock off the door.”

“We’ve still got to try.”

“No!” snapped the Iceman. “Once and for all, try to understand what I’m saying to you: they’ve found a way to contain her. We’d be crazy to tamper with it.”

“But we can’t just sit back and do nothing!” protested 32.

“We could have, before you hired me and sent the Injun after her,” said the Iceman. “But like I said, you’ve got a big problem on your hands. The first one of them to reach her is going to free her, whether he means to or not.” He paused for a very long moment. “Put the ten million in my account,” he said reluctantly. “I’m going to have to go in after them.”

“I thought you didn’t want any part of it.”

“I don’t,” said the Iceman. “But I’m the only one who can call the Whistler off. He’ll kill anyone else you send.”

“What about the Injun?”

“If he’s on the seed, he’s off in dreamland somewhere—and if he tries to kill the Whistler, you can bury what’s left of him.”

“But if he’s clean, and he can’t find the Whistler, he’ll be going after the Oracle.”

“Then I’ll have to find him and stop him.”

“As you pointed out, you’re a fat old man with one leg,” said 32. “What makes you think you can stop him?”

“He won’t know why I’m there, and he has no reason to kill me,” answered the Iceman. “And hopefully I’ll have the Whistler on my side.” He paused and stared grimly across the desk at 32. “You’ve only got one other alternative.”

“What is it?”

“Blow up the whole damned planet—and do it with unmanned ships that have been programmed thousands of light years away.”

“We can’t kill 200 million Blue Devils, just to get rid of someone who might constitute a threat!” protested 32.

“We’ve done a lot worse in the past,” said the Iceman.

“I will not go down in history as a genocidal maniac!”

The Iceman sighed. “Then I’ll have to go to Hades and try to find the Whistler and the Injun before they find her.”

“What makes you think she’ll let you land?”

“I’ll find a way. That’s part of what you’re paying me for.”

32 considered all he had heard for a long moment, then shook his head in confusion. “I just don’t know,” he said at last. “When you lay it out, it sounds reasonable…” He sighed. “But when all is said and done, I’m supposed to have her assassinated, and here we are, talking about how to keep the two assassins from reaching her.”

“It’s up to you,” said the Iceman. “I’m an old man. I imagine I can live out my life before she turns the Democracy inside out.” He got to his feet. “I’m going back up to my ship. I’ll stay docked in orbit for ten more hours. I’m sure you’ve recorded our conversation; play it to whoever can change your orders. If I don’t hear from you by then, I’ll assume you’re still going to try to kill her, and I’ll go back to Last Chance.”

It didn’t take ten hours, or even eight.

Five hours later the Democracy transferred ten million credits to the Iceman’s account on Last Chance.

And ten minutes after that, the Iceman activated his ship and took off for Hades, wondering whether he would live long enough to spend a single credit of his money.

24

As he approached the planet, his radio came to life.

“You are approaching Alpha Crepello III,” said an accented voice. “Please identify yourself.”

“This is the Space Mouse, Registration Number 932K1P23, five Galactic Standard days out of Last Chance, via Philemon II, Carlos Mendoza commanding.”

“Alpha Crepello III is closed to all unauthorized visitors.”

“Let me speak to whoever is in charge,” said the Iceman.

“That is impossible.”

“I have vital information to convey to him.”

“What is the nature of your information?”

“My information is not for underlings,” replied the Iceman. “I must speak to your superior.”

“I have explained that this is impossible.”

“Then give me your name and military identification number,” said the Iceman. “I want to know who to blame when your commander asks why he was not contacted.”

There was a momentary silence. “Please wait,” said the voice at last.

The Iceman allowed himself the luxury of a smile, and opened a container of beer while he waited for his demand to get passed up the chain of command to someone who would finally accept responsibility.

It took eleven minutes.

Then the image of a Blue Devil, its outfit bedecked with glittering stones that the Iceman took to be medals, appeared on his viewscreen.

“I am Praed Tropo,” said the Blue Devil.

“You’re in charge?”

“I am in a position of authority. What information have you for me?”

“It’s very sensitive,” answered the Iceman. “I’d much rather tell you in person.”

“You are not allowed to land on Alpha Crepello III.”

“Not even to save the Oracle’s life?” asked the Iceman.

There was no change in the Blue Devil’s expression, but its voice seemed to drop half an octave. “Continue,” it said.

“There is a human assassin, currently on Alpha Crepello III, who has been hired to terminate the Oracle. This assassin does not work for the Democracy; in fact, the Democracy, which does not want to be involved in an interplanetary incident, has assigned me the task of stopping him. To do this, I will need your assistance.”

“The Oracle is in no danger,” replied Praed Tropo. “She cannot be harmed.”

“The Democracy controls more than 50,000 worlds, and this is the best assassin on any of them,” said the Iceman. “Are you sure you care to take that chance?”

“If he is the best assassin, how do you propose to stop him?”

“I don’t,” answered the Iceman. “I am an old man, well past my prime. But I know his methods, and I can identify him. I hope to enlist your aid in apprehending him.”

“Transmit his holograph and retinagram to us, and we will attend to him,” said Praed Tropo.

“I have accepted a commission of ten million credits to apprehend him,” said the Iceman. “This money is payable only upon the successful completion of my assignment, and the Democracy will have no reason to pay me if I turn the job over to you. Either we work together, or I return to Last Chance and your Oracle can take her chances.”

“Why should I believe you?” demanded Praed Tropo.

“You can authenticate my story with the man who hired me,” said the Iceman.

“Why should I believe any Man?”

He’d been waiting for that question. Now it was time to play his trump card, the offer on which he was willing to wager his life.

“I will be happy to put myself in your custody until you are convinced that I am telling the truth. Surely you have the equivalent of a lie detector; I will willingly submit to interrogation while monitored by any such mechanism.”

“I will need time to consider this,” said Praed Tropo.

“I understand,” said the Iceman. “But you must understand that every minute you delay works in the assassin’s favor.”

And the less time you have to come up with a question I’m unprepared for, the better.

This time the silence lasted for less than thirty seconds.

“We will transmit landing coordinates to your ship,” said Praed Tropo. “All weapons systems must be disarmed or you will be destroyed.”

“I have no weapons systems,” answered the Iceman.

“We are transmitting now.”

The Iceman touched down at a military spaceport some forty minutes later, stepped out into the incredibly hot air of Hades, and was immediately taken into custody by a squadron of Blue Devils. They marched him into a nearby building, where Praed Tropo was waiting for him.

“You realize that if we discover that you have lied to us, you will be imprisoned and quite probably executed,” was Tropo’s greeting to him.

“I do,” answered the Iceman. “But once you find out I’m telling you the truth, I trust that you’ll be willing to work with me.”

“We shall see.”

“Look,” said the Iceman. “I’m just an independent businessman, trying to become more independent. Personally, I don’t care whether your Oracle lives a million years or dies tomorrow.”

“What is that to me?” said Praed Tropo.

“I’m trying to tell you that you can trust me because I’m motivated by the most basic human emotion: greed. I have no reason to lie to you, and every reason to tell you the truth.”

“If you are indeed telling the truth, you have nothing to worry about, Mendoza,” replied Praed Tropo. “Follow me.”

Praed Tropo began walking down a corridor, and the Iceman, still accompanied by the squadron of Blue Devils, fell into step behind him. It wasn’t like any corridor the Iceman had ever seen before: it was as if it had been designed by a drunken architect, and built by madmen. The ceiling rose to a height of fifteen feet, then dropped to the point where they all had to bend over to keep from bumping their heads, then rose again. It zigged and zagged for no discernable purpose, passing no doorways or rooms along the way, and finally, when he was convinced that they had completed a very erratic circle and were about to wind up where they had started, it abruptly terminated in a large room.

The walls were set at oblique angles to each other, and the ceiling rose and fell like a wave on a turbulent ocean. At the far end of the room was a row of machines, none of which bore any resemblance to anything with which the Iceman was familiar, and near one of them was a chair. Not a chair constructed for human use, but as he stared at it, the Iceman decided that a Blue Devil would probably be just as uncomfortable on it as he would.

He was led to the chair and told to sit down. Then Praed Tropo placed a small metal disk on the back of his neck, and another on his left wrist. Four Blue Devils trained their weapons on him.

“We are now prepared to interrogate you,” said the Blue Devil. “If you should lie, you will receive a near-lethal correction that will affect your nerve centers. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” replied the Iceman.

“Should you attempt to escape before the interrogation is completed, you will be shot. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Very well,” said Praed Tropo. “What is your name?”

“Carlos Mendoza.”

“What is your home planet?”

“Last Chance.”

“We have no record of a Last Chance.”

“It’s official name is Madison IV.”

“Why are you here, Mendoza?”

Here it comes, thought the Iceman. Keep calm, don’t get excited, and choose your words very carefully. Do it right and you can beat this machine.

“I have come to Alpha Crepello III to prevent an assassin named Chandler from carrying out his assignment.”

He waited for a jolt, and relaxed when it didn’t occur.

“What is Chandler’s assignment?”

“He is a hired killer who has come for the Oracle.”

“How do you know this?”

Careful.

“I am on intimate terms with the man who hired him.”

“And who hired you to prevent him from carrying out his assignment?”

“A high-level official in the Democracy. I don’t know his real name, but his code name is 32. He is currently stationed on Philemon II. He has offered to pay me ten million credits if I accomplish my mission.”

“How did this Chandler manage to land on Alpha Crepello III?” asked Praed Tropo.

“I don’t know.”

“Where is he now?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you know that he has definitely been commissioned to assassinate the Oracle?”

Pause. Take a deep breath. Construct your answer precisely. Think.

“I know that when the circumstances are right, he will try to kill her.”

The Iceman half-expected to be jolted by a near-lethal shock, but nothing happened.

“Have you met this Chandler personally?” continued Praed Tropo.

“Yes.”

“And you can identify him?”

“Yes.”

“What good is that to us if he is the master of disguise you claim him to be?”

“I know his methods. I’ll know him when I see him.”

“You are absolutely sure of this?” said Praed Tropo. “There is no doubt in your mind?”

“I am absolutely sure of it,” repeated the Iceman. “There is no doubt whatsoever in my mind.” He paused. “If that answers your questions, can you disconnect me from this device now? I’m very uneasy being attached to it, and I’m afraid that it may misinterpret my nervousness as false answers.”

“You’ll be disconnected when I am through questioning you,” answered Praed Tropo. “And not until then.”

He asked the Iceman the same set of questions three more times, then had him supply a list of Chandler’s known victims.

“He sounds quite formidable,” admitted the Blue Devil at last.

“He’s supposed to be the best,” said the Iceman.

“I still do not understand why the Democracy is attempting to stop him. It would seem to be in their best interest to have him assassinate the Oracle. It is she and she alone who has kept us independent.”

The Iceman’s first inclination was to remain silent, since no question had been asked. Then he realized that he had better make some response, before the question could be worded in a lethal way.

“I assure you that the Democracy does not want Chandler to succeed in his mission. It is my understanding that they attempted to kill him on Port Marrakech, but he survived.”

Praed Tropo stared at him for a long moment.

“I will ask you once more, directly: has the Democracy hired this assassin to kill the Oracle?”

“This” assassin. Concentrate on “this”. They don’t mean the Injun. They’ve never heard of the Injun. “This” assassin is the Whistler. Only the Whistler. And I’m the one who told him to kill her if he couldn’t bring her out. The Democracy knew nothing about it. They wanted her alive. And he’s only talking about the Whistler. Not the Injun. Only the Whistler, and I told him to, not the Democracy.

“You seem hesitant to answer,” said Praed Tropo. “Has the Democracy hired this assassin to kill the Oracle?”

“No,” said the Iceman.

“Once more: has the Democracy hired Chandler to kill the Oracle.”

“No.”

That’s it. You’ve learned everything you can from me. There’s no sense asking about the Oracle. I’m just a small-time informer. How could I know about her? Probably I don’t even know she’s a human rather than a Blue Devil. Why would I know the Oracle? Nobody would even have told me about her powers. Just don’t ask about her, and I’ve won. Just don’t ask about the Oracle…

“Have you any loyalty to the Democracy?” asked Praed Tropo.

“None.”

“If they asked you to lie for them, would you?”

“It all depends.”

“On what does it depend?”

“On what benefits I would derive from lying.”

“Economic benefits?”

“That’s right.”

“And have you lied to me?”

He means during this interrogation. He’s not referring to anything I said on the ship. That’s obvious. He means have I lied while I was hooked up to the machine. The question only applies to this interrogation, only to the machine.

“No.”

Praed Tropo checked the machine and then nodded to one of his underlings, who removed the disks from the Iceman’s neck and wrist.

The Iceman stood up, suddenly realized just how uncomfortable the chair had been, and stretched the knots out of his muscles.

“Satisfied?” he said.

“For the moment,” replied Praed Tropo.

“Then we’d better get busy, because Chandler’s got a hell of a head start on us.”

“Head start?”

“An advantage,” explained the Iceman. “He’s been here for days. For all I know, he’s within striking distance of the Oracle right now.”

“The Oracle is in no danger,” answered Praed Tropo.

“I’ve already told you that this man is the best assassin in the Democracy.”

“It makes no difference. The Oracle cannot be killed.”

The Iceman saw an opportunity to display his ignorance of the Oracle, and took it. “Any Blue Devil can be killed.”

Praed Tropo’s face contorted into what the Iceman assumed was a look of amusement. “She is not of my race,” it said, “but of yours.”

“Then what’s she doing on Alpha Crepello III?”

“That is not for you to know.”

“Well, if she’s human, that’s all the more reason to protect her,” said the Iceman. “If there’s one thing Chandler knows how to do, it’s kill humans.”

“He cannot kill her,” repeated Praed Tropo.

“If you’re so damned sure of that, why did you let me land?” asked the Iceman.

“Because an assassin is loose on the planet, and he must be apprehended.”

The Iceman forced a puzzled frown to his face. “But if you’re convinced he can’t kill the Oracle, why—?”

“Because he can kill those members of my race who are in daily contact with the Oracle.”

“What makes the Oracle so immune to assassination?”

Praed Tropo ignored the question, and ushered him back down the long, crazily-winding corridor to the building’s entrance. Then it stopped and turned to the Iceman.

“We have no human foodstuffs here. You will be escorted to your ship, where you will bring supplies sufficient for three days.”

“What if it takes more than three days to apprehend Chandler?”

“Then I will reassess the situation.”

“Just a minute,” said the Iceman. “If you don’t have any human food, what does the Oracle eat?”

“We have no food for you,” answered Praed Tropo.

You’re operating under deep cover, Whistler, so the odds are you can’t find out who delivers her food. But if the Injun isn’t lost in some seed-chewer’s dreamworld, he’ll have figured it out by now. And that means he’s closer to her than you are, and I can expect him to show up first—if he’s stayed off the seed.

And that means that if I have to sacrifice one of you, it will probably be the Injun, who I’ll claim to be you—which is just as well, because it’s been years since I was good enough to kill you, if indeed I ever was. I just wish I knew what the hell the Injun looks like.

“Once I get my food, what then?” he asked aloud.

“Then I will take you to a place where we can call up the holographs of every human known to be on the planet,” answered Praed Tropo, “and if Chandler is among them, we will arrest and incarcerate him.”

“What if he’s not among them, or if I identify his holograph but we can’t find him?”

“Then we will alert our security forces, and when he approaches the Oracle, we will apprehend him.”

“May I make a suggestion?” said the Iceman.

“You may.”

“Chandler’s too good at his trade to be taken that easily. Maybe I’ll spot his holograph and maybe I won’t, but the odds are that he’s already working his way to wherever it is that the Oracle resides. And he won’t approach her directly: only a fool would do that on a planet where every human is suspect.” Only a fool, or perhaps a gimpy old man who’s so far past his prime that he can no longer operate covertly, he amended silently.

“What is the point you are making, Mendoza?” asked Praed Tropo.

“He’s a cautious man,” continued the Iceman. “He won’t make a move until he knows the function and schedule of every Blue Devil who guards the Oracle.” The Iceman paused. “Now, if you beef up your security forces around her, he’ll just outwait you. I don’t know how much he’s being paid for this job, but it’s got to be enough so that he can spend a year or two waiting for the right opportunity.” He turned to Praed Tropo. “But he knows me, and he has no reason to distrust me. If you’ll put me in a conspicuous position somewhere near the Oracle’s headquarters, I think he’ll contact me before he acts.”

“Why should he?”

“Because I have no business being here, and he’ll be curious. He’ll want to know if we’re business rivals, or if I bear some new instructions from his employer, or just what reason I have for being on the planet.”

“How will this benefit us?” asked Praed Tropo. “You are an old man; he is a professional assassin. How can you possibly take him into custody?”

“I can’t,” answered the Iceman. “But there is a chance that I can lead him into custody. I can tell him that there’s been a change in plans, and that we have to go to some predetermined place to discuss it—a place where you will be waiting for him.”

“Why should he believe you?” queried the Blue Devil.

“Why shouldn’t he?”

“Because, as you say, you have no business being on Alpha Crepello III. Your presence alone may serve to alarm him.”

“It’s a possibility,” admitted the Iceman. “But what can he do? You assure me that the Oracle is invulnerable. If my plan works, you’ll have him in custody an hour later. If it doesn’t, if my presence alarms him, he’ll almost certainly go back into hiding, and then your task will be no different than it is now, except that you’ll know the general area that he’s hiding in.”

“And what if he kills you?” asked Praed Tropo.

“I’m getting paid a lot of money to take that chance.”

“I will have to consider your proposition very carefully,” said Praed Tropo. “I do not like giving you such freedom of action.”

“If we’re going to work together,” said the Iceman, “we’re going to have to trust each other.”

“You are a Man,” replied Praed Tropo. “That is reason enough not to trust you.”

“But your own machine confirmed that I was telling the truth.”

“You answered my questions truthfully,” acknowledged the Blue Devil. “But it is possible that I did not ask the right questions. You are a Man, and yet you have allied yourself with an alien race to kill another Man. There is no question in my mind that had I not given you permission to land your ship, you would have sought some covert means to land on Alpha Crepello III. This assassin knows and trusts you, and you plan to deceive him and lead him into our hands. How am I to know what other motivations you might have, what other reasons you might possess for being here?”

You’re smarter than you look, Tropo. Any minute now you’re going to think of asking the Oracle what to do about Chandler. You’ll be afraid to bother her with what you still think of as a wild goose chase, but eventually—maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after that—you’ll muster up the courage, and when you do there’s every likelihood that you’ll mention my name. I’m afraid you’re destined for an early death, Praed Tropo.

“Well, if you come up with a better plan, let me know,” said the Iceman.

“I shall.”

“Just don’t take too long. Remember: this man is an accomplished killer, and he’s been on the planet long enough to pinpoint the Oracle’s location. A lot of lives depend on our moving quickly.”

Including mine.

25

Praed Tropo still had not decided what course of action to take by the end of the day, and the Iceman requested permission to spend the night aboard his ship, which was cooler and possessed a comfortable human bed. The Blue Devil at first objected, but finally gave his permission.

Once he had climbed aboard and triggered his security system, he activated his subspace radio.

“32 here,” said the voice at the other end.

“It’s me,” said the Iceman. “And you’d damned well better be right about this frequency being beyond their capacity to pick up.”

“It is. Where are you—on one of the moons?”

“I’m on Hades.”

“You’re on Hades itself?” exclaimed 32, surprised. “I knew I had the right man when I sent that woman out to approach you! You should never have farmed out the job.”

“Then you’d have been trying to kill me,” replied the Iceman dryly.

There was an awkward pause.

“Have you learned anything yet?” asked 32.

“I haven’t found out anything about the Whistler, if that’s what you mean.”

“What about Jimmy Two Feathers?”

“I don’t know where he is, but if he’s kept off the seed, I know where he’ll show up.”

“He’s not the one we’re worried about. He’ll either assassinate the Oracle, or he’ll fail and probably get himself killed. It’s Chandler we’ve got to stop.”

“May I point out that I’ve only been on the damned planet for three or four hours?” said the Iceman. “If he was that easy to stop, I wouldn’t have hired him, and you wouldn’t have had to hire me.”

“I’m sorry,” said 32 with a marked lack of sincerity. “It’s just that we’re very anxious about this whole project.”

“‘We’?” repeated the Iceman. “Have you got some kind of pool going on who lives and who dies?”

“Just be careful,” admonished 32. “If we did have a pool, the Oracle would be the favorite.”

“I know,” said the Iceman. “But if you’ll let me speak to one of your demolition experts, maybe I can lower the odds.”

“I’ll get one in here right away.”

“The sooner the better. I still don’t trust this frequency.”

The expert arrived a few minutes later, the Iceman put a number of questions to her, received the answers he needed, and then deactivated the radio. He waited a few minutes to make sure that no one had monitored his conversation and was coming to arrest him, then spent the next two hours working with the information he had received. Finally, physically and emotionally drained from the events of the day, he lay down on his bunk and was asleep almost instantly.

Praed Tropo contacted him via radio the next morning just after sunrise, and demanded his presence. It was already hot outside, and getting hotter by the minute, and the Iceman took a broad-brimmed hat with him to shade his eyes from the sun.

“I have considered your proposition very carefully,” said Praed Tropo as they walked toward a waiting vehicle, “and I have decided to let you attempt to stop the assassin.”

“Thank you.”

“There is nothing to thank me for, Mendoza,” answered the Blue Devil. “We are confronting a dangerous situation. You are risking your life to resolve it.”

“As I told you, I’m being well-paid,” responded the Iceman.

Praed Tropo’s expression indicated what he thought of a race that would do anything for money, but it made no reply.

“Where are we going?” asked the Iceman as they reached the vehicle and Praed Tropo motioned him to climb into it. Four armed Blue Devils were waiting for him, and Praed Tropo joined them a moment later.

“Where you want to go,” answered the Blue Devil. Suddenly the windows all darkened, and a light came on, illuminating the interior of the vehicle.

“The Oracle’s headquarters?”

“That is correct,” said Praed Tropo. “Since you have no need to know its location, I have made the windows opaque.”

The vehicle began moving, and the Iceman leaned back on his seat, trying unsuccessfully to get comfortable. For the first time since arriving on Hades, he became aware of the unpleasant, almost bitter odor of the Blue Devils. The vehicle wasn’t air-conditioned, for the Blue Devils had evolved to cope with the intense heat, and his mouth suddenly felt dry. After a few minutes he found himself sweating profusely, and shortly thereafter his clothes were drenched, and his foot squished uncomfortably in his boot.

“How much longer?” he asked hoarsely.

“Perhaps an hour,” said Praed Tropo. “Perhaps two.”

“Wonderful,” he muttered.

“You are uncomfortable?”

“Very.”

“Oh,” said Praed Tropo, with no show of concern.

The vehicle sped on, and the Iceman finally found that he was less uncomfortable if he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and cupping his chin in his hands. After about ten minutes his back began to ache, and he straightened up again, aware that he was causing the Blue Devils untold satisfaction, if not outright amusement.

“Are we heading toward a city?” he asked, hoping that conversation would take his mind off his discomfort.

“Why should you think so?” answered Praed Tropo.

“Because her headquarters would be harder to pinpoint if they were surrounded by hundreds of other buildings.”

“She has no reason to fear attack.”

“Tell me about her.”

“Why?”

“I’m risking my life to save her, so naturally I’m curious,” answered the Iceman.

“She is in no danger. You are here only to prevent any members of my own race from being harmed.”

“Why is she called the Oracle? Does she make mystic pronouncements?”

“Oracle is a Terran word,” replied Praed Tropo. “She chose it herself. I do not know what it means.”

“Why is she living among you?”

“It is not necessary for you to know that.”

“What does she look like?” asked the Iceman.

“Like any other member of your race.”

“Every other member of my race can be killed. What makes you so certain that she can’t be?”

“You ask too many questions, Mendoza,” said Praed Tropo.

“The Democracy is paying me a lot of money to save her,” said the Iceman. “That implies someone else spent a lot of money to have her killed. I’d like to know what makes her so valuable. Your claim that she is invulnerable seems like a good place to start.”

“Be quiet, Mendoza,” said Praed Tropo. “I find your questions tiring.”

“Then why not answer them and I’ll shut up?”

“Because it has occurred to me, as it has doubtless occurred to you, that Chandler may have been paid more than ten million credits to assassinate the Oracle. Since you know who hired him, and since greed is the prime motivating force of all Men, I consider it quite likely that you yourself will attempt to kill the Oracle if you feel the opportunity has presented itself.”

“But you’ve already told me it can’t be done,” the Iceman pointed out. “Were you lying to me?”

“No,” said Praed Tropo. “But in the process, you could kill some members of my race, and since you landed here on my authority, I would be held responsible for your crimes.” He paused. “Therefore, I will tell you nothing about the Oracle. You are here to apprehend Chandler, and nothing more.”

You know, thought the Iceman, when I was younger and stronger, I probably would have tried to cut Chandler out and kill the Oracle myself—if my story had been true. You’re too smart again by half, Praed Tropo. If all the Blue Devils are like you, I wonder why your people think they need the Oracle.

“Well, then,” he said aloud, “perhaps you can tell me about her headquarters. What are its dimensions, how many Blue Devils are guarding it, what kind of security systems have been built into it?”

“You will see for yourself when we arrive,” answered Praed Tropo.

“Fine,” said the Iceman with a sigh.

“There is one thing I will tell you now, Mendoza.”

“Good. What is it?”

“My race is called the Lorhn,” said Praed Tropo. “We find the term Blue Devils offensive.”

“I assure you no offense was intended. I’ve only heard you referred to as Blue Devils.”

“We call you Men, as you prefer, rather than—” it uttered a word that was unpronounceable in Terran. “And we have learned to speak Terran, though it bears no relation to our own language and is painful to our throats.” It paused. “And yet, although the Democracy knows we are the Lorhn, it persists in calling us Blue Devils, and does not teach its diplomats or its operatives our language. Is it any wonder that we have no desire to be assimilated by you?”

“I’m no politician or operative,” said the Iceman. “I’m just a businessman, and from this moment forward I’ll be happy to refer to you as Lorhn. If you feel the Democracy has treated your race with disrespect, tell them.”

“I have no intercourse with the Democracy, nor do I expect to have any unless they invade us,” said Praed Tropo. “I am telling you, because if you survive I will expect you to relay my message to them.”

“Consider it done,” lied the Iceman.

The Blue Devil fell silent again, and the Iceman, totally out of questions, rode in mute discomfort.

After another hour he felt the vehicle turn to the left, and suddenly the sound of the wind was broken by large structures, either buildings or natural formations. Then it began slowing down, and in another mile it stopped.

“We have arrived,” announced Praed Tropo as the windows became transparent once more.

The Iceman’s eyes began watering at the broad expanse of sand that reflected the intense sunlight, and it took him almost a minute before he could begin focusing.

The first thing he saw was the building, beautifully camouflaged in a depression beneath a large outcropping of rock. It was a crazily irregular structure, but if a wall with right angles had been built around it, the Iceman estimated that it would be close to 400 feet on a side.

The quartz roof, reflecting a dazzling array of reds, oranges and golds, with blue metal girders supporting it, immediately caught his eye. It seemed much more intricate than necessary, even if it served as a solar energy collector.

He looked for windows and doors, found a few where they shouldn’t have been and almost none where he expected them to be, and shrugged. He’d been on enough alien worlds not to try to make sense out of their structures. If they thought a roof should be fifty feet high at one point and ten feet at another, with no rhyme or reason to justify the sudden changes, that was fine by him; all he was concerned about was the woman who resided beneath that roof.

At the far end of the building was a huge triangular door, and after he, Praed Tropo, and the four armed Blue Devils climbed out of the vehicle, the driver started it up again and drove through the doorway into what the Iceman assumed was an enormous garage.

There were eleven Blue Devils pacing the grounds, walking in intricate patterns that seemed totally unrelated to one another. None of them were armed.

“Who are they?” asked the Iceman.

“They are members of the house’s staff.”

“What are they doing?”

“They are performing their religious rituals,” answered Praed Tropo.

“They make awfully easy targets,” noted the Iceman.

“Then they will join our God that much sooner,” replied the Blue Devil with a shrug.

“And what are these?” asked the Iceman, indicating a number of stone structures scattered around the landscape. “They look rather like fountains.”

“What is a fountain?”

The Iceman explained it, and Praed Tropo looked disapproving.

“We have no water to spare for such non-essential purposes.”

“Then I repeat: what are they?”

“Monuments, denoting where various Lorhn have fallen in defense of the Oracle.” It paused. “In every case, they were killed by agents of the Democracy.”

“Then it would seem that the Democracy has hired me to make amends,” said the Iceman.

“For Men to make amends is contrary to my experience,” said Praed Tropo.

“You’ve been associating with the wrong Men,” said the Iceman easily.

“I will give you every opportunity to prove me wrong, Mendoza,” answered the Blue Devil. “But I expect that you will prove to be no different from the rest.”

“You know, you object to my calling your race Blue Devils, and I’m making an attempt to abide by your wishes,” said the Iceman. “But you keep making generalizations about my race that you know to be false.”

“Nothing I have said is false.”

“You have stated or implied that Men are not to be trusted, and that we hold your race in contempt.”

“That is true.”

“You forget the Oracle,” said the Iceman. “She’s a member of my race, and yet you trust her.”

Praed Tropo stared at the Iceman for a long moment, and then spoke. “I repeat: nothing I have said is false.”

26

The Iceman was still considering what Praed Tropo had said as they toured the grounds.

“Which way do you think Chandler will approach?” asked the Blue Devil when they had finished their inspection.

The Iceman placed his hands on his hips and surveyed the landscape.

“Difficult to say,” he replied. “I assume the fence on the west side is electrified?”

“Our security system does not use electricity,” answered Praed Tropo. “It is too easy to disable at the source. The fence has a self-generating field that will kill anything that touches it.”

“How about that overhang?” asked the Iceman, indicating the huge rock that towered over the house.

“It cannot be scaled.”

“Not by a Lorhn, perhaps—but it wouldn’t be that difficult for a human.”

“Could you scale it?” asked Praed Tropo skeptically.

The Iceman smiled and shook his head. “No … but I’ve got a prosthetic leg, and I’ve never really learned to use it properly; there’s some nerve damage to my hip. Twenty years ago I could have climbed it with no trouble.”

“I shall deploy forces to guard all approaches to the overhang,” said Praed Tropo after some thought.

“I wouldn’t, if I were you.”

“Why not?” asked the Blue Devil suspiciously.

“You’re not dealing with an amateur here,” replied the Iceman. “He’ll spot anyone you post there, and he won’t try to come into the compound—and if he doesn’t come in, then there’s no way I can contact him.”

“You are certain?”

“The only way he’ll enter the compound under those circumstances is if he kills every Lorhn you post there—and it’s my understanding that that’s what you’ve brought me here to prevent.”

“That is true,” admitted Praed Tropo. “But if we follow this philosophy throughout our defenses, it is almost certain that Chandler will at least reach the spot where we are standing without being apprehended.”

“That’s the whole purpose of the exercise,” answered the Iceman. “We’ve got to entice him to breech your defenses or I won’t be able to identify him and warn him off.”

“And what if you can’t warn him off?” asked Praed Tropo. “What if, having come this far, he elects to kill you?”

“He has no reason to kill me.”

“Men lie to each other all the time. Why should he believe what you tell him?”

“Because he knows me.”

“That is an inadequate answer.”

“I’m sorry, because it’s the best answer you’re going to get,” replied the Iceman. “Besides, what difference does it make to you if he kills me or not? You insist that no one can kill the Oracle. At least this way you’ll know where he is, and you can make sure he doesn’t get out.”

Praed Tropo was silent for a moment. “Logical,” it said at last.

“I’m glad we agree on something,” said the Iceman.

“What do you suggest for the rest of the perimeter?” asked the Blue Devil. “It is possible to deactivate the fences.”

“Not a good idea,” answered the Iceman. “We want to pick and choose his approaches. If you just let him come in at random, I might never see him.”

Praed Tropo stared at him, a strange expression on its face.

“Is something wrong?” asked the Iceman.

“No,” answered the Blue Devil. “You are acting out your part very well.”

“I’m not acting any part,” protested the Iceman irritably. “I’m trying to earn my commission.”

“I still do not trust you, Mendoza,” said Praed Tropo. “But you have been very careful not to make a mistake. If you had suggested that we deactivate the fence, I would know you were an agent for the assassin, and I would have immediately imprisoned you.” It paused. “I will continue to work with you, but sooner or later I expect you to make an error, and I will be waiting for it.”

“You are doomed to be disappointed,” said the Iceman.

“I have always expected the worst from Men,” answered Praed Tropo. “And I have never yet been disappointed.”

“If you’re going to continue telling me what a treacherous race I belong to, can we at least walk over to some shade?” asked the Iceman. “If I stand out here much longer, I may not live long enough to prove to you that I’m telling the truth.”

Praed Tropo led him to a bizarrely-shaped lean-to that seemed to have no purpose except to provide shade to anyone who was willing to bend over at the waist.

“Aren’t you uncomfortable?” asked the Iceman, staring at the slightly taller Blue Devil.

“You asked for shade. I have provided it.”

“This is getting ridiculous,” said the Iceman. “Your furniture and vehicles are bad enough, but if I’m going to roast to death, I don’t see why I have to do it while I’m bent in half.”

“You should have considered that before accepting an assignment on Alpha Crepello III,” replied Praed Tropo, stepping back out into the sunlight.

“Look,” said the Iceman, also stepping out from under the lean-to and straightening up painfully, “I know that you enjoy my discomfort, but my race wasn’t built for this kind of heat, and I’m a very old man. You’re going to have to provide me with some comfortable shade—and I emphasize the word comfortable—if I’m to stay outside and wait for Chandler to show up.”

“He will almost certainly arrive under cover of darkness,” answered Praed Tropo. “Our nights are quite cool.”

“I experienced one of your nights, thanks. They’re only cool if you’re a Lorhn.” The Iceman paused. “Do you know what an umbrella is?”

“No.”

“I’ll draw one for you,” said the Iceman. “I want one of your Lorhn to construct one for me. And I’ll need plenty of water.”

“Water is very rare on Alpha Crepello III.”

“Not as rare as assassins,” shot back the Iceman. “If you want me to stop him, you’ve got to keep me alive until he shows up.”

Praed Tropo seemed to consider his request. “I will see what can be done,” it said at last.

“Good.”

Praed Tropo stared at him for a moment. “You have not yet inspected the entrances to the property which are used by vehicles,” it said, indicating two driveways. “Do you feel strong enough to inspect them?”

“Let’s get it over with,” said the Iceman. They had checked the first of them and were walking to the second when the Iceman suddenly stopped, overcome by dizziness.

“What is the matter, Mendoza?” asked Praed Tropo.

“Heat prostration, I think,” mumbled the Iceman. “I’ve got to get out of the sun.”

“How does one treat heat prostration in a human?”

“I don’t know,” said the Iceman, grabbing Praed Tropo’s arm for support. “I’ve never had it before. Get me to someplace cool, and if I pass out, find a way to get some fluids in me. Just water; I don’t think my system can take anything the Lorhn drink.”

Praed Tropo summoned two other Blue Devils. The Iceman’s last memory was of being half-carried and half-dragged into the foyer of the huge building.

Then he lost consciousness.

27

When he awoke, he was laying on the floor of a small cubicle, next to an oddly-shaped cot. Even in his weakened, dehydrated condition, he had evidently decided that the floor was more comfortable.

He stood up, leaned against a stone wall for support, and surveyed his surroundings. The cubicle was perhaps eight feet on a side, just enough for the cot, a small, multi-leveled table, and an intercom holoscreen. There was a container of water on the table. He immediately picked it up, spent almost a minute figuring out how to open it, and then took two long swallows. It was warm, and there were small things floating in it, things that he didn’t want to think about, but it tasted like heaven.

He wanted to drink more, to drain the container, but he seemed to remember reading or hearing somewhere that he should drink frequently but in moderation until he regained his strength. He took a tentative step, then another, and found that he wasn’t as weak as he had anticipated. Obviously the Blue Devils had gotten him out of the sun before any serious damage had been done.

The door to his cubicle was closed. He had no idea if it was locked, and at the moment he didn’t particularly care. It would be another hour or so before he could take advantage of being here anyway—if indeed there was any advantage to be taken by being inside the building.

He walked from wall to wall a few more times, getting some of the stiffness out of his body, then sat delicately on the edge of the cot and just luxuriated in being out of Hades’ sunlight. In fact, the room was still quite warm, perhaps 36 degrees Celsius, but it felt cool and comfortable compared to being outside.

He waited another five minutes, then got up and began walking back and forth again, feeling stronger this time. It was as he approached the far wall that he heard the voice.

“I see you’re finally awake, Iceman,” said a cold, dispassionate, vaguely familiar voice.

He turned and found himself staring at the image of a slender young woman on the holoscreen. He studied the face: the cheekbones were more prominent, the chin a little sharper, the hair a bit darker, but they were definitely hers. Only the eyes had really changed; they seemed strange, distant, almost alien.

“It’s been a long time,” he said at last.

“Fourteen years,” replied Penelope Bailey.

PART 5:

The

Oracle’s

Book

28

“I’m getting sick and tired of waiting,” remarked the Injun, as he and Broussard sat in his room at the embassy. “I think it’s just about time to go to work.”

“I thought you weren’t going to make a move until the Whistler showed up,” said Broussard.

“For all I know, the Blue Devils killed him on one of the moons and he won’t be showing up at all.”

The Injun got to his feet and started pacing the room restlessly, while Broussard stared at him and tried to understand the change that had come over him during the past few days. He had grown more irritable, more restless, and had been given to violent outbursts of temper. It just didn’t jibe with the cool professional Broussard had been working with, and the young man was sincerely worried about the Injun’s mental state.

“Where the hell is he?” muttered the Injun, slamming a fist into the wall. “I can’t wait much longer!”

“There’s no deadline on killing the Oracle, sir,” said Broussard. “Or if there is, you haven’t told me about it.”

“I’ve got a personal deadline,” snapped the Injun. “And I’ve just about reached it.”

“A personal deadline?” repeated Broussard, puzzled.

“Just shut up and let me think!”

“I can leave the room if you wish, sir.”

“Leave, stay—what you do doesn’t interest me.”

He continued pacing the room, faster and faster, and after watching him for another few minutes, Broussard walked to the door and went to his own quarters, deeply troubled about the change that had occurred to his superior.

Finally the Injun came to a stop in front of his computer and stared at it, as if it was some alien machine he had never seen before. Finally his eyes, which had seemed wild and unfocused, cleared and he sat down next to it.

“Computer—activate,” he commanded.

“Activated,” replied the computer.

“Check all planetary databases and tell me if Joshua Jeremiah Chandler, also known as the Whistler, has arrived on Hades yet.”

“Checking … unknown.”

“Damn!” muttered the Injun.

He was about to begin walking around the room again when it hit him.

“Computer!” he yelled.

“Yes?”

“Every other time I’ve asked you, you said No. This time you said Unknown. Why?”

“Because a human has landed at the Polid Kreba Military Base, and I have been unable to ascertain his identity.”

“That’s got to be him!” said the Injun. “Has he been incarcerated?”

“Unknown.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said the Injun. “If he’s in jail, he’ll rot there, and there’s no sense waiting any longer—and if he’s not, then he’s talked his way out of a military base and probably has freedom of movement, and I’ve got to move tonight.”

The computer made no reply, as no question had been put to it.

“Deactivate,” ordered the Injun.

The computer went dark, and the Injun walked out of his room, went down the hall, and entered Broussard’s room.

“I’m going after her tonight,” he announced.

“You’re quite certain, sir?” asked Broussard, obviously concerned.

“Of course I’m certain!” said the Injun. “The Whistler has landed on Hades!”

“You’re sure of that?”

“The computer confirms it.”

“The computer says that the Whistler has landed?” repeated Broussard. “Then why didn’t it show up on our immigration lists?”

“He landed at a Blue Devil military base.”

“Why would he do that?”

“How the hell should I know?” snapped the Injun irritably. “He’s here, and that’s all that matters.”

“What name is he using?” asked Broussard.

“I don’t know.”

Broussard frowned. “Then how do you know it’s the Whistler?”

“Who else would land in this godforsaken hellhole without going through Customs and Immigration?” The Injun paused. “I’m going to need your help.”

“Sir, I don’t mean to offend or to be insubordinate, but I wish you’d undergo a psychological evaluation first,” said Broussard.

The Injun glared at him. “What are you saying? Do you think I’m crazy?”

“No, sir,” answered Broussard. “But you haven’t been yourself lately.”

“I will be soon,” said the Injun.

“You’re nervous and short-tempered and you’ve become forgetful,” continued Broussard. “I don’t think you’re in any condition to confront the Oracle.”

“I’ll be fine,” said the Injun, struggling to control the rage and hunger that surged through him. “Believe me.”

“I still wish you’d present yourself to our staff psychologist.”

“He won’t tell me anything I don’t already know,” answered the Injun. “Look, I’m going to go out there tonight with or without you, but it would make my life a lot easier if you’ll come. All I need you to do is drive me to the same spot we went to the other day. I’ll take care of everything else.” He paused and stared at the young man. “Now, are you in or out?”

Broussard uttered a sigh of resignation. “I can’t let you go out there alone.”

“Good,” said the Injun. “We leave at twilight.”

Broussard turned to leave.

“One more thing,” said the Injun.

“Sir?”

“I appreciate your concern for me, and I realize that you have my best interests at heart.” He paused. “But if you or anyone else tries to stop me, you’ll find out just how good a killer I am.”

Broussard drew himself up to his full height. “That was unnecessary, sir,” he replied with dignity.

“Let’s hope so.”

They left at twilight and took the main road out of town, driving at a leisurely pace. Traffic thinned out within twenty minutes, and vanished completely after half an hour.

“None of this looks familiar,” said the Injun, squinting into the darkness. “Where are all the rocks?”

“We’ll reach them in another forty minutes, sir,” said Broussard.

The Injun leaned back and closed his eyes.

“You haven’t told me your plan yet, sir,” remarked Broussard.

“I know.”

“You do have one, don’t you?”

The Injun patted his tunic. “Right here in my pocket.”

“A gun?” said Broussard.

The Injun smiled. “That, too.”

29

Two armed Blue Devils entered the Iceman’s cubicle and silently ushered him down a long darkened corridor, then up a ramp, down another corridor, and finally came to a halt at a large door, where Praed Tropo was waiting for him.

“She wants to see you, Mendoza,” it said.

“So I gathered.”

“Do not approach her.”

“I don’t understand,” said the Iceman.

“You will.”

He uttered a low command, and the door receded, revealing a large, luxurious room almost fifty feet on a side. There were beds, chairs, desks, tables, even a holoscreen, each of them designed for the comfort of a human occupant.

The occupant herself stood about thirty feet away, tall, slender, with dark blonde hair and pale blue eyes that seemed to be looking through the Iceman into some hidden place that only she could see.

“Welcome to my domain, Iceman,” she said.

“Hello, Penelope.”

“You have seen her before?” said Praed Tropo, surprised.

“A long time ago,” answered the Iceman.

“I had thought we would never meet again,” said the Oracle. “I thought you would die where I left you, but I was very young, and my abilities were immature.”

“And now you’re an adult,” said the Iceman.

“Now I am an adult,” she replied vacantly, as if her attention were directed elsewhere. “Now I see things more clearly, more vividly, and now I interpret them more accurately.”

“What kind of things?”

“Things that would drive you mad if you were to see them, Iceman.” She paused. “A million futures, all struggling to be born; a trillion events, all lining up to take place, all waiting for my approval.”

“I felt sorry for you when you were a little girl,” said the Iceman. “I feel sorry for you now.”

“Save your sympathy, Iceman,” she replied. “I would not trade places with you.”

The Iceman stared at a thin line on the floor about ten feet ahead of him, and noted that it ran up the walls and across the ceiling.

“In point of fact, you couldn’t trade places with me even if you wanted to,” he said.

She smiled again. “You refer to the force field.”

“If that’s what it is.”

“It keeps me in … but it also keeps you out,” she replied. “You and the others.”

“What others?” he asked.

“Don’t be obtuse, Iceman,” said the Oracle. “It’s unbecoming.”

“Do you refer to the assassin, Chandler?” asked Praed Tropo.

“Perhaps,” said the Oracle. She turned to the Blue Devil. “You must leave us now.”

Praed Tropo turned and joined his two Blue Devils on the far side of the door, which immediately slid shut.

“How long have you been a prisoner, Penelope?”

“What makes you think I am a prisoner?”

“Can you leave this room?”

“Eventually,” she said.

“But not right now,” he said.

“I am content not to leave right now.”

He stared at her for a long moment. “You’ve changed.”

“I’ve grown,” said the Oracle.

He shook his head. “You’re scarcely human anymore.”

“Look at me,” said the Oracle, turning around before him. “Do I not appear like any other young woman?”

“Other young women concentrate on what they are saying and hearing. You’re hours and days ahead of where everyone else is, aren’t you? Our present is your past. You’re mouthing words that occurred to you before I arrived.”

“You are very perceptive, Iceman. I am glad I brought you here.”

“I came of my own volition,” he replied. “If it happens to serve your purposes, it’s just a coincidence.”

“You are free to think so,” she said. Suddenly she turned sharply to her left.

“What’s that all about?” asked the Iceman.

“Your friend the Whistler is on his way here,” she replied. “He arrived on Hades three days ago, hidden in the hold of a cargo ship, and made his way out of the spaceport under cover of night. It took him this long to find out where I am.” She paused. “If I had stood where I was, he would have been seen by one of my agents as he left Quichancha.”

“And you think that just by turning your body, he’ll get out of the city unobserved?” said the Iceman skeptically.

“There are an infinite number of futures, Iceman. My freedom of action is limited, but in every future in which I turned, he leaves the city unobserved.”

“How can turning your body make a difference in what happens a hundred miles away?”

“I do not know the Why of it, only the Truth of it,” the Oracle replied serenely. “In a universe of cause and effect, I am the Cause, and by my willpower and my actions, I select the effect.”

He stared at her and made no reply.

“Why do you look at me with such an odd expression on your face?” she asked.

“Because I’m surprised.”

“By me?”

He shook his head. “By me.”

“Explain, please.”

“Why bother? You know what I’m going to say.”

“I know a million things you might say,” she replied. “I cannot consider all of them.”

“All right,” said the Iceman. “I’m surprised by my reaction to you.”

“In what way?”

“The last time we were together, you caused the death of someone I cared for very much,” he answered. “You caused her death, and you crippled me, and I thought I hated you. I thought that if I ever met you again, all I would want to do would be to put my hands around your throat and squeeze until you died.”

“But this is not the case?”

“No,” he said. “I hated a little girl, who killed out of passion and jealousy—but you’re not that girl. You have no passion left. For all I know you don’t possess any other human emotions, either. You’re a force of nature, nothing more.” He paused and sighed. “You can’t hate a hurricane or an ion storm for being what they are, and I find I can’t hate you.”

She stared at him curiously, but made no reply.

“That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be stopped,” he continued. “When winds build up to hurricane velocity, we dissipate them. When an ion storm approaches a habitable planet, we neutralize it.”

“You cannot stop me, Iceman,” she said with detached amusement. “Surely you know that by now.”

“Someone has already stopped you,” he replied. “Or have you the freedom to walk over to where I am standing?”

“I have not wanted it until now,” she said placidly. “And now that I want it, I shall have it soon.”

“How did they ever confine you here in the first place?”

“I was very young, and very naive,” said the Oracle.

“I’ll agree that you were young,” replied the Iceman. “I find it difficult to believe that you were ever naive.”

“But it is true, Iceman,” she said. “I came here with the Mock Turtle. We stopped to refuel on the way to a planet where I was to grow up, shielded from all outside influence, and learn to use my powers to their fullest extent.” She paused. “And then I made a mistake.”

“What was it?”

“I could foresee that the ship would fail to function if a minor gasket was not replaced, and I let them overhear me telling that to the Mock Turtle. He practically worshipped me, if you’ll recall, and he immediately insisted that their mechanics fix the flawed gasket. When they found that it indeed was cracked, they told us that because their ships worked on different principles, it would take them some weeks to import the part. And because my abilities were immature, I could not see far enough into the future to know that the part would never come, and I believed them.”

“And they imprisoned you here?” asked the Iceman.

“They explained that it was a protective device, and indeed it is,” she replied. “For just as I cannot pass through the field, neither can you.” She paused again, as if the past were much more difficult to summon than the future. “By the next morning I realized that we were prisoners, but since I had no interest in the Mock Turtle’s world anyway, and all my needs were provided for, I decided that this was as good a place to mature and grow strong as any.”

“Why did you help the Blue Devils stay out of the Democracy?” he asked. “They can’t mean any more to you than the Mock Turtle did.”

“They thought, and probably still think, that I am helping them in the hope that they will someday release me, but in fact it was a chance to test my growing powers,” answered the Oracle. “And I have no love for the Democracy. It was the Democracy that took me away from my parents, and tried to turn me into a laboratory animal that would perform on command, and it was the Democracy that sent scores of bounty hunters after me when I escaped.” She paused. “No, I have no love for the Democracy at all.” She met the Iceman’s gaze with her own, and she seemed once again to be looking not at him but months and years past him. “I have plans for the Democracy, Iceman. I have interesting plans, indeed.”

“And now you think you’re ready to put them into effect?” asked the Iceman.

“I am an adult woman now. I am no longer Penelope Bailey, nor am I the Mock Turtle’s Soothsayer. I am the Oracle, and it is time for me to go abroad in the galaxy.”

“What happened to the Mock Turtle?”

“He died,” she said with an unconcerned shrug.

“How?”

“Why do you care?”

“I’m curious,” he answered. “I can’t believe you couldn’t have kept him alive if you wanted to.”

She smiled once more, a smile that should have been very attractive, but which instead seemed cold and distant. “You are very perceptive, Iceman.”

“Did you just get tired of being worshipped?”

“What god tires of being worshipped?” she replied.

“How did he die?”

“He was only concerned with what I could do for his insignificant race. It was all he talked about, all he thought about, all he cared for. He kept urging me to escape and return to his home world with him.” She paused. “Eventually he grew very tiresome.”

“And?”

“And one day his heart stopped,” she concluded.

“You made it stop, of course.”

“You still do not understand, Iceman,” she said, shaking her head sadly. “I do not cause things to happen. I choose the future in which they have already happened.”

He frowned. “That sounds like a contradiction.”

“Why?”

“Because things can’t have already happened if you’re looking into the future.”

She seemed amused. “Perhaps not in your future,” she replied. “But then, you are just a Man.”

She raised her left hand above her head, held it in place for perhaps five seconds, then lowered it.

“And what future did you choose just now?” he asked.

“I am bringing about a confluence of futures this night,” she said. “Any explanation would be beyond your understanding.”

“Try me.”

“I prefer to use you, Iceman.”

“How?”

“It is time for me to leave my confinement,” she said. “You will play an essential part in that.”

“Not if I can help it.”

She chuckled in amusement. “But you can’t help it, Iceman. That is why you are here, in this place, at this moment.”

30

The Injun left the darkened vehicle about half a mile south of the Oracle’s compound, then began silently approaching the rocky overhang that he had pinpointed as the most likely means of ingress.

Just before he reached the base of the rock, he sensed another presence. Drawing his laser pistol, the most silent of his weapons, he crouched down and remained motionless, peering into the darkness and listening intently.

He saw nothing, heard nothing, but couldn’t shake the feeling that there was someone out here with him. It could have been a Blue Devil, of course, but no Blue Devil would feel the need to be so silent unless he had already been spotted and they were after him, and he knew that he was too good at his craft to have given himself away yet. It had to be the Whistler, who had finally made his way to Hades from one of the moons.

The Injun realized that he needed his peripheral vision in this situation, and so, for the first time in days, he removed his eyepatch. It took him a moment to adjust to having a broader field of vision and renewed depth perception, and so he remained where he was for another few minutes, until he was certain that he wouldn’t be disoriented by what he saw.

Suddenly he felt that the mysterious presence was no longer in his immediate vicinity, and he climbed, catlike, to the top of the rocky overhang. This afforded him a view of the far end of the compound, where two armed Blue Devils guarded the driveway, waiting to inspect or turn back any approaching vehicles.

He flattened himself out on top of the rock and spent another few minutes observing the yard, and pinpointed the locations of three more guards. He peered into the shadows cast by outbuildings and monuments, trying to spot the Whistler, but couldn’t find him.

Finally he crawled to the edge of the overhang. It was only eight or nine feet above one of the metal beams that supported the quartz roof, and he gently lowered himself down until his feet were only twenty inches above it. Then he released his grip and landed lightly on the beam.

He walked along the beam until the shadow of the overhang hid him from any Blue Devil who chanced to look up, then pulled a cloth out of his pocket and wiped off his hands and face, which had become covered by sweat from his efforts in the warm Hades night. When he was finished, he tucked the cloth back into his pocket.

He didn’t want to walk across the quartz, because he didn’t know how much weight it would hold, so he continued walking down the beam until he came to an acute angle that meant he had either reached the end of the roof, or at least the end of this particular level of it. He lowered himself to his belly and leaned his head over the side, looking for a window … and saw one, far larger than a typical door, about five feet below him and twelve feet to his right. He pulled himself along the beam until he was directly above it.

He was now some thirty feet above the ground, and he carefully lowered himself until his feet could touch the window. It had looked hinged to him, and he tried putting some gentle pressure against it. It resisted for a moment, then swung inward.

He waited to see if anyone inside the darkened room would walk to the window to see what had happened. When no one appeared after twenty seconds, he released his grip on the beam, landed lightly on the window ledge, and jumped into the room, almost in one single motion, then closed the window behind him.

The room was shaped like an equilateral triangle, some fifteen feet on a side, and perhaps ten feet high. It was totally devoid of furnishings, and served no purpose that he could determine. There were two rough-hewn wooden posts in the middle of the room, perhaps six feet high and five feet apart. He inspected them briefly, but their purpose remained totally incomprehensible to him.

He then turned his attention to the door. It did not recede as he approached it, nor could he find a handle or a computer lock on it. Finally he reached out and tentatively pushed against it, and it slid up out of sight so quickly that he jumped back, startled.

He drew his laser pistol once again, prepared to incinerate anyone who happened to see the door open, but when he stepped out into a corridor that widened and narrowed as pointlessly as had the street in the Blue Devils’ sector of Quichancha, he found that it was empty.

The door snapped shut behind him as he turned to his left and began walking, only to come to a dead end before he passed any doors, stairways, or airlifts. He turned back and retraced his steps, walked past the room through which he had entered, came to a corner, turned right, and finally came upon a ramp that led down to a lower level.

He walked down it cautiously, then heard low voices up ahead, and crouched down, weapon at the ready. The voices were speaking in one of the guttural Blue Devil dialects, and when they neither approached nor vanished after he had waited for a full minute, he began descending the ramp again.

He emerged in a large, many-windowed room that was filled with alien furnishings. There were holograms and paintings of scenes no sane mind could have imagined, and chairs built not only for Blue Devils but also some for multi-jointed Lodinites and elephantine beings whose physical attributes were beyond his ability to conceive. A holo screen in one corner showed a disconcerting pattern of flashing lights, all in varying shades of gray, which he decided would have an almost hypnotic effect on anyone who concentrated on it.

He heard footsteps approaching and ducked behind one of the oversized chairs. A moment later a Blue Devil entered the room from the far side, walked through it, and left through a doorway off to the left.

The Injun stood up, looked at both doorways, and finally decided to follow the Blue Devil. At least it had some destination in mind, and if it ran into any of its companions, he would probably hear them exchanging greetings before he stumbled upon them.

He gave the Blue Devil a thirty-second head start, then passed through the doorway and entered a long, winding corridor. It passed a number of closed doors, then terminated in another large room, this one filled with computers and radios of alien design, and manned by four more Blue Devils.

The Injun knew he couldn’t pass through it unobserved, and while he felt no compunction about killing every Blue Devil in the room, he doubted that he could do so before one of them got off an alarm or distress signal, so he retraced his steps until he came to the room where he had seen the Blue Devil and walked through the other doorway.

It looked like it was going to dead-end against a large yellow wall, but just as he was about to turn back, he saw an extremely narrow stairwell off to his right. On the assumption that anyone as valuable as the Oracle wouldn’t be kept on the ground level, he opted for climbing up rather than down.

He ascended the stairs, found himself on a large, irregularly-shaped landing, and was trying to figure out what to do next when the smell of food—human food—wafted down a corridor. He followed the odor, and came to a small kitchen where a Blue Devil was preparing a steak of mutated beef and a small salad.

He crouched in the shadows of the adjacent room and waited. After a few minutes a Blue Devil entered the kitchen, passing within four feet of him, uttered a terse command, and left. The Blue Devil who was preparing the food walked to a glowing sphere hovering near the wall, said something into it, and shortly thereafter another Blue Devil, this one unarmed, entered the kitchen through another door, put the food on a tray, and left.

The Injun realized that he would have to pass through the kitchen if he was to follow the Blue Devil with the tray. He stood up, entered the kitchen, coughed once to get the chef’s attention, and trained his laser pistol on it.

“Not a move, not a sound,” said the Injun in a low voice.

The Blue Devil stared at him and remained motionless.

“Where is the Oracle?” asked the Injun.

The Blue Devil made no answer.

“You heard me—where do you keep her?”

The Blue Devil said something unintelligible.

“Oh, shit!” muttered the Injun. “Don’t tell me you can’t speak Terran?”

The Blue Devil spoke again, and again the Injun couldn’t understand a word of it.

He looked around, saw what appeared to be a half-opened storage closet, and, still pointing his weapon at the Blue Devil, he walked over to it and opened it.

“In here,” he said, gesturing the Blue Devil to enter the closet.

The Blue Devil looked at him uncomprehendingly.

“I haven’t got any time to waste! Now, move!”

The Blue Devil remained motionless, and the Injun reached out and grabbed it by the arm. It immediately reached out for his throat with its other hand.

The Injun planted a kick against the Blue Devil’s major leg joint, then brought his pistol crashing down on the creature’s skull. It collapsed in a heap, and, not bothering to check whether it was alive or dead, he dragged it over to the storage closet and crammed it in, after which he closed the door. There was a computer lock on the door, and he turned his laser pistol on it, intending to burn out the lock’s memory, but when he pulled the trigger, no beam came forth.

He examined the pistol, found that the blow he had struck the Blue Devil had broken the connection to the power pack, and placed it in a drawer. Then, realizing that he was almost a full minute behind the tray carrier, he raced out the far door after it.

The corridor in which he found himself was relatively straight, and it soon broadened out and became almost as wide as a room. Finally it turned sharply, and as he stuck his head around the corner, he saw five armed Blue Devils guarding a large door.

“That’s got to be it,” he muttered.

He waited a minute, then another, to see if the Blue Devil with the tray emerged from the room that was being guarded, but it didn’t appear. Of course, he reasoned, it could simply have turned the tray over to one of the guards and left by another route. There were a number of corridors leading off to both the right and the left, and there was no way he could reconstruct what had happened. It was even possible that these Blue Devils were guarding something other than the Oracle, and that the one he had followed was still carrying her food to her, but he doubted it. Besides, if that was the case, he was going to have to take all five guards out before he could continue his quest … but they hadn’t guarded anything else in this crazily-constructed house, not even their communication center, and it seemed likely that nothing but the Oracle could command so much attention from armed guards.

The Injun realized, with an enormous surge of eagerness, that it was time to put his strategy to the test.

He withdrew his sonic pistol and deactivated the safety. Then, with his free hand, he reached into his pocket, pulled out the alphanella seeds that he had ordered Broussard to confiscate back in Quichancha, carefully placed them between his teeth, and bit down, hard.

31

“They are within the compound,” announced the Oracle, peering sightlessly off into space.

“Both of them?” asked the Iceman.

“Yes.” She turned to him and smiled. “Everything is coming to fruition.”

“I take it that I’m part of the plan?”

“In some eventualities, you are. In others you are not.”

“What do you think I’m going to do?”

She looked amused. “In none of the futures I can see do I answer that question.”

He pulled out a small cigar. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Tough,” he said, lighting it.

“There,” she said, still amused. “You’ve stood up to me. Do you feel better now, Iceman?”

“Not especially.”

“But you do not fear me?”

“Not especially.”

“You should, you know.”

The Iceman shrugged. “Perhaps.”

“Do you know that in all my life, there is only one man I have ever been afraid of?”

“Oh? Who was that?”

“You.”

“I’m flattered.”

“That was a long time ago,” said the Oracle. “I see you now and I feel no fear.” She stared at him, her eyes finally focused in the present. “My only reaction to you is contempt.”

“Not hatred?” he asked.

She shook her head. “One must feel some respect to feel hatred, if not respect for the person, then at least respect for the harm he can cause.”

“And you consider me harmless?”

“Yes.” She paused, then spoke again. “Even with the explosives you have hidden inside your artificial leg, I consider you harmless.”

“You know about them?”

“I know everything,” she replied. “Am I not the Oracle?”

“You’re an Oracle imprisoned in a force field,” said the Iceman. “How can you stop me if I decide to detonate the explosives right now?”

“You are an old man, Iceman, and your heart has undergone many strains during your life. If you try to detonate the explosives, you will feel a searing pain in your chest, your heart will burst, and you will die.” She stared intently at him. “Already it beats more rapidly, already it pumps your blood at a dangerous rate. In a million times a million futures, you will not even be aware of it. But,” she added, stepping two paces to her right, “if I move here, there exists a future in which you feel a warning pain, does there not?”

The Iceman felt a sharp pain in his chest. Breathing suddenly became difficult, and he experienced an overwhelming sensation of pressure. He tried to conceal his reaction, but was unable to.

“You see?” she said with a satisfied smile. “There is one future, among the billions in which you detonate the explosives successfully, in which your pain does not cease. It become unbearable, and in that future, just before you die, you realize that what I have told you is the truth.”

The pain finally began subsiding, and the color returned to the Iceman’s face. He took a deep breath, and leaned against the door for support.

“Can I ask you a question?” he said after a moment.

“That is what the Oracle does: She answers questions.”

“How the hell have they managed to keep you locked up here? Why hasn’t your jailor suffered a heart attack or a stroke at the proper moment?”

“They have chosen my keepers very carefully,” she answered. “In no future that I have been able to envision have any of them suffered from any pain or disease to the extent that it would allow me my freedom.”

“How do they feed you?” asked the Iceman. “Surely they have to dampen at least a portion of the field for that.”

“A tiny portion,” she replied. “You shall see in just a moment.” She raised her voice. “You may enter.”

A Blue Devil bearing a tray of food walked through the doorway, set it down on the floor right next to the force field, and then exited. A moment later a musical note sounded on the intercom system, and Penelope backed up against a wall, as far from the tray as possible. There was a sound of static as a portion of the field, no more than a foot square, dampened at floor level, and she walked forward, knelt down, reached for the tray very gingerly, and carefully pulled it to her. The moment it was across the dividing line on the floor, there was more static and a pre-recorded Blue Devil voice informed them that the field was once again impregnable.

She carried the tray to a table and set it down there.

“You see?” she asked.

“And you haven’t had a living thing on your side of the field for how many years?”

“Since the Mock Turtle’s unhappy demise.”

“You’ve had no human contact in all that time?”

“I’ve had no contact of any kind.” She paused. “Well, that’s not entirely true. I had a doll once, but it fell apart four years ago.”

The Iceman tried to picture an 18-year-old Oracle playing with a doll, and couldn’t. But he had no difficulty envisioning a lonely 18-year-old Penelope Bailey hugging the doll to her for comfort.

“I still feel sorry for you, Penelope,” he said. “It’s not your fault you were blessed or cursed with this ability, and it’s not your fault that the Democracy didn’t know how to handle you, and it’s probably not even your fault that the Blue Devils have confined you here for all these years—but you are what you are, and you can’t be allowed out of here. If you can’t be killed, you have to be contained.”

“Dream your dreams of heroism, Iceman,” she replied. “What harm can they do?”

Suddenly she turned and faced the wall behind her, and stood perfectly rigid for a moment. Then she turned back to him.

“Who were you helping that time?” asked the Iceman.

“No one you know,” she replied. “Tonight is all but resolved. I have other concerns to look after.”

Her placidity vanished, to be replaced by a contemptuous frown.

“Fool!” she said. “Does he think that will affect my ability to deal with him?”

“What are you talking about?” asked the Iceman.

“Jimmy Two Feathers.”

“Where is he?”

“He approaches, and he thinks to befuddle me by befuddling himself.” She turned to the Iceman. “His mind is gone—but I do not read minds. I see futures.”

“He bit into a seed?” asked the Iceman.

“As if it matters.”

“It matters,” said the Iceman. “If he doesn’t know what he’s going to do next—”

“I will know!” snapped the Oracle.

“I thought you saw a myriad of futures, and manipulated things to achieve the one you wanted. How can you manipulate a man who currently has the intelligence of an insect?”

“That’s why you are here, Iceman,” she said.

“Me?”

“If I can’t stop him, you will.”

“You’ve got a healthy imagination, Penelope.”

“I do not imagine things, Iceman,” replied the Oracle. “I foresee them.”

“Well, you’ve foreseen this one wrong,” said the Iceman. “If he can kill you, I won’t lift a finger to stop him.”

“You will do what you are destined to do.”

32

The Iceman was about to reply when the door opened and the Injun, wild-eyed and disheveled, burst into the room. He held a sonic pistol in one hand and a knife dripping with blood in the other.

“Who are you?” he demanded of the Iceman in a strained, hollow voice.

“I’m a friend,” replied the Iceman.

The Injun stared at him, uncomprehending.

“We both work for 32,” continued the Iceman.

“That bastard!” screamed the Injun. “First I kill her, then him!”

“Keep your voice down.”

The Injun giggled. “Why? I killed all the Blue Devils out in the hall.”

The Iceman glanced at the Oracle, who was looking at the Injun with an amused smile on her face.

You’re not worried, he thought. He’s standing right in front of you, out of his goddamned mind and planning to kill you, and you think it’s funny. He’s not the one.

The Injun turned to face the Oracle.

“What are you grinning about, lady?” he mumbled. “You think I’m kidding?”

“No, Jimmy Two Feathers,” she replied serenely. “I know you’re not kidding.”

He raised his pistol and sighted it between her eyes, then lowered it. “I’m thirsty,” he announced.

“There’s water on the main level,” said the Oracle.

“There’s water on the table right next to you,” said the Injun.

He began approaching her.

“Don’t!” shouted the Iceman, but it was too late.

The Injun hit the force field, shrieked once, and bounced back off of it like a rubber ball. He pounded into the wall, spun off it, and fell in a crumpled heap at the Iceman’s feet.

The Iceman knelt down next to him and felt for a pulse. It was still racing at almost twice the normal rate.

“What was that all about?” asked the Iceman, looking up at the Oracle.

“I don’t understand you,” she replied.

“Why did you let him get all the way to this room and kill those Blue Devils, only to wind up like this?”

“They were just Blue Devils,” she said with an unconcerned shrug.

“I thought you needed him to get you out of here,” persisted the Iceman.

“I was mistaken.”

Too easy, Penelope. You knew he’d come in here, and you knew he couldn’t kill you. This is still going according to plan—but what the hell kind of a plan requires a madman to be lying unconscious at my feet?

“You look confused, Iceman,” she said, and again he could see amusement, and something more—condescension—in her pale blue eyes.

“I am,” he admitted. “But I’ll figure it out.”

“If you live long enough.”

“The same might be said for you,” he retorted.

She smiled. “I like living, Iceman. I just might live forever.”

“I have no objection,” said the Iceman. “As long as you stay on your side of the force field.”

She stared at him, a puzzled expression on her face. “I wonder…”

“What do you wonder?”

“I was born in the Democracy, and you on the Inner Frontier. I am 22 years old, and you are in your sixties. I know nothing of your past, and you know nothing of my future. We have nothing in common except our enmity. The odds of two people like ourselves meeting even once during our lifetimes are almost incalculable.” She paused. “Why should our lives have become so interconnected, I wonder?”

“I don’t know,” admitted the Iceman.

“It is curious, is it not?” she mused.

“I’d have been just as happy never to know you existed.”

“Happiness is not for you and me, Iceman,” she replied. “And as for your never knowing I existed, soon more people than you can imagine shall know it.”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Ah, but you can’t,” she said with another tranquil smile. “All you can do is stand here helplessly and await what must happen next.”

He offered no reply, and they stared at each other in silence.

“Step aside, Iceman,” she said at last. “You’re blocking the door.”

He turned and saw Praed Tropo, weaponless, standing in the doorway. Then the Blue Devil was pushed into the room, and Chandler walked in right behind him, a small pistol pressed against its back.

“Mendoza!” exclaimed Chandler, surprised. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I’ll explain in a minute,” said the Iceman. “Are there any Blue Devils after you?”

Chandler shook his head. “There are corpses all over the place. Was that your doing?”

“His,” said the Iceman, indicating the still-unconscious body of the Injun.

“Who’s he?”

“Jimmy Two Feathers.”

The Whistler frowned. “The Injun? What the hell is he doing on Hades?”

“He was hired to kill the Oracle.”

“Well, it doesn’t look like he’s going to be much competition.” He shoved Praed Tropo a few feet ahead of him, then commanded the door to close.

“Why is he here?” asked the Iceman, gesturing toward the Blue Devil.

“He was examining the bodies when I showed up on this level,” answered Chandler. “I figured I might need a shield, so I suggested that he accompany me.” He turned to the Oracle. “Is she who you thought she’d be?”

“She’s Penelope Bailey, yes,” answered the Iceman.

“What’s that line on the floor—a force field?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“I knew they were keeping her prisoner,” answered Chandler. “I didn’t know how until just now—from what they tell me, force fields are still beyond our technology—but nobody seems to want to cross that line.” He paused. “Is that what happened to the Injun?”

The Iceman nodded. “He’s hopped up on alphanella seeds, and he walked right into it.”

“Well, he cleared a path for me right to the door,” said Chandler.

“You’d have managed if you’d had to.”

“I doubt it,” said Chandler. “I don’t know what direction he approached them from, but the way I came, I’d have been a sitting duck.” He paused. “You still haven’t told me why you’re here.”

“New orders,” said the Iceman.

“Oh?”

“Can you kill her?”

“I don’t see why not,” answered Chandler. “But if you’re worried about the force field, I saw one hell of a big generator two levels down from this one. If it’s powering the field, I think I can deactivate it.”

The Iceman looked at the Oracle, who was once again staring off into time and space. “You don’t even know how it works,” he said.

“I don’t know how the force field works,” answered Chandler, “but I know how the generator works. There was one very similar to it in a Kobolian ship I owned once.”

Praed Tropo had carefully backed a few steps away from Chandler, and finally the Iceman turned to it.

“Stop right there,” he said. “I don’t want to kill you, but I will if I have to.”

The Blue Devil halted, then slowly retreated until he was standing next to Chandler again.

“Let’s do whatever it is we have to do,” said Chandler. “Those bodies aren’t going to stay undiscovered forever.”

“Or even for very long,” interjected the Oracle with no show of concern.

“Well?” said Chandler.

“I’m still piecing it together,” said the Iceman. I thought I had it—but why did you need Praed Tropo here?

“Mendoza, we haven’t got all night,” said Chandler impatiently.

“Just give me a minute!” snapped the Iceman. He turned to stare at the Oracle. “All right. He’s the only one who can release you, and you needed the Injun to pave the way for him. But why me? And why Praed Tropo?”

She smiled enigmatically at him, but made no reply.

“She couldn’t have planned all of this,” said Chandler. “Even if she planned for the Injun to chew his seeds, how could she plan what he’d do once he’d fried his brain?”

“She doesn’t plan things,” explained the Iceman. “She selects them. She selected a future in which the four of us were in this room at this time … but I still don’t know why she—”

There was a sudden movement from Praed Tropo, and Chandler, who had been concentrating on the Oracle, cursed and clutched at his right arm, which was gushing blood from where his nearly-severed hand was hanging useless.

“Kill that sonofabitch!” snarled Chandler, as Praed Tropo turned to face the Iceman with a knife that he had somehow concealed beneath his tunic.

“Freeze!” said the Iceman, drawing his own weapon and training it on the Blue Devil.

Praed Tropo hesitated for an instant, then stood motionless.

“Drop it,” continued the Iceman, as Chandler knelt down and tried to staunch the flow of blood. He dared a quick glance at the Oracle, who was watching the proceedings with an almost unnatural calm.

You’re not surprised in the least. You knew this was going to happen. He frowned as he turned his attention back to Praed Tropo. But it doesn’t make any sense. You got the two best killers in the galaxy here, and one of them’s half dead and now the other’s crippled. Why?

Chandler had ripped part of his tunic off, and was wrapping it around his hand, cursing under his breath all the while.

All right. He’s not dead. You want him alive but ineffective. But why? What am I missing?

“Give me another minute and I’ll kill him myself!” grated Chandler, working on his hand.

“Kill?” muttered a hollow voice behind the Iceman. “Kill?”

The Iceman took a step back, then another, and saw the Injun rise groggily to his knees.

“Kill,” he repeated, as if the word had lost all meaning to him. His pupils were dilated, his expression wild.

“Stay where you are, Jimmy,” said the Iceman.

“Kill,” mumbled the Injun, rising unsteadily to his feet.

“We’re your friends,” said the Iceman, trying without success to make his voice soothing and reassuring.

“I have no friends,” whispered the Injun. “I don’t know you!” Suddenly his gaze fell on Chandler. “I know him, though. He wants to rob me of my commission.” He reached for his sonic pistol. “Well, you can’t do it, Chandler!” he yelled. “I was here first! She’s mine!”

His fingers closed on the hilt of the pistol, and he began raising his hand to aim the weapon at Chandler.

“It isn’t fair!” he growled, slurring the words. “I won’t let you rob me!”

The Iceman pointed his gun at the Injun.

“Hold it right there or you’re a dead man,” he said ominously.

“She’s mine, damn it!” said the Injun, as tears began to stream down his face. “I found her, not you! I killed all those Blue Devils out in the hall, not you! You can’t cheat me out of what’s mine!”

The Injun, swaying dizzily, aimed his gun unsteadily at Chandler as the Iceman’s finger began closing on his own trigger.

And then the final piece fell into place.

The Iceman couldn’t stop from firing his weapon, but at the very last microsecond he jerked his hand and the beam went harmlessly into a wall as the Injun shot Chandler.

“No!” cried the Oracle, as Chandler pitched forward, face down, on the floor.

The Iceman then trained his pistol between the Injun’s eyes and fired again. He then turned to Praed Tropo.

“Be quiet and don’t do anything foolish,” he said, “and you just might live through this.” He paused. “I was right, wasn’t I, Penelope?”

She nodded her head.

“You had a lot of futures to put together, didn’t you?” continued the Iceman. “You need the Whistler, because only he knew enough about the generator to deactivate it. But the Injun had to arrive first, because there weren’t any futures in which the Whistler could approach this room unseen.”

“Yes,” she said.

“If I hadn’t figured it out, what would have happened? I’d have killed the Injun to save Chandler—I assume that was my function—and then Praed Tropo would have killed me?”

She nodded, her eyes already distant, examining still more futures.

“But I’m a fat old man with a limp,” continued the Iceman. “I could never have gotten away from here. That’s what I couldn’t understand—why Praed Tropo had to be in the room with us, why he or some other Lorhn couldn’t just pick me up later.”

“I do not comprehend,” said the Blue Devil.

The Iceman turned to it. “You had to disable Chandler without killing him. He was the most dangerous of us all: Even without the use of his hand, he’d have found a way to kill you. But he’d have known that he couldn’t fight his way out, not against whole squadrons of you, so his only option would have been to release Penelope and have her pick and choose futures in which the two of them escaped.” He looked at the Oracle again. “And once you were safely away from here, and he thought he was taking you to 32 to pick up the rest of his money, he’d have had a heart attack. Am I right?”

“A stroke,” she replied placidly. “His heart was in superb condition.”

“Praed Tropo,” said the Iceman, “do you understand what happened now? All of this,” he continued, gesturing to the bodies of Chandler and the Injun, “everything that happened here, came about because she wanted to escape. That’s why I’m here, that’s why you’re here. We’re not enemies, you and I—we’re her pawns, nothing more.”

The Blue Devil stared at him, but made no comment.

“We can’t let her out—not now, not ever. It’s a cruel twist of fate that made her what she is, and it’s a dismal future she’s facing, but she’s too dangerous ever to turn loose on the galaxy. Look what she was able to accomplish while you kept her imprisoned.”

“No,” said Praed Tropo at last. “She can never be released.”

“You’re a reasonable being, Praed Tropo.”

“But others will come after her. They will be sent to kill her, but she will manipulate them as she manipulated us, and next time she may succeed.”

“I’ll see to it that there won’t be any next time,” answered the Iceman.

“How can you do this?”

“I’ll tell 32 that she’s dead. If you keep her incommunicado, he’ll have no reason to ever suspect that I lied to him.”

“That presupposes that I will let you leave,” noted Praed Tropo.

“You have no reason to keep me here,” said the Iceman. “And if you try, I have an explosive device on my person that I won’t hesitate to detonate. It will blow you and me and this whole damned compound to hell, but she’ll find some way to survive.” He paused. “I’d much rather live. Wouldn’t you?”

Praed Tropo stared at him for a long moment. “You may go in peace,” it said at last.

“Thank you.”

“You cannot leave the grounds without being apprehended,” it continued. “I will arrange for an escort.” It walked to the door and then turned to him. “Do not leave the room until I return, or I cannot be responsible for your safety.”

“I understand,” said the Iceman, as the Blue Devil began walking away.

“I was wrong,” said the Oracle when the two of them were alone. “I thought I was ready to go out into the galaxy, but I was mistaken. I shall have to wait until my powers mature still more.”

“You’ll never leave this room, Penelope.”

She smiled. “On the day that I’m ready, I will. You underestimated me when I was a little girl; tonight I underestimated you. I think neither of us will make that particular mistake again.” She sighed and shook her head. “I should have seen it—but there were so many permutations: what the Injun would do and when, where Chandler would stand, when Praed Tropo would act, when the Injun would awaken.” Suddenly she sighed. “Still, I came very close. Another half-second and I’d have had it.”

“Yes, you would have,” admitted the Iceman.

“Next time I’ll be more accurate.”

“There won’t be any next time.”

“Perhaps not for you,” she said serenely. “You’re a used-up old man, and your strength is gone.” She paused. “But I’m still young. Every day I grow more powerful, and there is a whole galaxy out there.”

“Leave it alone,” said the Iceman.

She smiled at him. “I can’t, you know. I look ahead and I see great things, things you can’t even begin to imagine. One day I will have to walk out of here and accomplish them.”

Praed Tropo returned with a squad of six Blue Devils.

“Are you ready, Mendoza?” it asked.

The Iceman nodded and turned to join them.

“Iceman,” she called after him.

“Yes?”

“I want to thank you.”

“For what?” he asked, puzzled.

“For surprising me,” she said. “One should always seek out new experiences, and I have never been surprised before.”

“I hope you enjoyed it,” he said sardonically.

“No,” she replied thoughtfully. “No, I didn’t. I do not intend ever to be surprised again.”

This book is an Ace original edition,

and has never been previously published.

PROPHET

An Ace Book / published by arrangement with

the author

PRINTING HISTORY

Ace edition / June 1993

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 1993 by Mike Resnick.

Cover art by Keith Birdsong.

This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part,

by mimeograph or any other means, without permission.

For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.

ISBN: 0-441-68329-0

Ace Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.

The name “ACE” and the “A” logo

are trademarks belonging to Charter Communications, Inc.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES Of AMERICA

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

To Carol, as always,

and to Doug Roemer,

keeper of the flame

Contents

Prologue

Part 1

The Gravedancer’s Book

Part 2

The Iceman’s Book

Part 3

The Silicon Kid’s Book

Part 4

The Anointed One’s Book

Part 5

The Prophet’s Book

Epilogue

Prologue

It was a time of giants.

There was no room for them to breathe and flex their muscles in mankind’s sprawling Democracy, so they gravitated to the distant, barren worlds of the Inner Frontier, drawn ever closer to the bright galactic Core like moths to a flame.

Oh, they fit into human frames, most of them, but they were giants nonetheless. No one knew what had brought them forth in such quantity at this particular moment in human history. Perhaps there was a need for them in a galaxy filled to overflowing with little people possessed of even smaller dreams. Possibly it was the savage splendor of Inner Frontier itself, for it was certainly not a place for ordinary men and women. Or maybe it was simply time for a race that had been notably short of giants in recent eons to begin producing them once again.

But whatever the reason, they swarmed out beyond the furthest reaches of the explored galaxy, spreading the seed of Man to hundreds of new worlds, and in the process creating a cycle of legends that would never die as long as men could tell tales of heroic deeds.

There was Faraway Jones, who set foot on more than 500 new worlds, never quite certain what he was looking for, always sure that he hadn’t yet found it.

There was shadowy figure known only as the Whistler, who had killed more than one hundred men and aliens.

There was Friday Nellie, who turned her whorehouse into a hospital during the war against the Setts, and finally saw it declared a shrine by the very men who once tried to close it down.

There was Jamal, who left no fingerprints or footprints, but had plundered palaces that to this day do not know they were plundered.

There was Bet-a-World Murphy, who at various times owned nine different gold-mining worlds, and lost every one of them at the gaming tables.

There was Backbreaker Ben Ami, who wrestled aliens for money and killed men for pleasure. There was the Marquis of Queensbury, who fought by no rules at all, and the White Knight, albino killer of fifty men, and Sally the Blade, and the Forever Kid, who reached the age of nineteen and just stopped growing for the next two centuries, and Catastrophe Baker, who made whole planets shake beneath his feet, and the exotic Pearl of Maracaibo, whose sins were condemned by every race in the galaxy, and Father Christmas, and the One-Armed Bandit with his deadly prosthetic arm, and the Earth Mother, and Lizard Malloy, and the deceptively mild-mannered Cemetery Smith.

Giants all.

Yet there was one giant who was destined to tower over all of the others, to juggle the lives of men and worlds as if they were so many toys, to rewrite the history of the Inner Frontier, and the Outer Frontier, and the Spiral Arm, and even the all-powerful Democracy itself. At various times in her short, turbulent life she was known as the Soothsayer, and the Oracle, and the Prophet. By the time she had passed from the galactic scene, only a handful of survivors knew her true name, or her planet of origin, or even her history, for such is the way with giants and legends.

But she had an origin, and a history, and a name.

This is her story.

PART 1:

The

Gravedancer’s

Book

1

A hot, dry wind swept across the surface of Last Chance, a remote world on the edge of the Inner Frontier. Dust devils swirled up to heights of 60 feet, breathing became almost impossible, and the few indigenous animals burrowed into the ground to wait out the dust storm.

A lone figure, his clothing nondescript, his face protected against the elements by a dust mask, walked down the main street of the planet’s only Tradertown, looking neither right nor left. The door of an abandoned building suddenly buckled from the force of the wind, and he quickly crouched, withdrew a hand weapon, and fired at the source of the noise. The door briefly turned a bright blue and then vanished. The man remained motionless for a moment, then holstered his weapon and continued walking toward the brightly-lit building at the end of the street.

He came to a stop about twenty yards from his destination, then placed his hands on his hips and studied the structure before him. The walls were made of a titanium alloy with a tight molecular bonding, finished to look like wood. The front veranda possessed two large doorways, both leading to the crowded interior of The End of the Line. From where he was standing, he couldn’t tell which section was the bar and which was the casino, though he suspected the casino was at the back, where it could be more easily protected against any potential robberies.

A door slid open for a moment, and the man ducked behind a vehicle and withdrew his weapon again as a tall woman emerged, took one step into the dust, then shook her head and went back into the building, coughing heavily.

The man strode back out into the middle of the street and continued staring at the building. Finally he began walking again, turning to his left after a moment and circling the entire building. There weren’t any windows, which didn’t surprise him given the force of the dust storm, but he hadn’t survived this long by not being thorough, and he methodically checked out every means of ingress. All the various doors were closed, probably locked, certainly tied in to a security system. Briefly he considered climbing to the roof—it was not beyond his capabilities to scale the side of the building, made rough by the abrasive action of the wind and the dust—but he couldn’t see any advantage to be gained, and he rejected the idea.

He finally decided that he had no choice but to enter through one of the doorways at the front of the building. He was unhappy about it—not that he minded being identified after his work was done, but he preferred not to call any attention to himself before he’d earned his money—but no viable alternative had presented itself, and the dust mask made him feel constricted, even claustrophobic.

He realized that he was still holding his weapon in his hand, that he had been holding it since the woman had temporarily emerged from the building, and he once again replaced it in his holster. Then he climbed the three stairs to the veranda, walked across it, entered The End of the Line, and removed his mask. He would get the feel of the place, spot his quarry, wash the dust in his mouth away with a beer or two, and then go to work.

The place was as crowded as he had anticipated. A long chrome bar lined the left side of the front room, with perhaps a dozen tables scattered around the right side. The clientele was primarily human, for this was a human outpost world, but here and there were Canphorites, Lodinites, and a pair of beings of a type he had never seen before.

The back room was as large as the tavern, and even more crowded. There were roulette tables, dice tables, poker tables, two tables boasting alien games of chance. He scanned the faces at the tables, wondering which of them, if any, was his quarry. Then, finally, he turned and walked over to the bar.

A balding, overweight man with a slight limp approached him from the other side of the bar.

“Good evening,” he said. “What can I get for you?”

“A beer.”

“Coming right up,” said the man behind the bar, placing a mug under a tap and activating it. “I haven’t seen you around here before.”

“I just got here.”

“Sorry we have such lousy weather today,” continued the bartender. “Usually Last Chance is a pretty pleasant place, even a bit on the cool side.”

“I didn’t come here for the weather.”

“Good. Then you won’t be disappointed.”

The man lifted the mug to his lips and downed half of it in a single long swallow.

“I need a little information,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“If it’s mine to give,” replied the bartender.

“I’m looking for someone.”

“Well, I know almost everyone here. Who is it?”

“A man named Carlos Mendoza. Some people call him the Iceman.”

“Mendoza, eh?” said the bartender. He looked around the room. “You owe him some money? I can give it to him for you.”

“Just point him out to me.”

“I hope you’re not looking for trouble,” said the bartender. “They say Mendoza is a pretty tough customer.”

“What I’m looking for is none of your business,” said the man coldly.

“Fine by me,” said the bartender with a shrug. “I just figured that since you don’t know him, probably you’ve been hired by someone who does know him. Thought I could save you a little misery.”

“Save your thoughts for Mendoza.”

“Well,” said the bartender with a shrug, “at least you’ve been warned.”

“All right, I’ve been warned,” said the man. “Now point him out to me.”

“See that fellow sitting by himself in the corner?” asked the bartender. “The one dressed all in black?”

The man nodded. “He’s armed like he’s going into battle,” he said. “Laser pistol, sonic gun, projectile pistol. Probably got a knife tucked into that boot, too.”

“Actually, he’s got a knife in each boot,” said the bartender. He paused. “Are you really sure you want to go through with this?”

“It’s my work,” said the man, turning to face his prey.

“You could talk,” suggested the bartender. “The Iceman’s always willing to talk instead of fight.”

“He is, huh?”

“That’s what I hear.”

“I don’t get paid to talk,” answered the man.

He took a few steps toward the man in black, then stopped.

“Mendoza!” he said in a loud voice.

Most of the action at the gaming tables stopped as the man in black looked up at him curiously.

“Are you talking to me?”

The man’s fingers hovered above the hilt of his sonic pistol.

“Time to die, Mendoza.”

“Do I know you?” asked the man in black.

“All you have to know is that I’m the last thing you’re ever going to see.”

Suddenly the newcomer flinched, and a puzzled expression crossed his face. He blinked his eyes rapidly, as if trying to comprehend what had happened, then groaned once and pitched forward on his face, a large knife protruding from his back.

The bartender limped over to him, withdrew the knife he had thrown with deadly accuracy, and wiped it off on a bar towel.

“They get younger and dumber every week,” he said, turning the dead man onto his back with a foot. “No problem, friends,” he announced, raising his voice. “Just our weekly visitor from wherever.”

And because of who he was, most of the patrons took his word for it and returned to their drinks and their gambling.

The man in black walked over and stared at the corpse.

“Ever see him before?” asked the bartender.

“No,” said the man in black. “You know who he is, Iceman?”

The Iceman shook his balding head. “No idea. But that’s four of them this month. Somebody really wants me dead.” He paused. “I just wish I knew why. I haven’t been off the planet in damned near four years.”

“If you hadn’t killed him, maybe we could have found out,” said the man in black. “After all, that’s what you hired me for. You’re not making my job any easier.”

“I made your job easier,” replied the Iceman. “He would have taken you.”

The man in black frowned. “What makes you think so?”

The Iceman knelt down, gripped the corpse’s left hand in his own, and displayed the index finger.

“Prosthetic,” he said. “I spotted it at the bar, and when he turned his back, I saw the power pack under his shirt. While you were drawing your weapon, he’d have just pointed at you and burned a hole right through your chest.”

“Well, I’ll be damned!” muttered the man in black. “I guess you did make my job easier, at that.”

“I’ll take it out of your pay,” said the Iceman wryly.

“You know, one of these days someone’s going to come out here who knows what you look like,” said the man in black. “What are you going to do then?”

“Duck, I suppose,” replied the Iceman. “In the meantime, let’s move our late friend here into my office and see what we can learn about him.”

“I have a feeling he’s going to be just like the others you described to me,” predicted the man in black. “No identification, no fingerprints, surgically-altered retinagram.”

“Probably,” agreed the Iceman. “But let’s do it anyway.”

The man in black shrugged and gestured for a couple of other men to pick up the corpse. They began carrying it toward the casino.

The Iceman immediately barred their way. “Out the front and around to the side,” he said. “We’ve got customers here. How would you like it if someone dragged a dead body right in front of you while you were drinking?” He paused, then sighed deeply. “Don’t answer. Just do it.”

They reversed their direction and carried the dead man out the front door.

“Well,” said the man in black, “are you finally going to tell me what this is all about?”

“I wish to hell I knew,” answered the Iceman, limping back to the bar and pouring himself a beer. He offered one to the man in black, who turned it down.

“Don’t kill the next one and maybe you’ll find out.”

“Anyone who comes after me on Last Chance dies,” answered the Iceman firmly. “That’s part of the myth I spent three decades creating. If I let even one of these bastards live, the myth becomes a fairy tale and they’ll be coming after me every hour instead of every week. Lord knows I’ve made enough enemies over the years.”

“Then why did you hire me at all?” asked the man in black in frustrated tones.

“As you say, one of them may know who I am—and I happen to be a 71-year-old man with a beer belly and an artificial leg. When I finally need you, you’ll earn your money, never fear.”

“You ought to let me cripple one of them,” said the man in black. “Then we’d get some answers.”

“You want to cripple one?” asked the Iceman. He gestured to the door. “You’ve got the whole damned planet on which to do it. But once they walk through that door, my first concern is staying alive.” He finished his beer. “Now, if you want to practice on men who are here to kill you, that’s your privilege and good luck to you—but I didn’t get to be this old by taking chances.”

“They say there was a time when you took chances,” replied the man in black. “Lots of ‘em.”

“I was young. I learned better.”

“That’s not the way I heard it.”

“Then someone must have lied to you,” said the Iceman.

“They even say,” continued the man in black, “that you’re the only man who ever took on the Oracle and won.”

The Iceman grimaced. “I didn’t win anything.”

“Is she still alive?”

“I suppose so,” replied the Iceman. “I can’t imagine anything being able to kill her.”

“Has the thought crossed your mind that she’s behind all this?”

“Not for an instant.”

“Why not?”

“Because if she was, I’d be dead,” said the Iceman with absolute certainty.

“You faced her before, and you’re still alive,” persisted the man in black.

“Forget about her,” replied the Iceman. “She’s got nothing to do with this.”

“You’re sure?”

“To her, I’m about as insignificant as a grain of sand on a deserted beach.” He paused. “If she’s still alive, she’s got more important things on her mind.”

“What kind of things?”

“I hope to hell I never find out,” answered the Iceman seriously. “Come on,” he added. “Let’s take a look at the body.”

They walked over to his office and entered it, where they found the corpse laid out on a broad wooden desk.

The man in black examined the corpse’s fingers closely.

“No prints,” he announced. “Damned nice job on that fake finger. I never spotted it.” He looked down at the dead man’s face. “Got an ophthalmoscope?”

“A small one, inside the center drawer of the desk,” said the Iceman, going over the body for scars or identifying marks. “But it’s not tied into any computers.”

The man in black walked to the desk and returned with the instrument. “I have a feeling that tying into a computer won’t do you a bit of good with this guy—but let’s see.” He stared through the scope for a moment, then put it away. “Yeah, there’s some scar tissue on the rods and cones. Five’ll get you ten they’re not on record anywhere in the galaxy.”

“No serial numbers on any of the weapons, either,” noted the Iceman. “Strange. Out here on the Inner Frontier, most killers pick colorful names and brag about their accomplishments. But this is the fourth one in a row who has no name, no identification, no reputation.”

“Nice boots, though,” said the man in black.

“I suppose so.”

“Very nice.”

“I checked for labels or manufacturer’s marks,” said the Iceman. “There aren’t any.”

The man in black continued staring at the boots.

“Do you see something I’m missing?” asked the Iceman, suddenly interested.

“It’s possible,” said the man in black, taking a boot from the corpse’s foot and examining it.

“Looks sort of blue when the light hits it,” commented the Iceman.

“I know,” said the man in black. He handed the boot to the Iceman. “There aren’t a lot of blue reptiles on the Inner Frontier—and I only know of one that’s got this circular pattern of scales.”

“Oh?”

The man in black nodded. “Big sonuvabitch. It lives on a world called Greycloud, out by the Quinellus Cluster.” He paused. “They call it a Bluefire Dragon. It could swallow you whole and then look around for the main course.”

“How big a world is Greycloud?”

“About the size of Last Chance, maybe a little smaller.”

“Oxygen world?”

“Yes.”

“Any sentient life forms?” asked the Iceman.

“Not since we colonized it a few centuries ago,” answered the man in black.

“How many Men?”

“Maybe seven thousand, mostly miners and aquaculturalists. It’s mostly freshwater ocean, with a batch of islands and one very small continent.”

“Does it do much exporting?”

The man in black shook his head. “Too small. Probably doesn’t get a mail or cargo ship more than seven or eight times a year.”

“So,” continued the Iceman, “if our killer was wearing boots made from the local lizard…”

“There’s a pretty good chance that he bought them there,” concluded the man in black.

“They look relatively new,” said the Iceman, studying the boots. “I think maybe you’d better pay a little visit to Greycloud. Take a couple of holos of our friend here before we bury him, and see if anyone knows who he was or who he worked for.”

“I assume you’ll be all right while I’m gone?”

“I’ll make do,” replied the Iceman dryly. “By the way, if Greycloud is so far off the beaten track, how come you know about this Bluefire Dragon?”

“I’ve been there.”

“When?”

The man in black shrugged. “Oh, about eight or ten years ago.”

“On business?”

“In a manner of speaking,” said the man in black noncommittally.

“Good,” said the Iceman. “You’ll have some contacts there, some people you can talk to.”

The man in black shook his head. “Everyone I knew there is dead.”

“Recently?”

“About eight or ten years ago.”

The Iceman smiled in grim amusement. “No wonder they call you the Gravedancer.”

2

His real name was Felix Lomax, and he used it for the first 26 years of his life. But names have a way of changing on the Inner Frontier, metamorphosing to fit the natures of the men and women they’re attached to.

Originally he’d been a Pioneer, one of that group of highly-trained specialists that opened new worlds for the Democracy, terraforming them when necessary, cataloging the various life forms, designing settlements, analyzing soils and minerals and water samples to determine exactly what type of colonists would be the most productive: miners, farmers, aquaculturalists, whatever. His specialty was Pacification, a euphemism for decimating native populations until such time as they were willing to allow colonization—or, in some instances, until there were none left to object.

During that period of his life he had been known as Double X, an easily-identifiable code name based on the spelling of his given name. (It was best not to use one’s true name, just in case there were some survivors of the pacification process that resented the instrument of the policy rather than the formulators who were in their mile-high offices back on Deluros VIII, the capital world of Man, snug and secure in the heart of the Democracy.)

After four years of pacifying alien populations, something happened on the planet of Innesfree. He never spoke of it, never referred to it in any official document, but right in the middle of the campaign he quit and went off to the Inner Frontier. He bought a large ranch on Backgammon II, and spent the next two years raising mutated cattle, huge, 3,000-pound specimens that he sold to the Navy. During this time he was Felix Longface, for he never smiled, never joked, never seemed to take much of an interest in anything.

Then he finally put whatever demons were bothering him to rest, and went further into the Inner Frontier, returning to the trade he knew best: killing. For a while he was known as The Man in Black, for it was the only color he ever wore, but there were four other Men in Black on the Frontier, and before long he picked up the sobriquet of the Gravedancer, and that was the name that stuck. Not that he ever danced or visited cemeteries, but when he landed on a planet, it was only a matter of time before someone would be visiting a graveyard, never to return.

His personality didn’t change much. He still didn’t smile, and he seemed to take no pride in his craft—which was strange for a man in his occupation—but before long his reputation preceded him, and he didn’t lack for customers. He picked and chose those that interested him, which was how he came to work for the Iceman, who was as close to a living legend as a man could become on the Inner Frontier, where most legends died just about the time that they were recognized as legends.

He didn’t know much about the Iceman—no one did—but he knew that he had, in his day, faced both the Soothsayer and the Oracle and had lived to tell about it, which was more than anyone else could claim. He would have thought that the Iceman would be the very last person on the Frontier to require protection, so when the offer came, his interest was sufficiently aroused to accept the commission. He hadn’t realized at the time that it would require him to pay a return visit to Greycloud, but it wouldn’t have made any difference to him if he had known it.

As his ship braked to sublight speeds and the water world came up on his viewscreen, he checked out his arsenal, selected those weapons that he thought would be most effective in this environment, and requested permission to land on the single continent’s tiny spaceport.

“Please identify yourself,” said a metallic voice, crackling with static.

“This is the Peacekeeper, Felix Lomax commanding, five days out of Last Chance.”

“Permission denied.”

“Why?”

“You are the Felix Lomax who is also known as the Gravedancer, are you not?”

“I’ve been called that, yes.”

“There are nine outstanding arrests warrants in your name, each for the crime of murder.”

“All the more reason why you should want to get your hands on me,” replied Lomax.

“We have no one here capable of taking you into custody against your will, Gravedancer,” said the voice. “I assume you have not come to give yourself up to the authorities.”

“A fair assumption.”

“Then permission to land is denied. If you attempt to land on Greycloud, we will fire on your ship and destroy it before it can touch down.”

“One moment,” said Lomax, breaking the connection.

He had his computer scan the spaceport and surrounding vicinity, searching for weaponry. It found none, nor had he expected so thinly-populated a world to have any defensive capabilities.

“Nice try, Greycloud,” he said, reactivating his radio. “Now please give me landing coordinates.”

“Denied.”

“I’m landing whether you like it or not. If you won’t give me coordinates, you’d better clear the sky or risk a collision over the landing field. This is the Peacekeeper, over and out.”

He broke out of orbit and entered an elliptical path toward the spaceport, touching down about twenty minutes later. Once on the ground, he had the ship’s sensors scan the area for armed personnel, found none, activated a number of security devices, and finally emerged through the hatch, the boots and a holograph of the dead man secured in a leather holdall that he slung over his left shoulder.

He walked about half a mile, past two small hangars, to the main traffic control and reception building, and entered warily. There were four clerks going about their business, one man and three women; none of them looked up at him or gave any indication that they were aware of his presence until he cleared his throat and three of them fidgeted nervously. He walked up the fourth, a grey-haired woman, and stood before her.

“Yes?” she said coldly.

“I need transportation into town,” he said.

“Do I look like a chauffeur?” she demanded.

“If I can’t find one, you’ll do.”

“Go away and leave me alone, Mr. Lomax,” she said. “I want nothing to do with you.”

“Do I know you?” he asked.

“No, but I know you,” she said, her eyes reflecting her hatred.

“Then tell me where I can find a ride into town, and you won’t have to keep looking at me.”

“I wouldn’t help you if you were bleeding to death on the street,” she said.

He stared at her for a long moment.

“Have it your way,” he said at last. “Before I leave, though,” he added, “I should point out that if anyone touches my ship, the ensuing explosion will flatten the spaceport and everything else within a radius of two miles.”

Then he turned on his heel and walked out the main entrance. The parking lot was almost empty—the planet had a tiny population and relatively little commerce with the rest of the galaxy—but as he stood, hands on hips, wondering what to do next, a small groundcar pulled up. He walked over to it before the driver could get out and opened the passenger’s door.

“What’s going on here?” demanded the driver, a young man in his early twenties.

“I’m paying you fifty credits to take me into town,” said Lomax.

“The hell you are!” snapped the young man. “I’ve got a shipment of computer parts to pick up.”

“They can wait.”

Lomax opened the door, sat down next to the driver, pulled out a sonic pistol, and pointed it at him.

“That wasn’t a request,” he said calmly.

“Who are you?” demanded the driver. “What the hell is this all about?”

“I’m just a guy who needs a ride to town,” said Lomax. “Now drive.”

“Why don’t you take an aircab?” said the young man, turning the car around.

“I wasn’t aware you had any.”

“We do. I can drive you to their hangar.”

“I wouldn’t want to put you to the trouble,” said Lomax. “Just get going.”

The young man stared at him, and suddenly his expression changed.

“You’re him, aren’t you?” he said.

“I’m whom?”

“The Gravedancer.”

“Some people call me that.”

“Damn!” said the young man, grinning and slamming his hand against the dashboard. “The Gravedancer himself, in my groundcar!” He turned to Lomax. “What are you here for?”

“Business.”

“Who are you going to kill?” asked the young man eagerly.

“No one.”

“You can tell me,” persisted the young man. “I’m on your side.”

“I’m just here to talk to the local bootmaker.”

The young man snorted contemptuously. “Come on, Gravedancer—do you expect me to believe you flew all the way to Greycloud for a pair of boots?”

“What you believe makes no difference to me,” said Lomax. “Just take me where I want to go.” He paused. “You can start by driving into town.”

The young man put the vehicle in motion, and a moment later they were traveling on a road that paralleled an ocean shoreline.

“I’ve been wondering if you’d ever come back.”

“You’re too young to remember me,” said Lomax.

“I was twelve when you were here the last time,” replied the young man. “I saw you take on nine men at once.” He paused, then extended his hand. “My name’s Neil. Neil Cayman.”

Lomax looked at his hand for a moment, then took it briefly.

“I’m Felix Lomax.”

Neil shook his head. “You’re the Gravedancer.” He paused. “Where are you going from here?”

Lomax shrugged. “It all depends on what I learn while I’m here.”

Neil seemed lost in thought for a moment, then spoke up. “Do you want some company?”

“Where?”

“Out there,” he said, waving his hand toward the sky. “I’ve spent my whole life on this world. I’d like to see something different.”

“I work alone.”

“I could be useful to you.”

“Every damned world I touch down on, there’s always some kid who wants to go out and make a name for himself on the Inner Frontier,” answered Lomax. “Most of them die before the undertaker knows what name to put on their headstones.”

“I’m different,” said Neil.

“Yeah, I know,” said Lomax. “You’re all different.”

“I’ve spent my whole life on Greycloud,” continued Neil. “I want to see what’s out there.”

“Book passage with a tour group,” answered Lomax. “You’ll live longer.”

“I don’t want to see what tourists see,” persisted Neil. “I want to see the way the worlds really are, the way the people really live.” He paused. “I’ve got some money saved. I could be ready to go by this afternoon.”

“Not with me,” said Lomax.

“I’d do any kind of work you asked me to do, anything at all.”

“Not interested.”

The road turned inland, and was now lined by thick tropical foliage, which began thinning out as they moved farther away from the ocean.

“There have to be places where your face is known, where people run when they see you coming. I could go to those places and get information for you.”

“Today is an exception,” said Lomax. “Usually I’m after men, not information.”

“I could spot them for you, let you know what their habits are, where they’re likely to be. I wouldn’t ask for any pay or anything like that,” continued the young man. “Just a chance to get off this boring little world and travel with someone like you.”

“I admire your persistence,” said Lomax. “But the answer is the same. I work alone.”

“You’re making a mistake, Gravedancer.”

Lomax shrugged. “It’s possible. I’ve made them before.”

“Then let me come with you.”

“I’ve also learned to live with the consequences of my mistakes,” said Lomax. “The subject is closed.”

They came to a tiny town, composed of a broad single street lined with some four dozen stores and shops, an old hotel, and a pair of restaurants, one of which was serving its customers in a shaded outdoor patio area. Neil drove more than halfway down the street and pulled up to a storefront.

“I’ll wait here for you,” he announced.

Lomax left the groundcar without a word, and entered the store, a warm, dusty, single-story building that displayed a number of leather goods in the windows: coats, jackets, belts, hats, boots. Toward the back were sheets of various leathers, and hanging carefully from the walls were a number of pelts.

“Yes?” said a thin, balding man, walking out from a back room. “Can I help you?”

“Possibly,” said Lomax, reaching into his leather holdall and withdrawing one of the dead man’s boots. “Do you recognize this?”

The old man held it up to the light for a moment.

“Made from a Bluefire Dragon,” he said.

“You made it?”

“If anyone else on the Frontier makes ‘em, I sure as hell haven’t heard about it.” He examined it further. “This was a custom job, too. My label’s not in it.”

“How many custom boots do you make in a year’s time?”

“Oh, maybe fifty.”

“From Bluefire Dragons?”

“Maybe two or three.”

“Good,” said Lomax, pulling out the holograph and handing it over to the old man. “Do you recognize him?”

“Looks dead,” noted the old man.

“He is. Do you know him?”

The old man nodded. “Yeah, I made some boots for him maybe seven, eight months ago.”

“What can you tell me about him?”

“He wasn’t real talkative,” said the old man. “Seems to me he spent most of the day waiting in the bar across the street, then picked up his boots, paid for ‘em, and left.”

“Did he have a name?”

“Let me check my records,” said the old man, activating his computer. “Yeah. His name is … was … Cole. Jason Cole.”

“Did he pay cash?” asked Lomax.

“Yes.”

“So you don’t know what world he banked on?”

“Probably Olympus,” answered the old man. “That’s … let me think, now … Alpha Hayakawa IV.”

“Why makes you think he did his banking on Olympus?”

“He liked the boots so much he ordered a second pair. Had me ship them to an address on Olympus.”

“What address?”

“Well, now, that’s privileged information, isn’t it?” said the old man, staring at Lomax.

“I’d call it expensive information,” said Lomax, placing a pair of 200-credit notes on the counter.

“Well, considering that the poor man has passed on, I suppose there’s no harm in it,” said the old man, greedily snatching up the money and stuffing it into a leather pouch that he wore around his neck. “Computer, print out Jason Cole’s address.”

The address emerged an instant later, and the old man handed it to Lomax.

“I’d say good hunting,” said the old man. “But it appears to me that your hunting is already done.”

“I have a feeling it’s just starting.”

“Well, in that case, good luck, Gravedancer.”

“You know me?” said Lomax sharply.

“It’d be hard to forget you,” said the old man. “You were the only exciting thing to happen to Greycloud in half a century.” He paused. “Don’t worry about me alerting the authorities or nothing. First, they probably couldn’t stop you from whatever you’re doing; and second, most of them you killed deserved what they got.”

“Thanks.”

“But let me give you a word of advice, Gravedancer.”

“What is it?”

“Would I be right in figuring you plan to take a trip to Olympus next?”

“You might be.”

“I’d be real careful there if I were you.”

“Oh?”

The old man nodded. “Now and then I hear things from people who are passing through.”

“What kind of things?”

“Oh, I don’t put much stock in the details,” answered the old man. “You know how people tend to exaggerate out here. But those who are willing to talk about it at all don’t make it sound like a real friendly place.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” said Lomax, walking to the door.

“Can I interest you in a pair of boots while you’re here?” the old man called after him. “Or maybe a new holster for all those weapons?”

“Maybe next time,” answered Lomax.

“Men in your line of work don’t usually live long enough for there to be a next time,” said the old man with a half-amused smile. “This is your second trip here, so you’re already on borrowed time.”

“Next time,” repeated Lomax, walking out into the street.

Neil was waiting for him, and opened the door.

“Did you find out what you needed to know?” he asked.

“Possibly,” said Lomax, settling back on his seat. “At least I know where I’m going next.”

“Where?”

Lomax looked over at him and smiled. “Elsewhere,” he said.

They drove to the spaceport in silence. Then Neil parked the groundcar.

“You’re sure you won’t take me?”

“You’ll live longer on Greycloud, kid.”

“I thought the quality of life was supposed to be important,” said Neil sardonically.

“You’ve been misinformed.”

Neil left the vehicle and walked to the cargo area while Lomax entered the main building.

The gray-haired woman who had refused to help him earlier glared at him, but beneath the mask of hatred he thought he saw a certain smugness, a brief look of triumph before the mask was fully in place.

He walked slowly to the door leading to the landing field, scrutinizing the area carefully. A pair of lead-suited mechanics were gingerly bringing out a small packet of plutonium to fuel an ancient cargo ship that was still powered by a nuclear pile, and a crew of three men were fixing a couple of cracks and potholes at the adjoining landing strip, but otherwise the place seemed deserted. Then, suddenly, he saw a brief movement out of the corner of his eye, coming from the roof of a hangar. He turned to face it, but couldn’t spot anything out of the ordinary.

He lit a cigar, leaned lazily against a wall, and continued scanning the strip. A moment later the sun glinted off some metal on the roof of another hangar.

He walked to a vidphone directory and picked out a name at random, then approached the gray-haired woman.

“Call Jonathan Sturm and tell him that the Gravedancer’s on his way,” he said, walking out the front entrance before she could utter a reply or a refusal. “He’s got until dark to put his affairs in order and make his peace with whatever god he worships.”

He walked directly to the groundcar, entered it, and waited for Neil Cayman to emerge from the cargo area, carrying a box of computer parts.

“I thought you’d be gone by now,” said Neil, surprised.

“Change of plans,” said Lomax. “Do you own a ship?”

Neil seemed amused. “Where would I get a spaceship?”

“How about your parents or your employer?”

“Well, yeah, my boss has a little four-man job.”

“Here?”

“Yes,” said the young man. “It’s in one of the hangars.”

“Will they let you move it out to the landing field?”

“I suppose so.”

Lomax peeled off five large-denomination notes. “It’ll be sundown in about three hours. Do it then.”

“Once they find out that I helped you, I’ll be arrested.”

Lomax shook his head. “You’ll have plenty of time to fabricate an alibi. Almost every cop on the planet is going to be waiting for me at Jonathan Sturm’s house.”

“Sturm? What have you got against him?”

“Nothing,” answered Lomax. “I never met the man.”

“Then why—?”

“Just do what I said, okay?”

Neil stared at him. “I take it they’ve set a trap for you?” he asked at last.

Lomax nodded. “Will you help me?”

“I can’t believe someone like you couldn’t take them all out.”

“Maybe I could,” agreed Lomax. “But no one is paying me to do it, and when you put your life on the line often enough, you learn just how valuable a commodity it is. If I have to fight my way to my ship, I will—but if there’s an easier way, I’ll take it.” He paused. “I need to hide until sunset, and then I need you to move your ship.” He stared at the young man. “Now, are you going to help me or not?”

“Yeah, I’ll help you, Gravedancer.”

“Good.”

“On one condition,” added Neil.

“Oh?”

“Take me with you. I’ve had it with this planet.”

“I told you…”

Neil handed the money back to him. “That’s my price.”

Lomax grimaced.

“All right, it’s a deal,” he said at last.

3

Neil withdrew all his money from his bank, then parked in a secluded spot where he and Lomax waited until nightfall.

Then they drove back to the spaceport, where Neil approached the hangar and had them bring his employer’s ship out onto the reinforced pavement of the take-off strip. While the ship’s computer was waiting for takeoff clearance, the young man raced out of the cockpit and stopped the first security man he could find.

“Something’s wrong!” he panted.

“What?” asked the man.

“Someone’s hiding in the cargo compartment of my ship; the computer spotted the extra weight. I just got a glimpse of him. He’s dressed all in black.”

“You keep away from the ship,” the security man instructed him. “We’ll take it for here.”

Lomax watched from the shadows until he was convinced all the security personnel had surrounded Neil’s employer’s ship. Then he walked, briskly and silently, to his own ship, where he found the young man waiting at the hatch.

“Nothing to it,” grinned Neil as Lomax uttered the proper code words to open the hatch without detonating the security system within the ship.

“Let’s go,” said Lomax, entering the ship. “The second I activate the ignition, they’re going to know they were duped. Grab a seat, strap yourself in, and keep your fingers crossed that no one is approaching on our exit path.”

“No one ever comes here,” said Neil, seating himself in the cramped cockpit. “That’s why I want to get the hell out of here.”

Lomax fed the coordinates of Olympus into the navigational computer, waited until it had chosen a flight path, then hit the ignition. As he had predicted, it brought all the armed security men back from the other ship, but he managed to take off before they could get off any damaging shots.

“So where are we going?” asked Neil Cayman when they had left the system and achieved light speeds.

“Olympus,” answered Lomax.

The young man had the computer cast a cartographic hologram in the air above his seat. “I can’t find it,” he announced after a moment’s scrutiny.

“Try Alpha Hayakawa IV,” suggested Lomax.

“Right. Here it is. I wonder why the difference in names?”

“Standard,” replied Lomax. “Most of the planets are named after the head of the Pioneer team that opened them up. Roman numerals indicate how far out from the sun it is; any other number tells you how many prior planets the man had opened.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“This is Alpha Hayakawa IV,” explained Lomax. “That means it was first charted by a man or woman named Hayakawa, and that it’s the fourth planet from a binary sun. But if you look elsewhere, you might also find that it’s Jones 39 or Jones 22, which means that it’s the 39th or 22nd planet opened up by some guy from the Pioneer Corps named Jones.” He paused. “And of course, the first thing the settlers did was change the name. Probably it’s got some mountain that looks like a holo of Mount Olympus back on Earth, or maybe the first Governor was a Greek scholar, or maybe they had a civil war and the general on the winning side was named Olympus.”

“It gets confusing, doesn’t it?” said Neil. “All these names to learn.”

“Even more so when the native life-forms have their own name for their world,” said Lomax with a smile. “You get the hang of it after awhile.”

“I like the notion of the inhabitants choosing their own name for their world,” said Neil. “Now that I’m going out to the Frontier, I want to pick my own name.”

“You’ve got one.”

“I don’t like it. I want something colorful, like Gravedancer or Catastrophe Baker or Cemetery Smith.”

“That’s your right, I suppose.” Lomax converted to auto-pilot, unstrapped himself, and stood up, stretching his arms.

“You suppose?” asked Neil, following him back to the cargo area, which he had converted into a small lounge, with a pair of comfortable chairs secured to the deck.

Lomax sat down and lit a thin cigar. “If you’re any good at anything, usually you’ll find someone has picked your name for you, and you’re pretty much stuck with it whether you like it or not.”

“I could wait a long time,” said the young man ruefully, as he sat down opposite Lomax. “The only thing I’m really good at is wishing I was somewhere else.”

“That’s a start.”

“It is?”

“Ever hear of Faraway Jones?” asked Lomax.

“No. Who is he?”

“An old man who’s probably been to six, seven hundred worlds.”

“Is he an explorer?”

“No.”

“A cartographer?”

Lomax shook his head. “People say that when he was as young as you are, he fell in love with a girl on Binder X. Nobody knows what happened, but evidently he did something to make her leave him, and he’s been hunting for her ever since.” Lomax paused. “He must have been searching for her for, oh, close on to seventy years now.”

“Do you think she’s still alive?” asked Neil dubiously.

“Probably not. Seventy years is a long time for anyone to survive on the Inner Frontier.”

“Then why does he keep looking?”

Lomax shrugged. “You’d have to ask him.”

“Will I ever see him?”

“Hit enough worlds out there and you’ll run into him sooner or later.”

“Who else will I see?” asked the young man eagerly.

“I don’t know. Who do you want to see?”

“Everyone. All the colorful characters I’ve heard about and read about.” He smiled at Lomax. “They all seem so much bigger than life.”

Lomax returned the smile. “I know how you feel. When I was your age, I wanted to go out to the Frontier and see all my heroes too.” He paused. “After awhile, you learn that they all bleed and they all die.”

“What about the Prophet?”

“Who’s he?”

“I don’t know. Just someone I heard about on the video.”

“This year’s outlaw hero,” snorted Lomax. “Take my word for it, kid: some bounty hunter will bring him down, just like they brought down Santiago and all the rest of ‘em.”

“Still, I want to see them all for myself.” Neil paused. “You’re the only famous person I’ve ever met.”

Lomax smiled ruefully. “Let me tell you, fame isn’t everything it’s cracked up to be—especially out on the Frontier.”

“You say that because you see famous people all the time,” protested the young man. “But no one else special has ever come to Greycloud.”

“There’s nothing very special about pointing a weapon and killing people,” said Lomax.

“Sure there is,” argued Neil. “How many men can do it?”

“Too damned many.”

“Still, I want to go out there and see them for myself.”

“You may be disappointed,” said Lomax.

“I doubt it.”

“What do you think—that there are a couple of thousand worlds out there populated only by killers and folk heroes? Kid, the Inner Frontier is filled with miners and farmers and merchants and doctors and everything else you need to run a planet.”

“I know that,” said Neil irritably. “But they’re not the ones who interest me.”

“Something tells me that you’ll find all the colorful characters you’re looking for.” Lomax paused. “Kids like you usually do.”

“Maybe I can even become one myself,” said Neil, trying to hide his eagerness.

“If you live long enough,” said Lomax. “Now let’s start taking care of business.”

“What business do we have before we reach Olympus?”

“Well, to begin with,” said Lomax, “they’ve probably issued a kidnapping warrant for me. I want you to radio Olympus and tell them you’ve come with me of your own volition.”

“They won’t believe me.”

“Perhaps not, but I want it on the record.”

Neil nodded. “All right.”

“And then, since you’re going to have to start earning your keep, I want you to go into the galley and make me up some dinner.” He paused. “Soya products only. No red meat, no dairy products.”

“I don’t see how that makes you a better killer,” said Neil.

“It makes me a healthier one,” responded Lomax. “I’ve got high blood pressure and a high cholesterol count. No sense letting these control patches I wear do all the work.”

The young man smiled. “You’re kidding.”

“Why should you think so?”

“I just can’t imagine the Gravedancer sticking medical patches in his body for that stuff.”

An amused smile crossed Lomax’s face. “You probably can’t imagine that I’ve got a prosthetic eye, and that my current set of teeth are three years old, either.”

“Is that true?”

“Kid, there are very few whole men walking around the Inner Frontier,” answered Lomax. “Now go send those messages.”

Neil activated the radio and spoke briefly to his father, who was alternately distressed and enraged, but finally realized that there was nothing he could do about the situation, and even volunteered to send some money ahead to Olympus, an offer the young man refused.

Then they ate, the young man insisting on having the same bland food as Lomax.

Finally they strapped themselves into the bunks that folded out from the bulkhead in the short corridor between the galley and the cargo area, and went to sleep.

Lomax awoke with a start an hour later.

“Shit!” he muttered.

“What is it?” asked Neil, sitting up abruptly.

“I put us on auto pilot, but I forgot to activate the Avoidance Sensors. We’re probably okay, but it’d be just my luck to smash into the only damned meteor within five parsecs.”

“I’ll take care of it,” said Neil, walking to the control panel.

“Wait a minute and I’ll hit the lights,” said Lomax.

“Not necessary,” came the answer.

“Even if you know where the sensor control is, you still have to be able to see it to make the adjustment.”

“It’s done,” said Neil, returning to his cot in total darkness.

“How the hell did you do it?” asked Lomax.

“I thought I told you: I work with computers. I was picking up some parts when I met you.”

“So?”

“A couple of years ago I programmed a pair of microchips for infrared vision and had them surgically inserted in my eyes.”

“You can really see in the dark?”

“Sure,” said Neil.

“Amazing!” muttered Lomax.

“Oh, that’s nothing. I’ve got chips in me that enhance my hearing and my sense of smell, too.”

“You designed yourself?”

“It’s what I do.”

“I suppose if you had to, you could probably design one that would speed up all your reactions,” said Lomax.

“Given enough time, I probably could. Why?”

“It might prove useful where you’re going.”

“You know, it never occurred to me,” admitted Neil thoughtfully.

“Well, it’s an idea, anyway,” said Lomax, laying back down on his cot.

“It’s a damned good idea, Gravedancer,” said Neil. “If I’m going to live on the Frontier, I ought to be … well, prepared.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” agreed Lomax. “Out here you need any edge you can get. I just went up against a man who had a laser built into a fake finger. Never spotted it. If the fat old man I’m working for hadn’t been a little more alert than I was, I wouldn’t have lived long enough to get to Greycloud.”

“A weapon in a prosthetic finger…” mused Neil. “I could do that.” He considered the proposition. “Hell, I could turn my whole body into a killing machine.”

“Who do you plan on killing?” asked Lomax.

“No one.”

“Then why bother?”

“Because one of these days someone may want to kill me, and it’s best to be prepared.”

“Contrary to what you may have seen on the video, life on the Inner Frontier isn’t one prolonged gunfight,” said Lomax.

“Yours is.”

“My life is like anyone else’s in my profession,” replied Lomax. “Endless stretches of boredom, punctuated by very brief periods of danger that make you wonder what was so wrong with the boredom in the first place.”

“Well, it can’t hurt to be prepared,” said the young man stubbornly. “After all, you suggested it.”

“I know,” said Lomax sleepily. “You do what you want to do.”

“I’ll start designing what I need on the ship’s computer in the morning.”

“Fine,” yawned Lomax. “At least I know what to call you now.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. From this day forward, you’re the Silicon Kid.”

Neil smiled happily in the darkness. “I like that!”

“Somehow I thought you might,” said Lomax.

4

Olympus was a rugged little world, filled with too many mountains and too little farmland, saltwater oceans that tended to produce tidal waves and freshwater lakes and rivers that tended to dry up every summer. At first view there was no reason why anyone should have wanted to settle there, let alone produce a sprawling megalopolis between two of the larger mountain ranges, but it happened that the planet was almost ideally located between the Democracy and that section of the Inner Frontier dominated by the Binder system. Originally it housed a single Tradertown, but as commerce grew between the Democracy and the worlds of the Inner Frontier, the Tradertown began growing in all directions—including up—and one day, without anyone knowing quite how it had happened, it had become a huge city encompassing almost two million humans and perhaps fifty thousand aliens of various races, a shipping and trading center of truly Homeric proportions. There were four spaceports, two orbiting hangars each capable of accommodating more than one thousand ships that were too big or too heavy to land on the planet’s surface, and some forty square miles, just to the north of the city, for storing grain that was en route to the Democracy.

The city was named, appropriately enough, Athens, and most of the major thoroughfares bore names taken from the Iliad and the Odyssey. It possessed many of the conveniences of the Democracy, but despite its size and affluence, it still retained more than a little of the feel of a Tradertown. Gaily costumed miners and gamblers rubbed shoulders with conservatively-clad businessmen, grim-faced bounty hunters and killers inhabited the bars and drug dens, entrepreneurs of all types were constantly scheming to share in some of the billions that sat in the vaults of two dozen major and minor banks.

“This is some place, this Olympus!” said the Silicon Kid as he and Lomax rode a slidewalk down one of the main thoroughfares. “Look at these buildings, Gravedancer!”

“They’re just buildings,” said Lomax with a shrug.

“You aren’t impressed?”

“They blot out the sun.” Lomax paused. “It looks like any other gateway world.”

“Gateway world?”

“Between the Inner Frontier and the Democracy,” answered Lomax. “There are about fifty of ‘em.”

“Well, I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“One world’s pretty much like the next,” replied Lomax. “This one’s a little warm for my taste. Could use a touch more gravity, too.”

“I like the lighter gravity,” enthused the Kid. “I feel like I’m floating.” Suddenly he paused. “You have to make adjustments every time the gravity changes, right?”

Lomax nodded. “On a world like this, your tendency is to shoot too high.”

“Yeah,” mused the Kid. “I hadn’t thought of that.” Another pause. “Maybe I can come up with some chips that will make all the worlds feel the same to you.”

“You come up with a chip like that and you’ll never run out of friends,” replied Lomax.

“Where are we going?” asked the Kid, watching a monorail race above them.

“To see where Jason Cole used to live.”

“He’s the guy with the laser in his finger?”

“That’s right,” said Lomax.

“Then what?”

“Then I ask some questions.” Lomax turned to the Silicon Kid. “You don’t have to come along. We can make an arrangement to meet somewhere.”

“And miss the chance of seeing you in action?” said the Kid, watching a pair of silent hovercrafts race for a single landing space atop a nearby roof. “Not a chance.”

“Not much action involved in asking questions.”

“What if they don’t answer?”

Lomax stepped aside as two young boys raced past him, toy guns blazing. “Cole’s dead. Why shouldn’t they?”

“Maybe whoever he lived with will be just a little upset that you killed him,” answered the Kid.

“I didn’t kill him.”

“Maybe they won’t believe you,” said the Kid. “After all, you’re the Gravedancer.”

Lomax grimaced. “If he lived with anyone, they must have known what kind of work he did.” He lit a thin cigar. “In this business, if you go out often enough, there comes a time when you don’t return. That’s a given.”

“I’ll come along anyway,” said the Kid. “You just might need some help.”

Lomax shrugged. “It’s been known to happen.”

The Kid frowned as they passed a multi-environmental hotel that seemed to specialize in chlorine-breathers. “You know,” he said, “every time I think I’ve got you pegged, you come up with an answer that throws me.”

“Oh?”

“You’re the Gravedancer! You shouldn’t want help from anybody.”

“You see enough men get blown to bits and before long you find that you’re willing to take all the help you can get,” answered Lomax, checking each street sign as they came to it.

“Well, it seems wrong.”

“I suppose it’d make a lousy video,” agreed Lomax with an amused smile.

“It sure as hell would,” agreed the Kid seriously.

“Welcome to the real world.”

They rode in silence for a few more minutes, until Hector Boulevard crossed Helen Street. Lomax managed the change of slidewalks easily, but had to reach out and steady the Silicon Kid, who had never been on a slidewalk before and almost lost his balance.

“Thanks,” muttered the Kid. “That’d be a hell of a way to get killed, my first day on a new world.”

“Don’t jump,” Lomax cautioned. “Just step onto the thin strip of pavement between them with one foot, and then step onto the next slidewalk.”

“Stupid way to travel.”

“Easier than walking five miles,” answered Lomax.

“Do all the Frontier worlds have these things?”

“Hardly any of them do,” said Lomax. “Olympus isn’t really a Frontier world.”

“The charts say it is.”

“Oh, it’s in the Inner Frontier,” agreed Lomax. “But it’s too built up, too civilized. The real Frontier keeps moving toward the Core, while the Democracy keeps absorbing the worlds on the outskirts.”

“That’s what I want to see,” said the Kid. “The real Inner Frontier.”

Lomax jerked his thumb in the direction of a travel agency they were passing. “Be my guest.”

“I can wait a few days.”

“How comforting.” Lomax checked a street number. “We’re coming to another change of slidewalks. Get ready.”

This time the Kid moved as gracefully as Lomax, and after a short interval they stepped onto the pavement in front of the Hotel Apollo.

“Is this the place?” asked the Kid, looking at the steel-and-glass structure confronting them.

“If my information is correct,” said Lomax.

The Kid grimaced. “Who could live in buildings like this? There’s no room to turn around.”

Lomax looked amused. “Oh, no more than thirty or forty trillion people. You belong to a race of social animals, Kid.”

“Not me,” answered the Silicon Kid. “Living like this would drive me crazy.”

Lomax walked up to the main entrance. The Kid was about to try to step into the lobby, but Lomax reached out a hand and restrained him.

“What’s the matter?” asked the Kid.

“Wait,” said Lomax. “You’re not on Greycloud any longer.”

An alien doorman, reddish and mildly humanoid, nodded a pleasant greeting and uttered a single command, dispersing the energy field that protected the entrance.

“Welcome to the Hotel Apollo, the finest hostelry on all of Olympus,” it said in heavily-accented Terran. “How may I be of assistance to you?”

“We’ve come to visit a friend,” said Lomax.

“Excellent,” said the doorman. “Everyone should have friends.”

“His name is Jason Cole.”

“Alas, Jason Cole is not in residence at this moment.”

“We’ll wait.”

“He has been gone for 23 days,” answered the doorman. “He may be gone for 23 more.”

“No problem.”

“I am afraid that we empty the lobby every night at midnight,” continued the doorman. “You cannot wait here.”

“That was never our intention,” said Lomax. “We’ll wait in his room.”

“That is not permitted.”

“Sure it is,” said Lomax, pulling out a large bankroll and thumbing through it.

“Hardly ever,” said the alien.

“You’re sure?” asked Lomax, peeling off a pair of bills.

“I am almost certain.”

“What a shame,” said Lomax, adding a third bill to the two.

“Except on special occasions,” answered the alien, grabbing the bills and tucking them into its uniform. “How lucky for you that this is a special occasion.”

“What’s his room number?”

“I will take you there myself,” said the doorman.

“It’s not necessary.”

“Ah, but it is.”

“Why?”

“Because if you do not need my help to gain entrance to Jason Cole’s room, then I cannot permit you to wander the corridors of our establishment without supervision.”

Lomax smiled. “We’ll follow you.”

“This way, please,” said the alien, waddling off to the airlift. They floated up to the 43rd floor, then emerged into a slow-moving corridor that took them past a number of rooms until they reached the one they wanted and stepped off.

“We are here,” it announced, allowing the door’s sensors to examine his palm and retina. Finally it uttered a code in its own tongue, and the door dilated, revealing the interior of a small apartment.

“I will leave you now,” said the alien. “But I must warn you that I will have our security forces monitor your movements once you emerge from Jason Cole’s apartment.”

Lomax nodded. “I would expect no less from the finest hostelry on all of Olympus.”

The alien bared its teeth in what passed for a grin.

“One question,” said Lomax, as the alien was about to leave.

“Yes?”

Lomax held up another banknote. “Who is Jason Cole’s employer?”

The doorman eyed the note with almost human sadness. “I do not know, sir.”

“Pity,” said Lomax, putting the bill back into one of his many pockets.

He and the Kid entered the room, and a moment later the door closed behind them.

“Well,” he said, “let’s see what we can learn about the late Mr. Cole.”

Lomax walked into the bedroom and checked the closet. There were two rather gaudy outfits there, and nothing else. The dresser had some undergarments, but three of the four drawers were empty. The bathroom looked like it had never been used; the medicine cabinet was completely bare.

He walked back into the living room, where he found the Kid going through a holodisk library.

“The guy liked pornography,” announced the Kid. “If he had any other interests, you can’t prove it by what’s here.”

“You checked the kitchen and the foyer?” asked Lomax.

“Yes.”

“What do you find?”

“There’s some beer in the kitchen, nothing else; and a pair of thermal garments in the closet. Either this world has a hell of a winter, or he sometimes goes to a planet that’s a lot colder than this one.”

Lomax double-checked the rooms the Kid had inspected. “As far as I can tell,” he said at last, “he just used this as a mailing address, and maybe a place to spend an occasional night when he was on the planet.” His gaze fell on a computer screen that was built into the wall. “Okay, let’s check his mail.” He walked over to the screen. “Computer, activate.”

“Activated,” replied a metallic voice.

“Please bring up all mail that you’ve received since I last activated you.”

“There are 87 parcels, Mr. Cole.”

“Eliminate all advertisements.”

“There are two parcels, Mr. Cole.”

“Read the oldest of them.”

“Working… ‘Once you have proof that your assignment has been successfully carried out, report to me in person at my office, and payment will be made in the usual way.’”

“Who signed the letter?”

“There is no signature.”

“Is there a return address?”

“No.”

“Wonderful,” muttered Lomax.

“I’m delighted that you are pleased,” said the computer.

Lomax grimaced. “Now read the second letter.”

“‘Dear Mr. Cole: This is to inform you that you have exceeded your credit limit of 2,500 credits. Until this has been made good, we can no longer accept your custom. Please make arrangements to have the money transferred to our account #30337, First Planetary Bank of Olympus. Thank you for your prompt attention and payment.’”

“Is there a signature?”

“The Manager.”

“Is there a return address?”

“The Blue Pavilion, 37 Achilles Street.”

“Thank you. Deactivate.”

“That’s our next stop?” asked the Silicon Kid.

“I think so,” said Lomax. “Did you notice anything peculiar about the wording of the first letter?”

“Not especially,” answered the Kid. “Just that he’s done business with this guy before.”

“It sounded formal,” said Lomax. “Like whoever wrote it is a businessman, and makes this kind of assignment all the time.”

“Probably he does,” answered the Kid. “After all, killing’s a business, just like any other.”

Lomax shook his head. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then I don’t follow you.”

“I have a feeling that my employer is up against a very professional organization,” said Lomax, “the kind of organization that authorizes killings every day. Payment will be made in ‘the usual way’, from some guy’s office? That’s the last place you’d want a killer to show up for his money—unless your primary business is hiring killers.”

“That still doesn’t tell us whether this guy is a middleman, or whether he’s the one who initiated the assignment.”

“I know.”

“So what do we do now?” asked the Kid.

“Let’s find out what Cole knew.”

“How do we do that?”

“If we’re lucky, we just ask the computer.” Lomax turned back to the screen. “Computer, activate.”

“Activated.”

“Please bring up the last letter I posted from this address.”

“Working… ‘Tell the Anointed One I accept the assignment, for the usual price.’”

Lomax frowned. “The Anointed One?”

“That is correct.”

“What is the address on the letter?”

“Electronic mailbox #804432J.”

“In whose name is it registered?”

“Working… I am unable to retrieve that information, Mr. Cole. The owner of the box has asked that his name be unlisted.”

“Is there any way I can find out who owns it?”

“If you are a legitimate creditor, you can go to Claims Court and fill out a Form 86-F. After an appropriate investigation, the authorities will release the name to you.”

“There’s no faster way?”

“No, Mr. Cole.”

“Thank you, Computer. Deactivate.”

“The Anointed One?” repeated the Kid as the screen went dark. “You ever hear of anyone with that name?”

“Never.”

“What about your employer?”

“He’d have told me if he’d ever come across it.”

There was a momentary silence, which was finally broken by the Silicon Kid.

“Now we go to the Blue Pavilion?” he asked.

Lomax nodded his agreement. “Now we go to the Blue Pavilion.”

5

The Blue Pavilion was a nightclub atop one of the taller buildings in the city. An enormous glass wall, some forty feet high, afforded a breathtaking view of Mount Olympus; the other three walls were covered with mirrors that reflected the deep blue sky, the mountain, and the huge pool that dominated the middle of the club.

The pool itself was filled with dozen dolphin-like creatures that had been imported from Sylestria II; they were thought to be sentient, but as yet no common language had been developed, and, in common with all aquatic species, their inability to work with fire had hindered any attempts they might have made to develop a recognizable technology. Still, they were capable of intricate maneuvers that seemed almost like precision dancing, and just about the time the audience was becoming bored or jaded, a dozen nude girls dove into the water, climbed aboard the creatures, and rode them as they performed yet another water ballet.

There was a long chrome bar on one side of the room, and a number of tables, most of them filled with patrons who were dressed more for show than for comfort. Obviously the Blue Pavilion was a place to see and be seen.

Waiters and waitresses, all in elegant silken outfits, moved rapidly about the room, filling empty glasses, taking orders, occasionally bringing out dinners as well as drinks. A 6-piece orchestra hovered above the pool, their glittering platform floating in mid-air.

As Lomax and the Silicon Kid walked up to the entrance, a tall, formally-clad man approached them.

“May I be of service to you, gentlemen?” he said, his expression displaying his disapproval of their clothing.

“We’d like a table, please,” said Lomax.

“I’m afraid we have no available tables this evening.”

“There are five empty tables,” said Lomax.

“All reserved.”

Lomax pulled out a hundred-credit note. “Not too close to the pool,” he said.

“I’m afraid it’s out of the question,” said the man.

“Hey, this is the Gravedancer you’re talking to!” snapped the Kid.

“I am aware of his identity,” answered the man calmly. He turned to Lomax. “Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Lomax.”

“Please excuse my friend,” said Lomax, adding two more notes to the original one. “He’s new to your world.”

“You really must teach him some manners, Mr. Lomax,” said the man, taking the banknotes and leading them to an empty table near the bar.

As they were being seated, Lomax laid three more notes on the table.

“We could use a little information,” he said.

The man eyed the notes, then bowed deeply. “If it’s mine to give.”

“I gather that Jason Cole used to frequent this place.”

“That’s correct, sir,” said the man, reaching for the notes.

Lomax covered the notes with his hand. “I know that,” he said. “I need to know who he used to meet here.”

The man looked nervously at the money. “I would love to help you, Mr. Lomax, but…”

Lomax added three more notes to the pile.

The man looked again, then sighed and shook his head. “He would probably kill me if I pointed him out to you. I’d love to do business with you, Mr. Lomax, but I’d love to wake up tomorrow morning even more.”

“Tell you what,” said Lomax, picking up the pile of notes and placing them into the man’s hand. “You tell him that I know Jason Cole and I’d like to speak to him, and let him decide whether to come over and talk to me. Will that get you off the hook?”

“Admirably,” said the man, pocketing the money. He signaled to a waitress, who immediately approached the table.

“What can I get you gentlemen to drink?” she asked, as the maitre d’ walked off.

“Champagne,” said the Kid.

“Champagne for him, fruit juice for me,” said Lomax.

“What type?”

Lomax shrugged. “Whatever’s available.”

“You don’t drink, either?” asked the Kid as the waitress walked away.

“Not when I’m working.”

“I think it’s almost criminal, coming to a place like this and not having a drink.”

“You just watch the naked ladies and leave the thinking to me.”

“I’ve been watching them,” said the Kid. “We don’t allow nudity on Greycloud. Is it common on the Frontier?”

“It varies from world to world,” answered Lomax. “There are even a couple of colony worlds run by nudists.”

“I’d like to see them.”

Lomax shrugged. “Take it from me: most people look better with their clothes on.”

“Still…”

“You do what you want. No one’s keeping you here.”

“Why do I get the feeling that you’re trying to get rid of me?”

“Look,” said Lomax. “I brought you here. That ought to be enough. Any minute now it could start getting dangerous.”

“I can take care of myself,” said the Kid. “You don’t have to protect me.”

“I have no intention of protecting you,” said Lomax. “I just don’t want you getting in my way.”

“That’s a hell of a thing to say,” replied the Kid, more than half-seriously. “I thought we were supposed to be friends.”

“Friends aren’t compatible with the business I’m in.”

“What about the man you’re working for?” persisted the Kid. “You make him sound like a friend.”

“The Iceman? He’s me thirty-five or forty years from now. If I survive.”

“The Iceman?” repeated the Kid. “You’re working for him?”

“Yeah.”

“Why does he need you? He’s the man who beat the Oracle!”

“He’s an old man now, with a bum leg. If it’s his leg at all; my guess is that it’s prosthetic.” Lomax paused. “And according to him, he didn’t beat her. He seems to think he was lucky to come out of it alive.”

“No, he beat her!” said the Kid firmly. “Everyone knows the story.” He could barely contain his enthusiasm. “Just think of it—the Iceman! What I wouldn’t give to meet him! Are all the other stories they tell about him true?”

“Probably not.”

“They say he killed Three-Fisted Ollie, and that he found the Soothsayer when hundreds of bounty hunters couldn’t, and—”

“Lower your voice and calm down,” said Lomax in amused tones. “Or the band just might sue you for unfair competition.”

“I’m sorry,” said the Kid. “But the Iceman! He’s one of my heroes!” He paused. “What is he like?”

“He’s a fat, balding old man with a limp,” said Lomax. “But I’ll give him this: he’s sharp. He doesn’t miss a trick.”

“Why are you working for him? I would think that of all the men on the Frontier, the Iceman would be the last to hire someone like you.”

“People get old, Kid. Even the Iceman.”

The waitress returned with their drinks, and a moment later the maitre d’ approached them.

“I delivered your message, Mr. Lomax.”

“And?”

The man shrugged. “And now it’s up to the gentleman you wish to speak to.”

Lomax nodded. “All right. You did your part.”

“One more thing, Mr. Lomax.”

“Yeah?”

“We are civilized people here, and Olympus is a civilized planet. The law is enforced very strictly here. If there is to be violence, it would be most unfortunate for all parties concerned if it were to occur in the Blue Pavilion.” He looked meaningfully at the security cameras, which were clearly visible above each table.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Thank you, Mr. Lomax.”

The man retreated toward the kitchen, and Lomax took a sip of his juice, then made a face.

“Is something wrong?” asked the Kid.

“I’ve tasted this before,” said Lomax. “Some kind of mutated citrus from the Altair system. It probably costs more than your champagne, but I can’t stand the stuff.” He pushed the glass to the middle of the table. “You want it?”

The Kid shook his head. “I’ll stick with what I’ve got, thanks.”

“That’s up to you,” said Lomax.

The Kid downed half his glass in a single swallow. “Good stuff.”

“You ever drink champagne before?”

“Sure,” said the Kid defensively. “Lots of times.”

“Yeah, I could tell by the way you gulped it down.” Suddenly Lomax tensed. “Take a walk, Kid.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“I think I’m about to have a visitor,” said Lomax, staring at a dapper, middle-aged man who was making his way across the floor toward their table.

“I’d rather stay.”

Lomax stared at him. “All right. But you don’t say a word, you don’t contradict anything I say, and you don’t make any sudden movements.”

“You got it.”

Lomax studied the man as he approached them. He was of medium height and build, with meticulously groomed gray hair and mustache, pale blue eyes, and an aquiline nose. There was a bulge in his pocket that he made no attempt to hide, but if it was a weapon it looked like it would be very difficult to withdraw it without a great deal of fumbling around.

“You are Mr. Lomax?” asked the man, coming to a stop behind an empty chair.

“That’s right. And this is my associate, Mr…”

“The Silicon Kid,” interjected the young man.

“I don’t believe I’ve heard of you, sir,” said the man.

“You will,” responded the Kid.

“I am Milo Korbekkian. May I sit down?”

“Please do,” said Lomax.

Korbekkian seated himself. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

“Be my guest.”

The dapper man lit up a thin cigar, and Lomax wrinkled his nose.

“It contains a mild stimulant,” explained Korbekkian. “The odor is an unfortunate side effect. I can put it out if you wish.”

“Suit yourself,” said Lomax. “I can stand it if you can.”

“Then, with your kind permission, I shall continue to smoke.” Korbekkian leaned forward slightly. “I understand that you are an acquaintance of Jason Cole’s?”

“That’s right.”

“Dear Jason,” said Korbekkian, signaling to a passing waiter to bring him a drink. “The last I heard of him he was leaving for some little world on the Inner Frontier.” He paused. “How is he getting along?”

“About as well as most corpses, I suppose.”

“Poor boy,” said Korbekkian with no show of surprise or regret.

“You should never send a boy to do a man’s job,” continued Lomax.

“Oh?”

“He never had a chance against the Iceman.” Lomax stared into his eyes. “Neither did the other three you sent.”

“What other three?” asked Korbekkian innocently, as his drink arrived.

“Mr. Korbekkian, we’re never going to come to a satisfactory arrangement unless we put our cards on the table. I know you’ve sent four men to kill the Iceman. I know that all four are buried on Last Chance.”

“Assuming that I did send four men out there, why should the notorious Gravedancer—if I may use your professional sobriquet—come all the way to Olympus to tell me that they’ve failed?”

“You can keep wasting your money sending cannon fodder out after the Iceman,” said Lomax. “Or,” he added, “you can buy the best, and get the job accomplished.”

The Silicon Kid seemed about to say something, but Lomax stared him down.

“I see,” said Korbekkian, finally lifting his drink to his lips and downing it in a single swallow. “You have come seeking employment.”

“I’ve come to discuss the matter,” replied Lomax. “I don’t come cheap.”

“No, I imagine you don’t.” He placed his glass down on the table and stared intently at it.

“On the other hand, you’ve seen what happens to those who do.”

“A telling point, Mr. Lomax,” agreed Korbekkian, looking across the table at Lomax. “A telling point indeed.” He paused. “How much would you require, and when could you be ready to leave?”

“I’ll want two million credits, or it’s equivalent in Maria Theresa dollars,” said Lomax. “And I’ll be ready to leave as soon as I’ve spoken to the Anointed One.”

Lomax studied him carefully for a reaction—surprise that he knew the name of Korbekkian’s employer, shock, fear, anything—but the man’s face was an emotionless mask.

“That may be difficult to arrange, Mr. Lomax.”

“No more difficult than terminating the Iceman, I’ll venture,” responded Lomax.

“The Anointed One does not like to be directly involved in such matters.”

“I don’t like dealing with middle men.”

“I assure you that I am far more than a middle man,” said Korbekkian.

“What are your assurances worth?” asked Lomax.

“I don’t believe I understand you, Mr. Lomax.”

“If I deal directly with you, my fee is three million,” said Lomax. “Now, is ten minutes of the Anointed One’s time worth a million credits or not?”

Korbekkian stared at him for a long moment. “Why do you wish to see him?”

“I have my reasons.”

“I will be happy to transmit them to him.”

Lomax shook his head. “That’s not the way I do business.”

“May I give you a piece of friendly advice, Mr. Lomax?”

“I’m always happy to get advice,” replied Lomax easily.

“If I were you, I would not make any demands or set any conditions that might annoy the Anointed One,” said Korbekkian. “Even someone as accomplished as yourself cannot withstand his anger.”

“I’m a lot more accomplished than the Iceman, and he’s withstood it pretty well,” noted Lomax.

“He is a minor irritant who probably does not even know of the Anointed One’s existence,” answered Korbekkian. “He lives on the Inner Frontier, and his influence on events is absolutely minimal.”

“Then why have you gone to such lengths to have him killed?”

“That, Mr. Lomax, is none of your business.”

“If I accept the Anointed One’s commission, it is,” said Lomax.

Korbekkian put out his cigar and immediately lit up another one.

“I do not think we can do business, Mr. Lomax,” he said at last.

“Of course we can,” said Lomax. “You just take my message to the Anointed One and bring me his answer.”

Korbekkian shook his head. “I don’t think so, Mr. Lomax. You ask too many questions, you make too many demands.”

“I can be very demanding when it’s my life that will be on the line,” responded Lomax. “If the Iceman was easy to kill, he’d be dead by now.”

“I don’t see what killing the Iceman has to do with meeting the Anointed One,” said Korbekkian irritably.

“You don’t have to,” answered Lomax. “I see it, and that’s enough.”

“I very much doubt that he’ll speak to you, Mr. Lomax.”

“Yes, he will.”

Korbekkian made no attempt to hide his curiosity. “What makes you so certain, Mr. Lomax?”

“Because you’re going to tell him that if he doesn’t, I just might offer my services to the Iceman.”

Korbekkian stared at him expressionlessly for a long minute. “Where can I get in touch with you?”

“Right here, tomorrow night.”

The dapper man stood up. “I’ll have an answer for you at that time.”

He turned on his heel and walked out of the Blue Pavilion.

“You’re not really going to hire on to kill the Iceman?” said the Kid.

“Don’t be stupid.”

“Then why didn’t you kill him right here?”

Lomax smiled. “I promised the maitre d’ that we wouldn’t get any blood on the tablecloths.”

“What’s to stop us from following him out right now and blowing him away?”

“Nothing but common sense,” answered Lomax. “He’s just a hireling. If I take him out, this Anointed One will just find someone else to hire his killers.”

“So what do we do now?”

“I stay here and enjoy the show.”

“What about me?”

“You?” said Lomax. “You take your see-in-the-dark eyes and follow Mr. Korbekkian.”

“Where do I follow him to?” asked the Kid.

Lomax shrugged. “To wherever he’s going.”

“Then what?”

“Then remember how to find it, in case the Anointed One decides not to meet with me.”

The Kid left the club, and Lomax, feeling he had put in a useful evening, settled back to watch the entertainment.

6

It was just after sunrise when the hotel room’s vidphone began buzzing.

Lomax sat up, swung his feet to the side of the bed, and ordered the machine to activate. An instant later a holograph of Milo Korbekkian stared out at him.

“Good morning, Mr. Lomax.”

“How did you find me?” asked Lomax. “I didn’t use my real name when I checked in.”

“I have my sources.”

“What’s up? I thought we were meeting at the Blue Pavilion tonight.”

“That won’t be necessary. I have spoken to him, and he has agreed to see you, Mr. Lomax.”

“When?”

“I’ll pick you up in front of your hotel at noon, precisely,” said Korbekkian. “Just you; no one else. Have your luggage with you. You will not be returning.”

“He’s not on Olympus?”

“Just be ready, Mr. Lomax.”

“Right,” said Lomax.

“One more thing, Mr. Lomax,” said Korbekkian.

“What is it?”

“I do not appreciate being followed. If your companion ever attempts to do so again, I cannot be held responsible for what happens to him.”

Lomax allowed himself the luxury of a smile. “He’s very young.”

“If he wants to get older, he had best heed what I just said.”

“I’ll pass your message on to him.” Lomax paused. “Do you want him to remain on Olympus?”

“Whether he stays on Olympus or not is of no import to me, Mr. Lomax. But he cannot accompany us.”

Lomax nodded. “I’ll see you at noon.”

“At noon,” echoed Korbekkian, breaking the connection.

Lomax got up, walked into the bathroom, took a brief shower, ran a comb through his hair, and began getting dressed. When he was finished, he left his room, took the airlift down two levels, rode the corridor to the Kid’s room, and knocked at the door.

“Open,” said the Kid’s voice, and the door slid back.

“Good morning,” said Lomax, walking into the room.

“Good morning,” answered the Kid, who was fully dressed and watching a holographic video. He commanded the set to deactivate. “Was the address I gave you last night any use to you?”

“Not yet,” said Lomax. He stared at the Kid. “You were spotted.”

“Impossible!” said the Kid. “I was never within a hundred yards of him. I’ll swear he never saw me!”

“Probably it was one of his bodyguards, then.”

“He has bodyguards?” said the Kid, surprised. “I never saw any.”

Lomax smiled. “They’re the best kind.”

“He told you that?”

Lomax nodded.

“When?” asked the Kid.

“He called me about ten minutes ago.”

“How did he find you? We’re using phony names.”

“Olympus is his home world,” replied Lomax. “If he wasn’t good enough to find us, he wouldn’t have lasted this long at his job.”

The Kid stared at Lomax for a moment, then spoke. “So what’s the story?” he asked. “Are we going to meet the Anointed One?”

“I am.”

“What about me?”

“Korbekkian says no.”

“What am I, then—a hostage?”

Lomax chuckled. “He doesn’t need a hostage. He has me.”

“Then what do I do?”

Lomax stared at him for a moment. “Do you really want to get involved in this, Kid?”

“I am involved.”

“If you wanted to back out, this would be a good time,” said Lomax. “Right now you’re a civilian. You stay in, you become a warrior, and you’re fair game.”

“I’m in,” said the Kid firmly.

“Okay,” said Lomax. “Let’s get some breakfast and discuss it.”

They left the room, took the airlift down to the mezzanine level, and walked over to a small restaurant. The Kid ordered a full breakfast, while Lomax contented himself with a cup of coffee and a roll.

“I never saw a restaurant like this!” enthused the Kid, referring to the holographic representations of the various dishes that hovered above the table. “This is really interesting.”

“Commonplace,” said Lomax. “What you saw last night—printed menus and live waiters—is the rarity.”

“Maybe for you,” answered the Kid. “But Greycloud doesn’t have anything like this.”

Lomax shrugged. “Whatever makes you happy.”

Their meal was conveyed to their table on an automated cart that waited until they had removed all their dishes, then rolled back to the kitchen.

“Well,” said the Kid, “let’s get down to business.”

“Just a minute,” said Lomax, pulling a small oblong mechanism out of one of his pockets.

“What’s that?” asked the Kid.

“Just a scrambler,” answered Lomax, activating it by pressing a small button. “There are security devices all over the main floor here,” he continued, jerking his head in the direction of a camera that was positioned in a corner of the restaurant. If anyone’s trying to listen to us, this will stop them.”

“You think someone’s trying to monitor us?”

Lomax shrugged. “Who knows?” He paused. “You’ll live a lot longer if you assume the worst and try to prepare for it.”

“I’ll remember that,” said the Kid.

“See that you do.” Lomax looked around casually, scanning the faces of passersby, trying to match them with anyone he had seen at the Blue Pavilion the night before. Finally he turned back to the Kid. “You’re sure you want to get involved? There’s still time for you to walk away from this.”

“Not a chance,” said the Kid.

“All right,” said Lomax, taking a sip of his coffee. “There’s nothing further to be learned on Olympus, so there’s no reason for you to wait for me here.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“You always wanted to meet the Iceman, didn’t you?” said Lomax. “I want you to go to Last Chance and deliver a message.”

“I want to meet him, sure,” said the Kid. “But it sounds like you’re sending me there just to make me feel useful. Why can’t you just send it via subspace radio?”

“Personally, I don’t give a damn whether you feel useful or not,” answered Lomax seriously. “I’m sending you in person because it will almost certainly cost me my life if it’s intercepted. Is that reason enough for you?”

“What’s the message?” asked the Kid.

“I want you to tell him that no matter what he hears, I’m still working for him.”

“What is he likely to hear?”

“If he hears anything at all, it’ll be that the Anointed One hired me to kill him.”

“Why should he believe me?”

Lomax took a ring off the little finger of his left hand. “Give him this. He knows it belongs to me.”

“All right,” said the Kid. He stared across the table at Lomax. “More to the point, why should he believe you?”

“Damned good question,” admitted Lomax.

“Have you got an answer?”

Lomax grimaced. “Not really,” he said at last.

“Sounds to me like you could have a problem on your hands,” offered the Kid.

Lomax sighed deeply. “That’s what I get paid for overcoming.” He finished his roll and got to his feet. “I’ve got a couple of things to do. I’ll pay for your room through noon; if you stay any longer, it comes out of your pocket.”

“What about the hangar and exit fees?”

“I’ll take care of them,” answered Lomax. “I’ll see you around, Kid.”

“Right.”

Lomax held a credit cube up to a scanner, waited until it registered, and then left the restaurant. He settled his bill at the hotel desk, then stopped by a vidphone and took care of the charges at the spaceport.

Then he checked the directory, paid a connect fee for the main branch of the planetary library, and accessed the newstape division.

“Bring up any information concerning the Anointed One,” he ordered.

“There are six articles about the Anointed One, dating from 3445 G.E. to the present.”

“Give me hard copies of all six.”

“That will be an extra fee of 24 credits, 16.2 New Stalin rubles, or 4.78 Far London pounds. If your home bank deals in any other currency, there will be a three percent conversion fee. Do you accept the charges?”

“I do.”

“Working … done.”

The six articles emerged from a slot beneath the screen, and Lomax broke the connection.

He found a comfortable chair in a corner of the lobby, sat down, and started reading them.

The earliest mention of the Anointed One identified him as the leader of a small religious cult, far out on the Rim. He had been arrested for murdering one of his subordinates, but the case was dismissed for lack of evidence, when the two eyewitnesses disappeared.

Five months later he had moved his base of operations to the Spiral Arm, not that far from Earth itself, and now the Democracy was after him for the nonpayment of some 163 million credits in taxes.

A year later he had set up temples and “recruiting stations” on some twenty planets in the heart of the Democracy, and was said to have a following numbering in the millions. No mention was made of the disposition of the tax suit.

The final three articles, each spaced a month apart, concerned politicians and other public figures speaking out against the Anointed One, his sect’s supposed excesses, his refusal to pay taxes (again), and his growing power. In the most recent article, there was a list of five people who had publicly opposed him and had since vanished.

There was no holograph or photograph of the Anointed One, nor any information or even conjecture about his origins. Lomax was mildly surprised that he hadn’t heard about a man with such a large organization, but of course that organization had started on the Rim and had spread only to the Democracy, not yet reaching those worlds toward the Galactic core that formed the Inner Frontier, and the men and women of the Frontier paid scant attention to those developments that didn’t directly affect them.

The real question, decided Lomax, was not how the Anointed One had gathered such power so quickly, but rather what the Iceman, a saloon owner on an obscure Frontier world who himself hadn’t set foot on a Democracy world in almost three decades, had done to attract the attention—and the obvious enmity—of a man who had yet to get within five thousand light-years of the Inner Frontier.

Lomax checked his timepiece, saw that he still had a couple of hours before he had to meet Korbekkian, and strolled out into the cool, crisp Olympus morning. He walked aimlessly for a few blocks, pausing to look at a window here, a holographic display there, a street vendor selling exquisite alien stone carvings, a psychic forecasting the fall of the Democracy, a street musician of an unknown race playing an atonal but haunting melody on a string instrument of strange design.

He stopped at a weapon shop, studied their display with an expert eye, saw nothing superior to his own armaments, and finally began walking back to his hotel. He noted with approval that Olympus, like most Inner Frontier worlds, disdained most of the new nanotechnology of the Democracy, and swept its streets with sleek machines rather than using the new dirt-eating microbes that had been developed on Deluros VIII.

He reached the hotel about twenty minutes before noon, had a quick cup of coffee, and stood just inside the front entrance. A few moments later a splendid, late-model groundcar pulled up. The door opened, and Milo Korbekkian summoned him with a gesture.

“Good morning, Mr. Lomax,” said Korbekkian as Lomax entered the vehicle.

“Good morning.”

“I assume you had the good sense to tell your young companion not to follow us.”

“He’s light-years from here by now.”

“He had better be. We have your ship’s registration number, and if we should encounter it during our voyage, we will not hesitate to blow it to pieces. Is that understood?”

“It’s understood,” said Lomax, leaning back on the plush seat.

“Have you any questions?” asked Korbekkian, as his driver pulled the vehicle away from the hotel and into the light morning traffic.

“I’ll ask them as I think of them.”

“You will be thoroughly scanned before boarding my ship, and any weapons you are carrying will be confiscated.” He paused. “If you reach an accommodation with the Anointed One, they will be returned to you.”

“Fair enough.”

“I think we understand each other,” said Korbekkian with a satisfied smile.

“No reason why we shouldn’t, Mr. Korbekkian,” answered Lomax. “After all, we’re going to be on the same team.”

“I sincerely hope so,” said Korbekkian. “I would relish working with a man of your qualifications.”

“I think I can say the same about your boss.”

Korbekkian looked idly at the oncoming traffic. “What do you know about the Anointed One?” he asked at last.

“Just what I managed to read on the newstapes,” said Lomax.

“I wouldn’t believe everything I read in the public press, Mr. Lomax,” said Korbekkian.

“No?”

“Definitely not.”

“Does that mean he pays his taxes?” asked Lomax with a smile.

Korbekkian turned to Lomax. “One does not joke about the Anointed One, Mr. Lomax. The press doesn’t begin to understand what they’re dealing with.”

“I got the impression that they thought he was a pretty powerful man, if not an altogether desirable or law-abiding one.”

“If I told you the true extent of his political and financial power, Mr. Lomax, you would think me either a fool or a liar.”

“It’s possible,” agreed Lomax pleasantly.

“If you believe nothing else I tell you, believe this, Mr. Lomax,” said Korbekkian. “You would be wrong.” He paused. “Dead wrong.”

7

Lomax had been confined to his quarters aboard the ship, and hence had no idea of how many multiples of the speed of light they were traveling or how far they had gone, when the ship finally touched down.

“We have arrived, Mr. Lomax,” announced Korbekkian, unlocking his door. “Please do exactly as you are instructed once we leave the ship.”

“What about my weapons?”

“They will be returned to you after your interview.”

“Your boss may want to see if I know how to use them.”

Korbekkian smiled. “You are the Gravedancer. That is sufficient.”

Lomax shrugged and walked out of his cabin.

“What’s the gravity here?”

“97.2% standard. You will require no protective outfit, no breathing apparatus, no stimulants or depressants.”

“I assume that if you wanted me to know what world I was on, you’d have told me,” remarked Lomax.

“That is correct.”

“Well, let’s get going.”

“Follow me, please.”

Korbekkian led him to the hatch, and a moment later he found himself standing on a bleak, sun-baked patch of ground. There were enormous sand dunes in the distance, and the wind created reddish dust devils near the horizon. The air was hot and dry. It may or may not have been a desert world—probably there was an ocean somewhere, for the air had a fair oxygen content—but there was no question that he was in the middle of a desert, one that extended in every direction as far as the eye could see.

“You’ll adjust to the heat,” said Korbekkian. “If you should begin feeling lightheaded, let me know.”

“Where are we going?” asked Lomax. “It looks awfully empty.”

“We’re going to meet the Anointed One,” answered Korbekkian. “Please bear with me, Mr. Lomax. Our transportation will arrive shortly.”

Lomax moved out of the direct sunlight into the shadow of the ship and lit a small cigar. When it was half-done, a sleek armored vehicle approached them, coming to a stop about ten yards away.

Korbekkian gestured Lomax to enter the vehicle, then joined him. It immediately took off at high speed, and Lomax settled back and relaxed, watching the seemingly endless desert landscape go by. Neither Korbekkian nor the driver said a word, and the silent journey continued for the better part of thirty minutes, at which time the vehicle suddenly slowed down and came to a stop.

Korbekkian and Lomax got out, and the vehicle immediately sped away.

“I take it we’re here, wherever here is,” said Lomax.

“That’s right, Mr. Lomax.”

Lomax stood, hands on hips, and surveyed his surroundings. They were at an oasis, whether natural or man-made he could not tell. There was a large tent some thirty yards away, made of a metallic fabric that seemed to soak up the sunlight and reflect it back in all the colors of the spectrum. Each time a breeze would pass over it the colors would change, deepen, combine and then separate again, as if the tent itself were some kind of giant prism.

The tent was surrounded by some two dozen armed guards, each with identical sonic rifles but possessing no common uniform. About a mile to the west, on a flat strip of sun-baked ground that ran between two small dunes, was a large building, though Lomax could not tell if it was a garage or a hangar. There was no landing strip, but the ground was so flat and hard that he suspected none was really required. Atop the building was a very tall, cylindrical antenna, the sign of a subspace sending and receiving station, which was doubtless tied in to the nearby tent.

“I expected something a little more elaborate,” commented Lomax.

“This is only one of some fifty outposts we have throughout the Democracy and the Inner Frontier,” answered Korbekkian. “It is merely a convenience.” He paused. “I would be surprised if the Anointed One spends as much as three days a year at this location.”

Lomax made no reply.

“Let’s move to the shade of a tree, Mr. Lomax,” said Korbekkian. “There’s no reason why we shouldn’t be comfortable while awaiting your audience.”

“Makes sense to me,” said Lomax, following Korbekkian as the latter sought out a shady spot beneath the sparse branches of a desert tree that grew a few feet from the water.

“Not that we shall have to wait long,” added Korbekkian after a moment’s silence.

“Oh?”

“I’m sure he will want to conclude your interview in time from us to depart from the planet before dark.” He smiled. “There’s no sense giving you a chance to see the stellar configurations and possibly determine where you are.”

“I plan to be working for him long before dark,” answered Lomax.

“I certainly hope so. I’m tired of sending overrated incompetents against the Iceman. The man should have been dead two months ago.”

A young woman emerged from the tent and approached them.

“He will see you now,” she said.

“Good,” said Korbekkian, starting forward.

“Just Mr. Lomax,” she added.

Korbekkian turned to him. “Good luck. I hope when you emerge that we are on the same team.”

Lomax followed her to the doorway of the tent, where she stopped and turned to him.

“You will address him as My Lord,” she said. “Because you are not yet a member of the faith, you will not be required to kneel before him,” she continued. “You will bow when you are introduced, and you will never turn your back to him, but will back out of the tent when your meeting is concluded. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” answered Lomax.

“Then enter,” said the woman, stepping aside.

Lomax lowered his head and stepped through the doorway, where he was immediately greeted by two burly men who wore loose-fitting outfits of some gleaming metallic fabric. They indicated that he should walk between them, and they escorted him through another doorway to the inner section of the tent.

The floors were covered with exquisitely-woven rugs from a dozen worlds, and the walls, composed of a titanium alloy which made the room virtually impervious to assault, displayed paintings and holograms from human and alien worlds. There was a faint scent of incense in the air, and the soft melody of an exotic alien symphony emanated from a silver cube that hovered a few feet above the floor near one of the holograms.

In the middle of the room was a jeweled chair, and upon it sat a tall, ascetic man with an aquiline nose, high protruding cheekbones, and large, coal-black eyes. He wore a robe of white, and around his neck hung a single gold chain, from which were suspended a number of jeweled religious charms.

Sitting next to the chair was a huge animal, basically feline in character, possessed of sleek, rolling muscles, wicked-looking claws, and enormous fangs. Its green eyes narrowed as Lomax approached, and it began uttering a series of deep growls. The man in the white robe uttered a sharp command, and the animal lay down, still glaring at the bounty hunter.

When Lomax finally came to a halt a few feet away, the man in the white robe stood up.

“Welcome to my humble quarters,” he said in a rich, deep voice. “I am Moses Mohammed Christ, known to true believers as the Anointed One.”

“I’m pleased to meet you, My Lord,” answered Lomax, bowing deeply at the waist.

“Does my pet disturb you?”

“Not if he’s a pet.”

“No one else may approach him without losing a limb,” said the Anointed One, gently stroking the creature’s head. “But as you see, I touch him with impunity.”

“So I see,” said Lomax.

“If I were to tell him to attack you, he would tear your throat out in less than a second,” continued the Anointed One.

“Perhaps,” agreed Lomax. “But if you told him to attack me, who will you get to kill the Iceman for you?”

The Anointed One smiled. “I like you, Mr. Lomax.”

“Thank you, My Lord.”

The smile vanished. “Why do you wish to kill Carlos Mendoza?”

“I don’t especially want to kill him,” replied Lomax. “Killing people is dangerous work. I’d be just as happy to take a million credits from you not to kill him … but I don’t suppose you’d care to pay me for not working, would you?”

“This is not a matter for levity, Mr. Lomax,” said the Anointed One sternly, and the feline creature, sensing his anger, fidgeted uneasily. “It is essential that Carlos Mendoza be eliminated.”

“Why?”

“That is none of your concern.”

“Before I accept a commission, I always like to know why I’m being asked to kill someone.”

“Thus far you have accepted commissions only from normal men.”

“And you are not a normal man?”

The Anointed One opened his mouth. “Between my teeth is the space.” He pointed to his ear. “On my left ear is the mole, on my right shoulder is the birthmark. I was born on the fourth day of the fourth month, and the sun was hidden by the moon. There can be no doubt that I am the Anointed One.”

“Meaning no disrespect, My Lord,” said Lomax, “but granting that you are the Anointed One, just what exactly does that mean?”

“I am he whom the race of Man has awaited for lo, these many eons. It is my destiny to unite the race, to bring order out of chaos, to expand Man’s dominion to the farthest reaches of the galaxy.”

“I though the Democracy was doing just that.”

“I forgive you your disrespect, for you are not yet a true believer,” said the Anointed One. “But know that the Democracy is merely my forerunner, that now that I have arrived upon the scene, the Democracy’s days are numbered. God has chosen me to be His conduit to the race of Man, to rule them as He wishes them ruled. Do you see the throne upon which I sit?”

“Yes.”

The Anointed One’s face took on a fanatical glow. “God has instructed me to rule the galaxy from this throne, to bring it with me to Sirius V and to Earth and ultimately to place it in a palace that I will build upon Deluros VIII, from which I shall finally fulfill my destiny and rule His vast domain.”

“It sounds as if you’ve got your work cut out for you,” said Lomax noncommittally.

“I am closer to completion of the Almighty’s design than you might think,” replied the Anointed One with absolute conviction. “More than 200 worlds have already pledged their allegiance to me, and even as we speak my followers are converting the masses upon thousands more.”

“Why should a man who controls hundreds of worlds and tens of millions of followers, and who plans to take over the capital work of the Democracy, be concerned with a tavern owner far out at the edge of the Inner Frontier?” asked Lomax, honestly curious. “What kind of threat can the Iceman possibly present to you?”

“Mendoza?” repeated the Anointed One. “He himself presents no threat at all.”

“Then why do you want him dead?”

“I told you before: it is not your concern.”

“Perhaps not—but if you want me to kill him, you’re going to have to tell me.”

“Do you dare give orders to Moses Mohammed Christ?” demanded the Anointed One.

“No, My Lord,” said Lomax, bowing once again. “Please be assured that I meant no offense.” He paused. “I thought we could do business together. I was mistaken.”

The Anointed One stared long and hard at Lomax. “Why should I believe that you can kill him when so many others have failed?”

“First, because I’m the best there is,” answered Lomax promptly. “And second, because I’ve been to Last Chance before. My presence won’t alert him.”

“I can hire other men who have been to Last Chance.”

“True,” agreed Lomax. “But Last Chance is the Iceman’s world, and he’s well-protected. They won’t be able to kill him.” He paused. “I will.”

The Anointed One placed a fist to his chin and stared at Lomax again, even longer this time. Finally he spoke.

“If you carry out this assignment successfully,” he said slowly, as if weighing each word, “there will be others. You will find that I can be as generous when rewarding success as I can be unforgiving when dealing with failure.” He paused. “Because you cannot yet comprehend the true extent of my power, and because you are not yet conversant in the ways of the One Faith, and because Carlos Mendoza must die, I shall forgive you your transgression this one time, and tell you what you want to know.”

“Thank you, My Lord.”

“But thereafter, should you fulfill your commission, you will never question an order or an assignment again,” continued the Anointed One. “Is that clear?”

“Perfectly, My Lord.”

“Then listen closely, for I will not repeat myself,” said the Anointed One. “Eventually the Democracy will yield to my will. Even the billion ships of its vaunted Navy will be unable to oppose me.” He paused for a moment, looking at some distant point that only he could see. “In the entire galaxy, there is only one force capable of standing against me, of subverting the will of God and stopping me from bringing my throne to Deluros VIII.”

“The Iceman?” said Lomax, frowning in disbelief.

“I told you to listen, not to speak,” said the Anointed One harshly. “Carlos Mendoza presents no threat to me whatsoever. But he is the only person ever to survive an encounter with my only true opponent. If she has a reason to let him live, then I care not what that reason is—I want him dead.”

“She?” asked Lomax.

“Like myself, she is committed to the death of the Democracy, and yet she has chosen to align herself against me as well, which will eventually cost her her life—but not before millions have spilled their blood,” answered the Anointed One.

“Who are you talking about?”

“Her given name is unimportant,” he continued, “but in the past four years she has emerged from obscurity and assumed her true identity. She is the Prophet.”

PART 2:

The

Iceman’s

Book

8

The Silicon Kid, resplendent in a colorful new outfit and shining black boots, walked into The End of the Line tavern, waited for the doors to slide shut behind him, and looked around. This was more what the Inner Frontier was supposed to look like, he decided; gamblers and whores, miners and adventurers, all of them armed, all of them real or potential killers. The Blue Pavilion really belonged in the Democracy; The End of the Line belonged exactly where it was, in a Tradertown on a tiny Frontier world called Last Chance.

He looked around the room once more, happily aware that a number of the clients were staring at him curiously, and nodded his head in satisfied approval. Finally he walked over to the bar.

“What’ll it be?” asked the Iceman, limping over to serve him.

“A beer.”

“Coming right up.”

The Iceman took an empty glass over to a tap, murmured “Pour”, waited a moment, ordered it to stop, and slid the glass down the bar to the Silicon Kid.

“Want to run a tab?” asked the Iceman.

“No, one beer’s all I want,” said the Kid, sliding some hexagonal coins down the bar. He paused and stared intently at the Iceman.

“Is something wrong?” asked the Iceman, eyeing the Kid suspiciously.

“That’s funny,” said the Kid.

“What is?”

“You sure as hell don’t look like a living legend.”

“Well, to tell you the truth, I don’t feel much like one,” answered the Iceman. “But just out of curiosity, what does a living legend look like?”

“I don’t know,” said the Kid. “But not like you.” He paused. “Still, you must be as formidable as they say, just to get as old as you are.”

“Son, let me give you a little friendly advice, if I may,” said the Iceman, studying the Kid intently.

“What is it?”

“Whether or not I’m as formidable as they say, I’m formidable enough.” He paused. “You can’t see them, but there are four guns trained on you at this very moment, so my advice to you is not to do anything you might not live long enough to regret.”

“Four?” said the Kid, surprised. He looked around the room once more. “Where are they?”

“That,” said the Iceman with a grim smile, “would be telling.” He paused again. “And speaking of telling, perhaps you’d like to tell me just what you’re doing on Last Chance?”

“I came here to find you.”

“Okay, you found me,” said the Iceman. “What now?”

“Now I deliver the Gravedancer’s message.”

The Iceman stared at him. “What do you know about the Gravedancer?” he asked at last.

“You might say that we’re partners, in a manner of speaking,” answered the Kid.

“No, I don’t think I’d say that,” replied the Iceman. “Men like Lomax don’t take on partners.”

“Well,” said the Kid, mildly flustered, “he gave me his ship and he trusted me to deliver a message to you.”

“Okay,” said the Iceman. “What is it?”

“Right here?” asked the Kid. “At the bar?”

The Iceman looked amused. “There’s no one within thirty feet of us. Would you rather tell me next to the roulette wheel—or maybe in the men’s room?”

The Kid shrugged and leaned on the bar. “The man who put out the hit on you is a religious cult leader called the Anointed One.”

The Iceman frowned. “I never heard of him. Why does he want me dead?”

“I don’t know.”

The Iceman began drying a glass with a bar towel while he considered what he’d been told. “Why didn’t Lomax just radio me the message?” he asked. “Why send you?”

“He was going off to meet with the Anointed One, and, well…”

“And you weren’t invited?”

The Kid nodded his head.

“Well, that’s what comes of being a junior partner.”

“There’s more,” said the Kid.

“Oh?”

The Kid pulled out Lomax’s ring. “He said to show you this.”

“All right, I’ve seen it,” said the Iceman. “It’s his. Now, what’s the rest of the message?”

“That no matter what you hear on the grapevine, he’s not out to kill you.”

“Am I going to hear that on the grapevine?” asked the Iceman.

“He seems to think so.”

“So he met with this Anointed One under the guise of a freelance killer?”

“You’re very quick.”

“Well, let’s hope the Anointed One didn’t offer him so much money that he forgets where his loyalties lie.”

“He wouldn’t do that,” said the Kid.

“You’d be surprised what people would do for money,” said the Iceman. He pulled a bottle out from behind the bar, picked up a couple of glasses, and limped over to an empty table not too far from the doorway. “Come on, young man,” he said. “We’ve got some talking to do.”

The Kid followed him to the table and sat down opposite him.

“Have a drink,” said the Iceman, filling both glasses and shoving one over to the Kid. “On the house.”

“Thanks. What is it?”

“A whiskey they make over in the Binder system.”

The Kid took a sip. It burned his tongue and throat, but he forced a smile to his face. “Good,” he muttered.

“Don’t ever take a job as a diplomat or a politician,” said the Iceman wryly.

“I beg your pardon.”

“You’re a lousy liar.”

“I said I liked it,” said the Kid irritably, downing the rest of the drink in a single gulp, then fighting unsuccessfully to stifle a strangled cough.

“How the hell did Lomax ever hook up with you?”

“What is that supposed to mean?” demanded the Kid.

“It means I want to know how the hell Lomax hooked up with you,” the Iceman repeated calmly.

“I did him a favor back on Greycloud.”

“What kind?”

“I saved his life.”

The Iceman stared at him. “You?” he said with open disbelief.

“Me.”

“I’d ask how, but you’d probably tell me.”

“You think I’m lying?” asked the Kid heatedly.

“Let’s just say that I think you’re exaggerating,” said the Iceman. “You’d better be,” he added. “If Lomax needed you to save his life, I hired the wrong man—and I didn’t get to be this old by misjudging the people I hire.” He paused. “Where did you come across the Anointed One?”

“We didn’t. We made contact with one of his men on Olympus, but I don’t know where the Anointed One himself is.”

“What do you know about him?”

“Not much. Just that he’s some kind of cult leader, and he wants you dead.”

“You’re sure it’s a he you’re talking about, and not a she?” asked the Iceman, finally taking a sip of his drink.

“Yeah. At least, Korbekkian—that’s his man on Olympus, the guy who keeps hiring men to kill you—Korbekkian kept calling him he. Why?” asked the Kid. “Is there some woman with a grudge against you?”

“Anything’s possible,” said the Iceman. “I just want to make sure she’s not calling herself the Anointed One these days.”

“So there’s a woman out there somewhere who wants to kill you,” repeated the Kid, his face alight with interest. “What did you do to her?”

“It’s a long story,” said the Iceman, downing the remainder of his drink.

“I’m all ears.”

“It’s also none of your business,” said the Iceman.

“You know, you’re not the friendliest guy I ever met,” said the Kid.

“Look,” said the Iceman. “I’ve had five men try to kill me in the past couple of months, men I’ve never seen before. Now you show up out of the blue to tell me that some religious nut I’ve never heard of wants me dead, and that any day now I’m going to hear that the Gravedancer is working for him. Now, some people might feel friendly under these circumstances, but I don’t happen to be one of them.”

“But I’m here to help you,” said the Kid.

“You?” said the Iceman with an amused smile. “What can you do?”

“You’d be surprised.”

The Iceman shrugged. “Probably I would be.” He paused. “What’s your name?”

“They call me the Silicon Kid.”

“Who does?”

The Kid swallowed hard. “Anyone who’s met me since I left Greycloud,” he answered lamely.

“All ten of ‘em, eh?” said the Iceman. “Well, it’s an interesting name, especially for a young man who seems to be all flesh and blood. How did you come by it?”

“The Gravedancer gave it to me.”

“In that case, I’m properly impressed,” said the Iceman. “Why are you the Silicon Kid?”

“I’ve got implanted chips that let me see in the dark, and into the infrared and ultraviolet spectrums. And while I was on my way here from Olympus, I created one that will give me the fastest responses of any man in the galaxy.”

“You haven’t had it implanted yet?”

“No, but it’s simple outpatient surgery,” said the Kid. “If you’ve got a doctor on Last Chance, I can have it done in less than an hour.”

“We’ve got one,” answered the Iceman, “but he hasn’t been sober for the better part of ten years. If I were you, I’d wait until I hit a bigger world.”

The Kid looked his disappointment. “I was kind of hoping to have it done here, so I could protect you.”

“I thank you for the thought,” said the Iceman, “but I don’t need protection on my own world.” He paused. “Besides, I’m leaving this afternoon.”

“Oh? Where are you going?”

“Into the Democracy.”

“Why?”

“Because if I stay here, I’m a sitting duck for this Anointed One’s killers,” answered the Iceman. “Maybe Lomax can handle the situation, and maybe he can’t … but I don’t plan to wait to find out.”

“But why the Democracy?” asked the Kid. “I never said the Anointed One was there.” He paused. “Hell, I don’t know where he is.”

“Neither do I,” said the Iceman. “But I damned well intend to find out.”

“And you think someone in the Democracy can tell you?”

“Oh, yes,” said the Iceman with certainty. “There’s someone there who can tell me.”

“Why travel all that way?” asked the Kid. “Why not just send him a subspace message?”

“I didn’t say he’d want to tell me,” replied the Iceman. “Just that he could.” He paused. “And he will,” he concluded grimly.

“I’m coming along,” said the Kid suddenly.

“I don’t recall asking you to.”

“There won’t be any action here at all once you leave.”

“Kid,” said the Iceman seriously, “the graveyards are full of young men who came to the Inner Frontier looking for action. Believe me, you’ll be much better off just waiting here until Lomax shows up.”

The Kid shook his head. “There’s a whole galaxy out there, just waiting to be seen.” He smiled. “I plan to see it.”

“Go tourist class. You’ll live longer.”

“If you don’t take me along, I’ll just follow you in the Gravedancer’s ship,” said the Kid.

“That’s your prerogative,” answered the Iceman. “Try not to wreck it.”

“Damn it, Iceman!” said the Kid. “Why can’t I make you understand that I’m on your side!”

“Kid, you don’t even know what the game is.”

“Do you?”

“No,” admitted the Iceman. “But I’m going to find out.”

“You might need me.”

“I doubt it.”

“Once I get my chip implanted, I’ll be the fastest gun anyone ever saw.”

“Fast is good,” said the Iceman. “Accurate is better.” He paused again. “And knowing when not to shoot is better still.”

“If I’m with you, you can tell me when to shoot and when not to.”

“Telling you what to do isn’t my responsibility,” said the Iceman. He stared into the Silicon Kid’s eyes. “You don’t know what you’re getting into. If you have a brain in your head, you’ll go back to Greycloud and stay there.”

“You don’t know what you’re getting into, either,” retorted the Kid.

“I’m already in it,” replied the Iceman. “Five men have come out here to kill me.”

“What makes you think they’ll stop, just because you leave Last Chance?” said the Kid. “I could help you.”

“Why?”

“Why what?” asked the Kid, confused.

The Iceman stared at him with open curiosity. “I never laid eyes on you until ten minutes ago. Why do you want to risk your life for me?”

“I’ve heard stories about you since I was a kid. You probably aren’t going to believe it, but you’re one of my heroes.”

“I’m too old and fat and lame to be anyone’s hero,” said the Iceman.

“All the more reason why you need me. You may be invulnerable on Last Chance, but you’re fair game once you leave.”

“Look, Kid, even if you get your implant, all it means is that your reaction time is quicker.”

“Isn’t that enough?”

The Iceman looked amused again. “It means you can miss twice as many shots as most normal people.”

The Kid got to his feet, picked up the bottle, and walked over to the bar. He placed it down at the far end, then returned to the table.

“Can you shutter the windows and kill the lights?” he asked.

“I’ve got a couple of dozen customers who won’t appreciate it.”

“Just for a few seconds.”

“Why?”

“So I can prove to you that you need me.”

The Iceman stared at him, then shrugged. “We’re going to darken the room for just a moment,” he announced to the assembled drinkers and gamblers. “There’s nothing to worry about. If you’ve got cards or money on the tables, place your hands over them.”

He waited a few seconds, then nodded to one of his men, who went into his office. A moment later the doors closed, the windows became opaque, and the lights went off.

“Now what?” asked the Iceman.

“Now I show you what I can do,” said the Kid.

There was an instant of silence, punctuated by the explosive sound of a bullet being fired from a handgun, and then a crash.

“What the hell was that?” demanded the Iceman, as a woman shrieked and a few men yelled obscenities.

The lights came on immediately, and the Iceman saw that about half his clients had drawn their own weapons.

“It’s okay, folks,” he said reassuringly. “Nothing to get excited about.”

“Take a look,” said the Kid proudly, pointing to the shattered liquor bottle on the bar.

The Iceman limped over to the bar and stood a few feet away from the bottle, staring at the glass shards that lay atop the bar. “You can see in the dark?”

The Kid nodded. “And I can hit what I’m aiming at.”

“How do I know you didn’t just remember where it was?” asked the Iceman.

“Do you really think that’s what I did?” asked the Kid. “We can do it again, and you can place it anywhere you want once the room’s dark.”

The Iceman considered the proposition, then shook his head. “No, it’s not necessary. I believe you.”

“Well?” said the Kid, grinning confidently.

“All right,” said the Iceman. “I’m impressed.”

“How impressed?” asked the Kid.

“From this moment on, you’re working for me.”

“What does the job pay?”

“It depends on what I want you to do,” answered the Iceman. He pulled a wad of credits out of a pocket and handed them to the Kid. “This’ll hold you for awhile.”

“Thanks,” said the Kid, taking the money. “When do we leave?”

“After I have lunch and pack my gear. You can meet me over at the hangar.”

“Thanks, Iceman,” said the Kid. “You won’t be sorry.”

“That remains to be seen,” said the Iceman.

9

The name of the planet was Sweetwater, and it was a relatively new concept in interstellar real estate: a retirement world for the Very Wealthy.

Sweetwater boasted a golf course for every 50 of its 35,000 residents, indoor and outdoor pools in every house, quick home delivery from local stores, a doctor for every 200 people, a guarantee of one mile of coastline along a freshwater ocean for every property owner, imported birds of every shape and color, daily spaceliner service to more than a dozen major worlds of the Democracy, literally hundreds of private hangars, half a dozen brokerage houses that were tied in to every major stock market in the Democracy, high security fences around every piece of property, and a large but unobtrusive private security force for the entire planet.

“It must cost a bundle to set up housekeeping here,” said the Kid as he and the Iceman emerged from their ship.

“Most of the people who live here can afford a bundle or two,” replied the Iceman dryly.

“Who does live here?”

“Anyone who can afford it.”

“Must not be a large population,” remarked the Kid.

“There isn’t,” said the Iceman.

They walked through the spaceport, which housed an elegant restaurant and two very upscale gift shops, one of which dealt exclusively in rare and expensive pieces of alien art, then emerged into the bright sunlight and warm dry air of Sweetwater.

“The man I have to see isn’t going to talk in front of strangers,” said the Iceman, turning to the Kid. “Doctors aren’t exactly an endangered species on this planet. Why don’t you get your chip implanted while I take care of my business, and I’ll meet you back here in front of the restaurant in about five or six hours. We can have a decent dinner before we take off.”

“Suits me,” agreed the Kid.

The Iceman pointed toward an airlift. “That leads to a monorail platform, from which you can get into what passes for a town in about ten minutes. You won’t have any trouble finding a doctor once you get there.”

“You’re not going into town?”

The Iceman shook his head. “My man lives in the opposite direction. I’ll rent a groundcar and drive out there.”

“Okay,” said the Kid. “See you later.”

The young man walked off toward the airlift, and the Iceman made arrangements for his vehicle. In a few minutes he was driving through the carefully-landscaped countryside, passing one oceanfront estate after another, until he finally came to the one he sought.

He turned into a driveway, proceeded for perhaps a quarter of a mile, and then came to a high-voltage electronic field.

“Who’s there?” asked a mechanical voice emanating from a holographic imaging station. “Carlos Mendoza.”

“Checking files…” said the voice. “Positive identification made.”

Then another voice was heard, a human voice. “Well, I’ll be damned! Come on in!”

The field dissolved and the Iceman drove the remaining three hundred yards to an angular house constructed of an alien material that seemed to reflect hundreds of changing colors in a continuous pattern. It was surrounded by pools, decks, and exotic gardens filled with tinkling crystalline flowers, and one long glass wall offered a panoramic view of the blue-green ocean.

He brought the vehicle to a stop, then stepped onto a moving cushion of air that brought him gently to the second level of the house. When he arrived at the front door, he found it open, and he stepped into a mirrored foyer where an old, balding man with spindly arms and legs but sporting a small pot belly, greeted him.

“Carlos Mendoza! It’s been a long time!”

The Iceman nodded. “How have you been?”

“I can’t complain,” said the old man, leading him through the foyer into a large, circular room that afforded a fantastic view of the shoreline.

The Iceman’s gaze swept the room, and he smiled. “They’d lock you away if you did. This is some place.”

“Haven’t you been here before?”

“Once, just when you moved in.”

“Ah, yes—my retirement party.” The old man paused. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Why not?”

“What’ll it be?” he said, walking to a bar that rose out of the floor as he approached it.

“Whatever you’re having.”

“Well, I’ve been saving a bottle of Cygnian cognac for a special occasion,” said the old man. “Since you’re my first visitor in more than a month, I figure that makes it special enough.”

“Sounds good to me,” said the Iceman, walking over to the window wall and looking out at the ocean. “Nice view.”

“Isn’t it?” agreed the old man with a show of pride.

“Nice world, for that matter. Makes me think I could learn to adjust to retirement.”

“There are a couple of properties for sale up the road,” said the old man. “No reason why you shouldn’t consider it.” He touched a button on his wristwatch and a shining metallic robot entered the room. “Two Cygnian cognacs, please, Sidney.”

The robot bowed and left the room.

“Sidney?” repeated the Iceman with a smile.

“Beats the hell out of calling it Model AU-644,” answered the old man. “Have a seat, Carlos.”

The Iceman walked over and sat down on a chair that instantly adapted itself to his body, while the old man seated himself a few feet away. The robot reentered the room a moment later with two cognacs on a shining tray made of some alloy the Iceman didn’t recognize.

“Thank you, Sidney,” said the old man. “That will be all.”

The robot bowed again.

“How much did the little piece of machinery cost you?” asked the Iceman.

“Plenty.”

“Does it do anything besides serve you drinks?”

“It does—on those rare occasions when I can think of something else for it to do,” answered the old man. He took a sip of his cognac. “Excellent! They still make it better in the Cygni system than anywhere else.”

The Iceman sipped his own drink. “You’ll get no argument from me.”

There was a momentary silence, as the old man stared at him.

“So, Carlos,” he said at last, “are you really thinking of retiring?”

“I think about it all the time.”

“No reason why not,” agreed the old man. “You’ve certainly put in your time out there on the Frontier, and Lord knows you’ve made enough money. What’s to stop you?”

“Five different men have tried to stop me in the last two months,” said the Iceman.

“I don’t think I follow you.”

“Someone’s put a hit out on me,” said the Iceman. “I thought you might be able to help me find out why.”

“I’ve been retired for almost four years, Carlos,” said the old man. “I don’t know what’s happening on the Inner Frontier—or anywhere else, for that matter.”

“But you can find out.”

“How?”

“I know the name of the party that wants me dead.”

“I told you—I’m out of touch.”

“Come on,” said the Iceman. “You were in the service for half a century. You can’t make me believe that they don’t still call you to pick your mind, or that you haven’t got a computer that’s tied in to the Master Computer on Deluros VIII.”

The old man looked annoyed. “You’re asking a lot for a man who just showed up out of the blue.”

“I gave you a lot, 32,” said the Iceman.

“I’m not 32 anymore,” said the old man. “They retired my code name when I quit. These days I’m just plain Robert Gibbs.”

“If I hadn’t agreed to go up against Penelope Bailey six years ago, you’d have been fired before you had a chance to quit,” said the Iceman firmly. “It was 32’s fat I pulled out of the fire a little over six years ago, and it’s 32 who owes me a favor. I’m here to collect it.”

“You were well-paid for that incident,” said Gibbs.

“So were you, as your current surroundings go to prove.” The Iceman paused. “You still owe me.”

“I don’t see it that way, Carlos,” answered Gibbs. “I was working for the government. You were a free-lancer who extorted an enormous fee for your services.”

“And gave you value received when no one else in the galaxy could have done so,” said the Iceman. “And don’t give me that holier-than-thou attitude just because you stayed in the service. I put in fifteen years with them before I went my own way. They got their pound of flesh and then some.”

“Nevertheless…”

“Damn it, I wouldn’t ask for this favor if I didn’t need it!” snapped the Iceman. “I told you: there have been five attempts on my life!”

“You’ve made a lot of enemies over the years.”

“True. But the Anointed One isn’t one of them, and he’s the one who’s after me.”

Gibbs looked at him, startled. “The Anointed One?” he repeated.

“That’s right.”

Gibbs got to his feet, walked over to the window, and looked out at the ocean. “Why does he want you dead?”

“That’s what I want to know. I need whatever information you have on him.”

“I don’t have anything.”

“But you can get it,” said the Iceman.

Gibbs nodded. “I can get it.”

Now it was the Iceman’s turn to frown. “Why this sudden change of mood? I thought you were digging in your heels and telling me I had no business asking you for information.”

“This is different,” said Gibbs, turning to face him. “The Democracy’s been after the Anointed One for close to three years.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s grown from a minor upstart into a serious problem,” answered Gibbs. “The man may have as many as two hundred million followers.”

“Why haven’t I heard of him, then?”

“He began his operation on the Outer Frontier, out by the Rim and in the Spiral Arm. He just reached the Democracy about a year ago. That’s why I’m surprised that he’s after you: to the best of our knowledge, he hasn’t made any inroads on the Inner Frontier yet.”

“Tell me about him,” said the Iceman, taking another sip of his cognac.

“He purports to be a religious leader,” answered Gibbs, finishing his own drink and walking over to a small table, where he deposited the empty glass. “He had some tax problems, and one day the government’s witnesses showed up dead. That’s when we started keeping an eye on him.”

“Go on.”

“We don’t know what his eventual goal is, but we can tie him to more than fifty murders. We know he’s been buying arms at a phenomenal rate, we know he’s got a fair-sized army in his employ, and we know he finances them through a number of illegal businesses. We’ve taken him to court on tax charges on more than eighty worlds, and ninety percent of those cases are dragging on through endless postponements while he claims that he’s a tax-free religious institution.” Gibbs snorted contemptuously. “How many religions do you know of that possess a sizeable army?”

“What do you think he’s after?”

Gibbs shrugged. “I don’t know; hell, no one knows. At first we thought he actually planned to take over a number of worlds out on the Rim and set up his own little empire, but then he began expanding into the Democracy itself.”

“Surely he doesn’t plan to go up against the Democracy?”

“For a while we thought he did,” said Gibbs, staring out at his terrace, where a trio of gold-and-purple avians had landed at an automated feeding station.

“But the Navy’s got a billion ships,” said the Iceman.

“And they’re spread out over fifty or sixty thousand worlds. One quick strike at Deluros VIII could cause so much chaos that we might actually be willing to strike a deal with him.”

“I very much doubt it.”

“Well, that was our original assessment, anyway,” said Gibbs. “In fact, we pulled the 23rd fleet back to help defend the Deluros system against an assault, even though he’s years away from having enough firepower to seriously consider it. But in the last year or so, he seems to have changed his focus.”

“Oh?”

Gibbs nodded. “Yes. According to our informants, he seems obsessed with another religious figure called the Prophet, who is probably a rival in the cult business.” He smiled and shook his head in wonderment. “I don’t know where they get these names—or these followings, for that matter.” He paused. “Anyway, these days he seems to be skirting the Democracy and expanding toward the Galactic core, which means he’ll reach the Inner Frontier any time now.”

“Why?”

“I was hoping you might tell me,” said Gibbs. “After all, you’re the one he’s trying to kill.”

“I never heard of the man until two days ago,” said the Iceman, staring through the window wall as two of Sweetwater’s three moons moving rapidly across the sky.

Gibbs shrugged again. “Well, I’ve told you everything I know about him.”

“But not everything the Democracy knows,” said the Iceman. “I want to know where he’s at right now.”

“If we knew, we’d go in after him.”

“I still want to know what the Democracy knows,” said the Iceman. He stared directly at Gibbs. “I want his confidential file.”

Gibbs ordered Sidney to bring him another cognac. “I don’t think there is one.”

“Come on,” said the Iceman contemptuously. “I used to work for the service, remember?”

“I’m not kidding, Carlos. They don’t know a damned thing about him.”

“They’ve got to have photographs, holographs, a past history, a list of current associates…”

“That’s classified material, Carlos,” said Gibbs, accepting the cognac from Sidney. The robot bowed, picked up Gibbs’ empty glass, and retreated to another room. “I can’t give you that.”

“Sure you can. Just tie in to Deluros and tell them you want it. You’re still cleared for it.”

“There’s bound to be some sensitive material that could embarrass the government and wouldn’t help you at all,” said Gibbs. “The service is not without its own elements of corruption. If there are any agents or officials under investigation who have not formally been charged, I won’t turn their names over to you.” He paused and stared at the Iceman. “That’s my deal: if I do get the file from Deluros, I insist that I go through it first—and in private—and give you only what I think is safe for you to have.”

“Fair enough,” replied the Iceman. “I’d like a file on the Prophet, too.”

“Can’t help you there, and that’s the truth,” said Gibbs. “We don’t have a thing on him. In fact, if our informants hadn’t mentioned that the Anointed One is obsessed with him, we wouldn’t even know the Prophet existed.”

“Obvious he considers the Prophet a threat,” said the Iceman. “If a man of such obvious power is worried about the Prophet, how the hell can the Democracy not know a thing about him?”

“Beats the hell out of me, Carlos,” admitted Gibbs. “But if anything turns up on him, I’ll make it available to you under the same conditions: I won’t release any material that might embarrass the service.” He paused. “That’s the best I can do.”

“All right,” agreed the Iceman.

Gibbs left the room, walked down a long corridor, entered his study, activated his computer, and put through his request for the Anointed One’s file, while the Iceman got out of his chair and walked around the room, admiring the pieces of alien and human art that Gibbs had acquired—or, more likely, had purchased from his decorator.

A few moments later the old man reentered the room. “It should be just a couple of minutes,” he announced.

“What I mainly want,” said the Iceman, “are a list of the places I’m most likely to find him or his chief underlings, a couple of holographs, some material concerning his past, and a list of the hit men he’s used in the past.”

“I think he hires free-lancers whenever he can,” answered Gibbs. “And I’ll tell you right now: there aren’t any photos or holos of him. He’s always had his associates represent him in court.”

“Then how do you know he’s a male?” demanded the Iceman.

“Why do you think he’s not?”

“Because no one seemed to have heard of him six years ago.”

Gibbs paused, trying to follow the Iceman’s train of thought, and finally smiled. “You think he’s Penelope Bailey?”

“It’s possible,” said the Iceman, taking his seat again.

“You’re wrong, Carlos. His name is Moses Mohammed Christ, which I think you will agree is a most unfeminine name. Also, we’ve taken a number of his followers into custody, and they’ve testified that the Anointed One is a male in his forties.” He paused. “Besides, Penelope Bailey is dead.”

The Iceman leaned forward intently. “Say that again.”

“She’s dead, Carlos.”

“Not a chance,” said the Iceman with absolute certainty.

“She was confined in a cell on Alpha Crepello III.”

“Last time I saw her, yes,” said the Iceman. “The locals called it Hades.”

“Well, Hades no longer exists.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It was struck by a huge meteor about eighteen Standard months ago,” answered Gibbs. “There’s nothing left of it except some dust and a bunch of asteroids in orbit around Alpha Crepello.”

“You’re sure?”

“Fly out there yourself if you don’t believe me.” Gibbs got to his feet. “The file should be here by now. If you’ll excuse me…”

The Iceman sat, silent and motionless, for the entire time that Gibbs was censoring the Anointed One’s file. Finally the older man re-entered the room and handed the Iceman a hard copy in a folder.

“I hope this file proves useful to you,” said Gibbs. “I’m no longer empowered to make such assignments, but the Democracy would be very grateful if you found a way to terminate the Anointed One.”

“The Democracy has got a bigger problem than some half-baked religious fanatic with delusions of empire,” said the Iceman grimly. He stood up and walked to the door.

“What are you talking about?” asked Gibbs.

The Iceman reached the doorway and turned. “None of you ever understood what you were dealing with.” He paused. “You still don’t.”

“Perhaps you’d care to enlighten me,” said Gibbs, his voice reflecting his annoyance.

“Why bother? You won’t believe me.”

“Try me.”

The Iceman stared at him. “Penelope Bailey is alive.”

“You’re mistaken,” scoffed Gibbs.

“The hell I am,” said the Iceman.

“I told you: Alpha Crepello III was destroyed by a meteor.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“Every living being on the planet was killed—including her.”

The Iceman looked at Gibbs for a long moment and sighed deeply.

“You’re a fool,” he said, and walked out to his waiting vehicle.

10

The Kid was waiting in front of the restaurant when the Iceman returned to the spaceport.

“Everything go okay?” asked the Iceman.

“I’m a little bit sore,” replied the Kid. “He used a local anesthetic, and it’s starting to wear off.”

“Small price to pay to be the fastest gun in the galaxy,” said the Iceman wryly. “Now if you were only the most accurate gun as well…”

“I’m working on it,” the Kid assured him.

“It’ll take a lot of practice.”

“Practice is for losers. I’ll do it with chips.” Suddenly he grinned. “I’m the Silicon Kid, remember?”

“I’ll try not to forget again,” said the Iceman sardonically.

“How was your day?” asked the Kid after a momentary silence.

“Not good,” said the Iceman, frowning. “Not good at all.”

“Oh?”

“There’s no sense standing here talking,” said the Iceman. “Let’s get some dinner, and then we’ll take off.”

He summoned the maitre d’, who led them past a multi-colored fountain in the middle of the floor and escorted them to a secluded table toward the back of the restaurant.

The Kid immediately picked up a menu and studied it. “Everything seems imported,” he noted. “You’d think a temperate world like this could grow its own food.”

“That’s not what this world was created for,” replied the Iceman.

“But it’s so expensive to do it this way.”

“If you live on Sweetwater, you don’t worry about prices.”

“I suppose you’re right,” said the Kid, surveying his surroundings and toying with his crystalline wine and water glasses. “It’s a pretty nice place.”

“I’ve seen worse,” said the Iceman. “See those shellfish in that tank?” he added, pointing to a saltwater tank that was discreetly place against a wall.

“Yeah?”

“Those are mutated shellfish,” said the Iceman. “They come from the Pinnipes system.” He paused. “I can’t pronounce their name, but they’re supposed to be the best-tasting seafood in the galaxy.”

“I’ve never been a seafood fan.”

“Well, take my word for it,” said the Iceman. He looked across the room. “And those are real Hesporite paintings on the wall, not fakes,” he continued.

“How can you tell?”

“Watch when a waiter passes in front of them,” said the Iceman. “They’ll glow wherever his shadow falls.”

“How come?”

“They use the larvae of some phosphorescent insect in their paints,” answered the Iceman. “They look like oils in the daylight, but they glow in the dark.”

“I never knew that.”

The Iceman smiled. “There are probably a lot of things you never knew. Live long enough and you’ll learn some of them.”

“I get the feeling that you don’t have much use for anyone younger than the Gravedancer,” said the Kid wryly.

“Not much,” agreed the Iceman. He signaled a waiter and ordered an Antarrean wine, while the Kid requested a beer.

“You know, I’d never seen a live waiter until I left Greycloud,” remarked the Kid. “Now I’ve seen them twice in a week.”

“They’re like most luxuries,” responded the Iceman. “You pay for what you get—and you pay plenty at a place like this.”

“Uh … until I figure out exactly what I’m going to do on the Frontier, I’m on a budget,” said the Kid.

“No problem,” said the Iceman. “When you travel with me or work for me—and right now you’re doing both—I pick up the tab.”

“Are you that rich?”

“As a matter of fact, I am.”

“How does someone get to be as rich as you?” asked the Kid.

“Live a long time and don’t do anything too stupid,” replied the Iceman with a smile.

“There it is again,” said the Kid.

“There what is?”

“This contempt for people my age.”

“Not for all of them,” answered the Iceman. “Right now the most dangerous person in the galaxy is a 28-year-old woman named Penelope Bailey. She’s probably been the most dangerous person since the day she was born.”

“I never heard of her.”

“Yes, you did,” said the Iceman. “You just never knew her real name.”

“Who is she?”

“At various times she’s been known as the Soothsayer and the Oracle.”

“The Oracle?” asked the Kid, suddenly enthused.

“Right.”

“Tell me about her.”

“In a minute,” said the Iceman, as their waiter brought them their drinks and recited the day’s special off-the-menu selections. The Kid had a plain steak, and the Iceman ordered a shellfish in a cream sauce.

“Would you like to select your own, sir?” asked the waiter.

The Iceman shook his head. “I’ll trust to your taste.”

“Very good, sir.”

“I do love seafood,” said the Iceman when the waiter left. “You sure you don’t want to have some? You can get steak anywhere.”

“No, thanks.”

“You’re making a big mistake,” continued the Iceman. “The sauce alone is worth the price of the meal.”

“Get back to the Oracle,” said the Kid impatiently. “What is she like?”

“She’s a young woman with a gift,” answered the Iceman. “I first met her twenty years ago, when she was just a frightened little girl—but even then, two hundred of the best bounty hunters on the Inner Frontier were no match for her.”

“You’re telling me an eight-year-old girl stood off two hundred armed bounty hunters?” said the Kid skeptically.

The Iceman smiled and shook his head. “You make it sound like she beat them in a shoot-out. Her gift doesn’t work like that.”

“How does it work?”

“She’s precognitive.”

The Kid frowned. “What does that mean?”

“It means she can see the future,” said the Iceman. “More to the point, it means she can see a number of futures, and through her actions she can bring about the one that’s the most favorable to her.”

“How?”

The Iceman shrugged as a string quartet walked over to the fountain and started filling the room with their music. “I don’t know how it works. I only know that it does work.”

“Give me an example,” said the Kid.

“All right,” said the Iceman. “Let’s say she’s hiding from you in the cargo area here, and you’ve been hired to kill her.” He paused and leaned forward. “Whatever approach you take, whatever entrance you use, she’ll know it even before you do. She’ll see an infinite number of futures. Maybe you kill her in all but three of them. She’ll figure out what she has to do to bring one of those three favorable futures into being.”

“How?” asked the Kid.

The Iceman shrugged. “Maybe it’ll be something as simple as her walking out one door while you walk in through another. Maybe it will be more complex, like positioning you under a crate that will drop on you and kill you once in a million times, and doing whatever it takes to make that million-to-one possibility come to pass. Maybe she’ll see that of all the possible futures, there’s one in which you die of a sudden heart attack; she’ll analyze every facet of that future, see how it differs from all the others, and do what she can to bring it into being.”

“But surely there must be some futures in which she doesn’t survive,” said the Kid. “What if I surrounded the building with fifty gunmen?”

“Probably she’d still manage to find a future in which she escaped.”

“Hah!” said the Kid, and one of the violinists glared at him.

“Keep your voice down,” said the Iceman. “Most of the diners would rather hear the music.”

“Sorry,” said the Kid. “But you said ‘probably.’ What if she couldn’t?”

“Then she’d surrender to you, and find some way to escape an hour or a day or a week from now.” The Iceman paused. “Not all problems are capable of immediate solution. She was a prisoner of some alien bounty hunter, chained to a bed in his room, when a friend of mine first found her.” He paused. “To this day, I still haven’t decided whether my friend actually found her, or if she manipulated events so she would be found.”

“That’s some gift, that—what did you call it?—that precognition,” said the Kid.

“That it is,” agreed the Iceman. “That’s why the Democracy was so set on exploiting it.”

“The Democracy?”

“Who do you think hired all those bounty hunters?” said the Iceman. “Think of what someone who could not only see but manipulate the future could do. They’d never lose a war, or even a battle. They’d know exactly how to handle a galactic economy. They could probably just stand her on a new world and have her tell them whether it was worth the effort to set up mining operations or not.” He paused, then smiled. “And of course, if they found a way to control her, they’d never lose an election, never make a bad investment in the market, never cheat on their spouses if there was a chance of being caught. They’d know before they contracted cancer or some other disease, and take whatever precautions were necessary to avoid it.”

“I begin to see now,” said the Kid. “Hell, she’d be worth billions.”

“That’s what they thought,” answered the Iceman. “That’s why they were so hot to get their hands on her.”

“You make it sound like they were wrong.”

“They didn’t know what they were dealing with,” said the Iceman, lowering his voice still further as the quartet’s violinist began walking slowly throughout the room, playing romantic solos at those tables where he thought he might cadge a tip.

“What did they think they were dealing with?” asked the Kid.

“From their point of view, this was a little eight-year-old girl who just managed to elude their grasp. From mine—and I think time has proven me right—this was a child who managed to remain free despite the best efforts of the largest and most powerful government in history to capture her. A lot of legendary bounty hunters caught up with her at one time or another—Cemetery Smith, Three-Fisted Ollie, Jimmy Sunday—but when the dust cleared, they were dead and she was still free.”

“She killed them all?” asked the Kid, his voice filled with disbelief.

“Not directly, but yes, she was responsible for their deaths as surely as if she had killed them herself.” The Iceman paused again, thinking back to the first time he had encountered Penelope Bailey. “The thing was, she didn’t look like the most dangerous human being in the galaxy. She looked like a frightened little girl who was always hugging a rag doll for comfort. But in the end, everyone who was associated with her—those who tried to capture or kill her and those who tried to protect her—was dead, and she was still free.”

“What about you?”

“I was lucky.” The Iceman patted his prosthetic leg. “Still, this used to be flesh and blood.”

“But she didn’t kill you.”

“She was very young, and her powers weren’t fully developed,” answered the Iceman. “She left me for dead. She couldn’t see far enough ahead then to know that I’d survive.”

“And that was your experience with the Oracle?”

The Iceman shook his head. “She was just Penelope Bailey back then, though some alien who had latched onto her—practically worshipped her, for all the good it did him in the long run—called her the Soothsayer, and for a while the name caught on.”

The waiter brought their salads out. The Kid pushed his aside, while the Iceman began eating his own.

“Needs a little pepper,” said the Iceman.

“Certainly, sir,” said the waiter, supplying it and then walking off to the kitchen.

“How did she become the Oracle?” asked the Kid.

“Well, as I said, she was very young and her powers weren’t mature,” answered the Iceman. “She and her alien friend sought asylum on a planet called Hades. Somehow the race that lived there figured out what she was, and managed to imprison her in a room protected by an impenetrable force field—as I said, her powers weren’t fully developed at the time.” He took another bite of his salad. “Anyway, they made a deal with her: they would feed her and keep her alive, and she would direct them in their attempt to remain independent of the Democracy. Over the next fourteen years pronouncements would come forth from her cell, and the government of Hades would act upon them; that’s how she became the Oracle.”

“How did you get involved with her again?”

The Iceman sighed. “It’s a long story. Basically, a man named 32, who worked for the Democracy—he’s the same man I saw earlier today—hired me to kill her.” He took a last bite of his salad and pushed the bowl aside. “And since I knew what kind of threat she represented, I took the commission—but because she knew who I was, I farmed it out to someone who was younger and tougher than I was.”

“You don’t take any risks if you can avoid it, do you?” said the Kid.

“Not if I can help it,” said the Iceman, showing no irritation at the question. “I didn’t get to be this old by looking for trouble.”

The waiter arrived with their dinners, and both men fell silent again until he left.

“Excellent!” said the Iceman, taking a mouthful of his shellfish. “I’m going to have to make a point of visiting 32 more often.”

“Okay,” said the Kid as soon as the waiter was out of earshot. “So you hired someone else to kill her. Where do you come in?”

“You had to go through a lot of Blue Devils—that’s what we called the aliens—to get to her,” said the Iceman, taking a taste of his meal and nodding his approval. “She was very valuable to them, so she had layer upon layer of protection. It was when I realized that my man was working his way to her too easily that I went there to try to stop him.”

“To stop him?” repeated the Kid, frowning. “Why?”

“The fact that no one else had been able to stop him—or even appreciably slow him down—meant that she wanted him to succeed, not in killing her but in reaching her prison. And if she wanted it, then I didn’t.”

“So you saved her life.”

The Iceman shook his head. “Her life was never in danger. It probably hasn’t been in danger since the day she was born.”

“But if your killer made it to her prison…”

“You still don’t understand,” said the Iceman. “Stand her against that wall”—he gestured toward a wall of the restaurant—“and program a dozen laser weapons to fire randomly at her, and she’ll know when each one will discharge and where each beam will hit, and she’ll simply avoid them. And if you fired so many beams from so many weapons that she couldn’t avoid them all, then she’d find a future in which one of the weapons was a dud and exploded in your face before you could activate the rest of them.”

“So what happened on Hades?”

“My man had certain information she needed, something that could effectuate her escape. He was killed before she could make use of him.” The Iceman stared blankly out the window across the landing field. “He was a damned good man.”

“So she was still a prisoner on Hades?”

“That’s right.”

“And now she’s free again?”

The Iceman nodded.

“When did she escape?”

The Iceman shrugged. “I have no idea. At least eighteen months ago.”

“How does someone escape from a force field? I didn’t know we’d even developed the technology.”

“We haven’t. The inhabitants of Hades weren’t human; they developed it.”

“So how did she escape from it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where is she now?”

The Iceman shrugged again. “I had rather hoped she was the Anointed One, but I’ve got a feeling she isn’t. Too many people have seen him and testified that he’s a man in his forties.”

“Just a minute,” said the Kid. “You don’t know when she escaped, you don’t know how she escaped, and you don’t know where she is. Is that right?”

“That’s right.”

“Then how do you know she’s escaped at all?”

“Because a meteor crashed into Hades eighteen months ago and blew the whole damned world to smithereens. No survivors.”

“Well, then, that’s it. She died when the meteor hit.”

The Iceman shook his head. “Not her. If there was one future in a trillion in which the meteor didn’t hit Hades, in which it missed the planet or was blown to bits by a weapon or another meteor, she’d have found a way to make it come to pass.”

“But that doesn’t make any sense,” said the Kid. “If she could make it miss the planet, how come the planet was demolished?”

“Because it was payback time,” answered the Iceman with utter conviction. “Sometime before it hit, she found a way to escape from that force field … and just as she could have chosen a future in which the meteor missed Hades if she were still on the planet, she could also choose the one-in-a-million future in which it smashed into Hades once she had left. This was a race that had imprisoned her for close to two decades; there was no way she was going to let them off the hook with merely a reprimand.”

The Kid considered what the Iceman had said. “You really think she had the power to do that?” he asked dubiously.

“I know she has,” said the Iceman firmly.

The Kid finally tried a piece of his steak, and made a face.

“What’s the matter?” asked the Iceman.

“It’s cold.”

The Iceman, who had been eating while they had been speaking, took the last bite of his own meal. “Pity,” he said. “You probably won’t eat this well again for months.”

“You think she’ll be coming after you?” asked the Kid, chewing on a piece of no-longer-warm meat.

“No,” said the Iceman. “I’m no more to her than an insect. No man is.”

“Good,” said the Kid. “Leave her to the Democracy, and let’s worry about the Anointed One.”

“After twenty years, the Democracy still doesn’t know what they’re dealing with,” said the Iceman. “Besides, they think she’s dead.”

“From the meteor?”

“Yes.”

“Well, who knows? Maybe they’re right and you’re wrong.”

“I’m not wrong!” said the Iceman angrily.

“Okay, you’re not wrong,” said the Kid. “What do you plan to do about it?”

“Nothing,” said the Iceman. “Yet.”

“You’re not going to go after her?”

“Go where?”

“So it’s like I said: let’s concentrate on stopping the Anointed One.”

“The Anointed One is nothing but a minor irritant,” said the Iceman.

“A minor irritant who’s paid five men to kill you,” the Kid pointed out.

“Lomax will handle him,” said the Iceman, dismissing the subject. “Or at least he’ll warn me if anyone else is coming after me. We have more important things to worry about.”

The Kid frowned. “Like what?”

The Iceman stared at him. “Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said?” he demanded. “There is a monster loose in the galaxy, and no one else is aware of the threat she presents.” He paused. “I’ve got to find out where she is, what name she’s using, how well protected she is.”

The Kid frowned in confusion. “I thought you just said you weren’t going to go after her.”

“I’m not. She knows who I am, what I look like. I’d be dead before I could get anywhere near her.”

“Then what—?”

“Once I locate her, the next step is to find out what she’s planning to do.” He stared at the Kid. “That’s when I send you in.”

“Me?”

“You want to be a genuine Inner Frontier hero, don’t you?” said the Iceman with a grim smile.

“Yeah,” said the Kid, suddenly excited. “Yeah, I do.”

11

“There it is,” said the Iceman as his ship braked to light speeds in the Alpha Crepello system.

The Silicon Kid walked over to the viewscreen. “You mean, there is isn’t.”

The Iceman looked away from the whirling dust and rocks that were the only things left in Alpha Crepello III’s orbit.

“I had to make sure,” he said. “Well, now I’m sure.”

“And this Penelope Bailey did this just by wishing it?” said the Kid, staring at the dust and trying to imagine a planet in its place.

“Essentially,” replied the Iceman. “It’s much more complex, but that’s the gist of it.”

The Kid let out a low whistle. “That’s some lady,” he said. “She makes you and the Gravedancer look like pikers.”

“Have you got yourself a new hero now?” asked the Iceman, amused.

“Not me,” said the Kid. “She scares the shit out of me.” He continued to stare at the viewscreen. “People just can’t do things like that.”

“She’s not a person,” said the Iceman. “Not anymore. She hasn’t been for a long time.” He paused thoughtfully. “Maybe she never was.”

“They say she killed the Forever Kid when she was the Soothsayer. Is that right?”

“Not exactly.”

The Kid frowned, confused. “I don’t understand.”

“She didn’t kill him,” explained the Iceman. “She could have saved him, but she chose not to. Legally it’s not the same thing; morally it is.”

“All these legendary men and women—and you’re the only one who survived,” said the Kid. “What’s your secret?”

The Iceman shrugged. “I was lucky.”

“Maybe once was luck. Not twice.”

“Kid, if I knew the answer to that, I’d be willing to go up against her again.”

“Maybe you’ve got some kind of power, too,” suggested the Kid. “One you don’t even know about.”

“If I had it, I’d know about it by now.” The Iceman took one last look at where Hades had been. “She killed one hell of a lot of Blue Devils,” he remarked. “A lot of Men, too.”

“I didn’t know any Men lived on Hades.”

“They didn’t—but Hades had three terraformed moons that were all populated by Men: Port Maracaibo, Port Marrakesh, and Port Samarkand. You don’t see them now, do you?”

“What happened to them?”

“They probably fell into the sun when the planet blew,” answered the Iceman.

The Kid was silent for a long moment, and then spoke. “Well, to be fair about it, she had some justification,” he said. “She’d been a prisoner there for 16 or 17 years.”

“And that justifies killing every living thing on Hades and all its moons?”

“They didn’t have any reason to imprison her in the first place,” said the Kid. “From what you told me, they just spotted her talent and locked her away.”

“What would you have done?” asked the Iceman.

The Kid shrugged. “I don’t know. Talked to her, tried to find out what her plans were, seen if there was any way to get her to work for me.”

“You’re a fool.”

“How do you know that she doesn’t plan to use her powers for good?”

“Whose good?” responded the Iceman. “Hers or ours?”

“They might be the same.”

“They’ve never been the same,” said the Iceman. “You’re making the same mistake 32 and all the rest made. You think because she looks human and had human parents, she must be human.” He paused. “Take it from me, Kid—she hasn’t been a human being for a long, long time—if indeed she ever was.”

The Kid turned in his seat to face the Iceman. “How can you be so sure of that?”

“Because I know the way her mind works—as much as any Man can know, anyway,” answered the Iceman. “What frightens me—and what ought to frighten the shit out of you and everyone else—isn’t that she has the power to blow Hades to bits; hell, the Navy can do that, too.” He shook his head. “No, what frightens me is that I know she did it without a single regret or second thought. By the time she became the Oracle she had evolved past all human reference points: we mean no more to her than a grain of sand means to us.”

“She was human once,” said the Kid doggedly. “You told me she was just a frightened little girl when you first met her. There must be a shred of that humanity still remaining somewhere within her.”

The Iceman sighed heavily. “Fine. You search for it.”

“I plan to—if I get the chance.”

“I wish you luck,” said the Iceman, closing the subject. He commanded the ship’s computer to break orbit and take them out of the Alpha Crepello system. “I’ve seen everything I needed to see. No sense staying here any longer.”

“What do we do now?” asked the Kid.

“Now”, said the Iceman, selecting a world from the holographic display of the Inner Frontier and directing the navigational computer to lay in a course for it, “we head for Confucius IV.”

“Never heard of it.”

“It’s an ugly little world on the edge of the Frontier.”

“Why are we going there?”

“Because you can usually buy information there.”

“What kind of information are we after?” asked the Kid, staring at the holographic display until it faded into nothingness.

“We’re trying to get a line on the Prophet.”

“The Prophet?” said the Kid, surprised. “Isn’t he some bandit on the Frontier?”

“Possibly.”

“Possibly?” repeated the Kid. “You think it might be Penelope Bailey?

“I don’t know,” answered the Iceman. “That’s what I plan to find out.” He walked carefully to the galley, pulled out an exotically-shaped bottle and poured himself a drink. “You want some?” he asked.

“Sure,” said the Kid. “What is it?”

“Alphard brandy,” said the Iceman, handing the bottle and a glass to the Kid. “Not as good as the stuff they make in the Terrazane system, but it keeps better at light speeds.”

“Thanks,” said the Kid, filling his glass and returning the bottle to the Iceman. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

“Go ahead.”

“You didn’t pick the Prophet out of a hat,” said the Kid, taking a swallow of the brandy and deciding that he liked it. “There’s hundreds of bandits with strange names out there. What makes you think the Prophet might be Penelope Bailey? Why not Father Christmas or Undertaker McNair or the Border Lord?”

“Well, the name fits,” said the Iceman, returning to his seat and setting his glass down on a panel in front of the navigational computer. “But that’s secondary; there have been Prophets before. There will be again.” He paused. “It was something 32 told me.”

“What?”

“That the Anointed One was thought to be building up his forces for some military action against the Democracy, but during the past year he seems to have changed his target. Now he’s hunting for the Prophet.”

“So what?”

“Think it through,” said the Iceman, returning to his seat with his glass in his hand. “Here is this fanatic with two hundred million armed followers, all set to take on the Democracy—and suddenly he decides the Prophet is a greater threat.” He stared at the Kid. “The Democracy’s got a navy of almost a billion ships, and a standing army of maybe ten billion men. Now, what do you think could possibly pose a greater threat than that?”

“You make it sound logical enough,” admitted the Kid. “But it’s also possible that the Anointed One decided that he wasn’t up to defeating the Democracy … or maybe he’s out to assimilate all the Prophet’s followers into his fold.”

“What followers?” demanded the Iceman. “According to 32, the Democracy hasn’t got any hard information on the Prophet. Don’t you think they’d know if she had millions of men ready to fight on her command?” He paused again. “You say that the Prophet is just a bandit on the Frontier. All right. Who has she robbed? What sector is she operating out of?”

“I don’t know,” said the Kid. He stared at the Iceman. “But neither do you. For all you know, the Prophet is just some small-time bandit.”

“Like I said, it’s possible.”

“Then why go on some wild goose chase after her—or him, as the case may be?”

“I’m going after Penelope Bailey because the Democracy thinks she’s dead. They sure as hell aren’t going to go looking for her.” He paused. “And the reason I’m going to try to find the Prophet is even simpler: I don’t have any other leads.” He took a deep breath and released it slowly. “And there’s one other thing.”

“Oh? What?”

“I’ve never met the Anointed One in my life,” said the Iceman. “I never even heard of him until a couple of weeks ago.”

“What has that got to do with the Prophet?”

“Maybe nothing,” admitted the Iceman, picking up his glass and taking another sip. “But if we’ve never met and I haven’t hampered him in any way, then I can think of only one reason he wants me dead.” He paused again. “I’m the only person ever to meet Penelope Bailey and live to tell about it. That could imply that I’m working for her.”

“But you’re not,” the Kid pointed out.

The Iceman smiled. “You know it and I know it, but the Anointed One has no reason to know it. The only thing he knows is that I’ve been in her presence a number of times, and I’m still alive.”

“You’re working with even less information than he is,” responded the Kid, finishing his brandy in a single gulp. “Both in regards to the Anointed One’s motives and Penelope Bailey’s identity—if she’s still alive.”

“You’re supposed to sip your brandy,” said the Iceman.

“I’ll remember next time,” said the Kid.

“Please do. It’s expensive stuff. If you’re just thirty, I’ve got water and beer.”

“All right,” said the Kid irritably. “I said I’d remember, and I will.” He paused. “So how do we go about learning if you’re right or wrong about the Prophet?”

“We assume that I’m right, and that she’s Penelope Bailey, and we proceed based on that supposition,” said the Iceman. “We’ll start on Confucius IV. I don’t know anything about the Prophet, you don’t know anything about the Prophet, even the Democracy doesn’t know anything about the Prophet. But we do know that the Prophet exists. People have heard of her. People talk about her. You’ve heard of her. Even Lomax mentioned her to me back on Last Chance. And we know that the Anointed One is searching the Inner Frontier for her.” The Iceman paused and drummed his fingers on the computer panel. “So we start going from one likely world to another, until we find someone who knows something more about her than her name. Maybe we’ll get a location, maybe the scene of a recent crime, maybe the name of an associate—but sooner or later we’ll get something.”

“And then?”

“Then we keep piecing together bits of information until we know if she’s Penelope Bailey or not.”

“I don’t know about this,” said the Kid doubtfully. “This whole scenario you’ve built, everything you’ve said—it’s all supposition.”

“True,” agreed the Iceman. “But it feels right.”

“So we’re going all over the Inner Frontier chasing some bandit because it feels right?” said the Kid displaying a sardonic smile.

“When you pay the bills, we’ll do it your way,” said the Iceman. “In the meantime, if you have any objections, I can let you off on the nearest oxygen world.”

“No, I’ll stay with you,” said the Kid. “I’ve still got a lot of worlds to see. I might as well see them on salary.” He paused thoughtfully. “And if she really is alive, I want to see her.” Suddenly he smiled. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll go down in history as the man who killed Penelope Bailey.”

“I wouldn’t bet my last credit on it,” said the Iceman dryly.

12

Confucius IV wasn’t much of a world. It consisted of three abandoned Tradertowns, a handful of mines which were mostly played out, some enormous flat fields that didn’t have rich enough soil or get enough rain, and one small city.

The city, New Macao, was pretty unimpressive even by the standards of the Inner Frontier. Its cobblestone streets, created to be charming, were in dire need of repair and caused equal havoc to feet and tires. The major hotel resembled a steel-and-glass pagoda, and the rooms were furnished with the same lack of taste displayed by the architect. Another hotel resembled an emperor’s palace, as conceived by someone who had never seen either an emperor or a palace. The streets were narrow and winding, with an abundance of bars and drug dens and an absolute minimum of official supervision.

“I like it,” said the Silicon Kid, as he and the Iceman walked down the main street, past the two hotels and a trio of overpriced nightclubs.

“It’s filthy and dangerous,” replied the Iceman.

“That’s what I like about it. It’s exotic.”

“Your definition of exotic and mine differ considerably,” said the Iceman wryly.

“Look at the men standing in the doorways of some of those buildings!” said the Kid excitedly. “I’ll bet I’ve seen half of them on wanted posters!”

“Probably,” said the Iceman. “I suppose I should warn you that that doesn’t necessarily make them desirable companions.”

“I’ve been rubbing shoulders with farmers all my life,” said the Kid. “At least these guys figure to be more interesting.”

“When’s the last time a farmer took your wallet, cut your throat, and left you for dead in the street?”

“I’d like to see someone try it, now that I’ve got my implants,” said the Kid confidently.

“You would?” said the Iceman with an amused smile. “Well, maybe I can accommodate you.”

“What are you talking about?” asked the Kid, suddenly tense.

“When we turn off of this street, just keep twenty yards behind me. I guarantee you’ll have a chance to try out the New Improved You.”

“What about you?”

“Me? I gave up showing off half a century ago.”

“No,” said the Kid. “I mean, if this place we’re going is so dangerous, why won’t they go after you, too?”

“Because they want to live.”

The Kid laughed. “You’re a fat old man with a limp.”

“That’s right.”

“Then why should they leave you alone?”

“Because I’m the Iceman,” came the reply in such a cold voice that the Kid decided his aging companion was more formidable that he looked.

“So, where are we going?”

“A place even the police don’t go,” answered the Iceman. “It’s just a couple of more blocks.”

“Has it got a name?”

“Nightmare Alley.”

“Picturesque,” remarked the Kid.

“Accurate,” replied the Iceman.

They walked for another fifty yards, then turned down a narrow side street.

“This is Nightmare Alley?” asked the Kid.

“Soon,” said the Iceman.

They walked past two dilapidated buildings, then came to a winding alleyway—and suddenly the character of the area changed from something that the Kid thought was exotic and Iceman thought was merely rundown, to something that both agreed was deeply weird.

Club after club lined the alley, most with their own barkers. There was a drug den, a betting parlor, a bar, another drug den, a pornographic stage show, a whorehouse for men, a whorehouse for women, a whorehouse for aliens, and a whorehouse for those desiring that most taboo of vices—inter-species sex. Taverns, each darker and more disreputable than the last, catered to all races. Shrill screams and raucous laughter came from the whorehouses, and terrified screams emanated from one of the drug dens. There were a pair of weapon shops, one specializing in laser pistols and rifles, the other in projectile firearms, and the Kid had the feeling that not a single weapon in either shop possessed a serial number.

Every fifteen feet or so they came to a body lying on the pavement. Some appeared drunk, others comatose; the Iceman paid them no attention.

“I think I just saw Lizard Malloy in that bar across the alleyway!” whispered the Kid excitedly.

“Well, this is a good place to stay when there’s a price on your head,” replied the Iceman.

A few faces peered out at the Iceman and the Kid from the interiors of the buildings they passed, but no one made any move to hinder them, and even the barkers stepped aside as the Iceman approached them.

“They seem to know you,” said the Kid, impressed.

“They know enough not to bother me, anyway,” answered the Iceman.

“I thought you hadn’t left Last Chance in four years.”

“That’s right.”

“You must have made quite an impression the last time you were here.”

The Iceman made no reply, but began slowing down. “We’re going in there,” he said, gesturing toward a doorway. “Once we’re inside, keep your mouth shut and your eyes open. Got it?”

“Right,” said the Kid. He paused uncertainly. “What am I looking for?”

“You’ll know it when you see it,” said the Iceman.

He entered the doorway, followed by the Kid.

“Welcome to the House of Usher,” said a tall man dressed in faded formal garb. He stared at the Iceman, and suddenly a look of recognition crossed his face. “It’s been a long time, Mr. Mendoza. We heard rumors that you had been killed.”

“I can only be killed with a silver bullet,” replied the Iceman with a wry smile. “I thought everyone knew that.” He pulled out a hundred-credit note and handed it to the man. “I’m renting a table near the bar. It’s my office for the next two hours.”

The man grabbed the note and nodded.

“There’s another hundred credits for you for every person you bring to my office—if they have anything useful to sell.”

“What are you buying?”

“Information.”

“There’s all kinds of information, Mr. Mendoza.”

“Pass the word that the Iceman is interested in information about the Prophet.”

The man rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “That may be more difficult than you imagine, Mr. Mendoza. I’ve only heard the Prophet mentioned twice in all the time I’ve been here.”

“This is Nightmare Alley,” said the Iceman. “Someone will know something.” He pulled out two more notes. “Put the word on the street, too. Tell them I’ll be here for two hours, and then I’m leaving Confucius.”

“I’ll pass the word as soon as I take you to your table.”

“Don’t bother,” said the Iceman. “I know the way.”

As the tall man walked out the door, the Iceman turned to the Kid.

“Follow me, and don’t stare.”

“At what?”

“At anything you see. It’s in bad taste.”

The Iceman led him through a labyrinthian corridor that passed a number of dimly-lit rooms. In one, a number of men and women, all addicts of the alphanella seed, lay in various states of stupor and catatonia, their pupils dilated, their eyes wide open, their faces contorted in nightmarish smiles. In another three green-skinned aliens, mildly apelike in appearance, sat naked on the floor, surrounded by perhaps two hundred blue-glowing candles, each dissecting a small animal. The kid tried to ignore the little animals’ screams of pain, and wondered if he were observing a religious ritual or an illegal dinner, or both.

They passed three more cubicles, each with humans or aliens doing things that they were never meant to do, and finally they came to the bar. There were a dozen tables evenly spaced throughout the room, all but three of them occupied by a relatively equal number of humans and aliens, and the Iceman picked the one that was farthest from the corridor through which they had entered. The two men who were sitting there took one look at him and left hurriedly as he approached.

“Welcome back, Mr. Mendoza,” said the bartender, a grossly obese bald man with a handlebar mustache that had been dyed a bright blue. “It’s been a long time.”

“Not long enough,” said the Iceman distastefully, and the bartender chuckled. “Bring us a pair of beers.”

The bartender nodded, and waddled over with their drinks a moment later.

“Sure I can’t interest you in a Dust Devil, or a Blue Giant?” he asked, panting from the effort of walking across the room.

“Just the beers,” said the Iceman, tossing a pair of Maria Theresa dollars on the tray.

“Maybe later,” said the bartender.

“Maybe,” said the Iceman, and the bartender retreated to his station.

“This is some place!” said the Kid, unable to keep the excitement from his voice.

“You like it here?” asked the Iceman.

“Don’t you?”

“The scum of the Inner Frontier, if they sink low enough, eventually wind up on Confucius IV—and the worst of them turn up in Nightmare Alley. If I didn’t have business to transact, you couldn’t pay me to spend two seconds in this place.”

“It’s got atmosphere,” said the Kid.

“Yeah,” said the Iceman. “Well, if you scrub hard enough in the shower, most of it’ll wash off.”

“You’ve got no sense of adventure,” said the Kid with a smile.

“This isn’t an adventure, Kid. It’s a business, and a deadly one at that.”

The Kid lowered his voice. “See that woman at that table over there? The skinny one with the red hair?”

“Yes.”

“I think it’s Sally the Knife!”

“So what?”

“She’s killed 30 men, maybe 35!” said the Kid excitedly.

“I know.”

“Do you know her personally? I’d like to meet her.”

“Why don’t you just walk over and ask for her autograph?” said the Iceman caustically.

“Maybe I will.”

“Don’t.”

“Why not?”

“You don’t come to the House of Usher to meet star-struck farm boys,” said the Iceman. “You come here to conduct business. That man she’s with isn’t here just to buy her a drink and talk her into bed—and I don’t think he’d appreciate having a stranger come up and start talking.” The Iceman paused. “He might even think you had some notion of blackmailing him once Sally does what he’s paying her to do.”

The Kid considered the Iceman’s statement. “All right,” he said sullenly. “But you don’t have to make fun of me.”

“Just keep your mind on business,” said the Iceman. “We’re here to find out about a woman who destroys entire worlds as easily as Sally slits throats.”

They sat in silence for perhaps ten minutes. Then a very small man, his face disfigured by some skin disease that had gone untreated, walked up to them and sat down.

“Word is that you’re looking for the Prophet,” he said in a hoarse voice.

“That’s right,” said the Iceman.

“What are you paying?”

“Depends what you’re selling.”

“For three hundred New Stalin rubles, I can put you next to a guy who works for him.”

“On this planet?”

“No,” said the man. “But he’s not far from here. You can reach him in half a day.”

“And when I find out he doesn’t exist, or that he’s never heard of the Prophet, how long will it take me to find you again?” asked the Iceman.

“Are you calling me a liar?” demanded the man heatedly.

“No, just a lousy salesman,” said the Iceman. “Now go away.”

“I ain’t going anywhere till you pay me something for my time,” said the man.

“Kid,” said the Iceman. “Give him something for his time.”

The Kid drew his sonic pistol so fast that even the Iceman, who was expecting it, couldn’t follow the motion. A fraction of a second later it was pointed directly at the man’s head.

“You want the down payment now or later?” asked the Iceman.

The man glared at him, trying to keep the fear from his face, then muttered a curse under his breath and scuttled off toward the corridor.

“I assume that was what you wanted me to do?” said the Kid.

The Iceman nodded. “But don’t shoot anyone unless I tell you to,” he said. “We won’t be able to do any business if word gets out that we’re killing the customers.”

“We don’t need customers like him.”

“We’re passing the word to the dregs of humanity,” replied the Iceman. “Five out of six customers are going to be exactly like him. Offer them enough for a drink and a fix, and they’ll swear to anything, sell you any information you’re looking for—and be long gone, or dead, by the time you find out they were lying.”

“So how will you know who’s telling the truth?”

“There are ways,” said the Iceman.

He got to his feet, returned their empty glasses to the bar, and ordered two more beers. Before he could take his first swallow, a well-dressed man with long, flowing golden hair sat down next to him.

“You’re the Iceman?” he asked.

“That’s right.”

“I know a little something about the Prophet.”

“What about him?” asked the Iceman.

“First of all, it’s a her.”

The Iceman pulled out a roll of banknotes, peeled one off, and laid it on the table in front of the blond man.

“Keep going,” he said.

“She’s on the Inner Frontier,” said the man.

“Where?”

“I’m not sure what world. At various times I’ve heard she was on Oceana, Port Raven, and Primrose.”

The Iceman laid another note on top of the first.

“What’s her game?”

“Word is that she’s raising an army, that she wants to take over some of the Frontier worlds.”

The Iceman didn’t pull out a note this time.

“Word is wrong. She doesn’t need an army.”

“Hey, I’m just telling you what I’ve heard.”

“What else do you know, or think you know, about her?”

“She must have access to some awfully powerful weapons,” said the man. “They say she blew up some alien world.”

“Old news,” replied the Iceman, refusing to peel off another note. “You got anything else?”

“That’s it,” said the man, picking up the two banknotes.

“Just a minute,” said the Iceman as the man started to get up.

“Yeah?”

“I’ll double what you’ve got if you can give me a name.”

“A name?” The man looked puzzled.

“The name of the person who told you the Prophet is a woman.”

“Won’t do you much good. He’s dead.”

“I’ll pay a hundred credits for the name, anyway.”

The man paused and stared at him curiously. “Zanzibar Brooks,” he said at last.

“Who was he?”

“He did a little of everything, you know what I mean?”

“I know what you mean,” said the Iceman. “Was there paper on him?”

“Yeah. 50,000 credits, dead or alive.” He paused. “He died in some bar brawl on Port Raven a couple of months ago.” Suddenly he smiled. “If I’d have known it was going to happen, I’d have shot him myself and cashed the reward.”

“He actually saw the Prophet?”

“He said he did.”

The Iceman gave him a final banknote. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure,” said the man. “If you have anything else to ask me, I’ll be in one of those rooms down the hall.”

He got up and left the table.

“Did you believe him?” asked the Kid.

“He answered the first question right,” said the Iceman. “As for the rest, it’s just hearsay—and if there’s one thing Penelope Bailey doesn’t need, it’s an army.” He took a long swallow of his beer. “But if we don’t find out anything more, we’ll send a message to Port Raven and see if we can learn where this Zanzibar Brooks spent the last year of his life.”

Two more men and a woman approached them in the next hour, none of them with anything to sell except sob stories about how they needed the money. The Iceman was about to leave when a tall, lean man entered the room, looked around, and approached his table.

“You’re Mendoza?” he asked.

“Right.”

“My name’s Quinn. Mind if I sit down?”

“Be my guest.”

The man named Quinn seated himself. “Who’s he?” he asked, gesturing toward the Kid with his head.

“A friend. Anything you have to say, you can say in front of him.”

Quinn smiled. “For what you’re paying me, I’ll say it in front of everyone.”

“You don’t know what I’m paying you.”

“If it’s less than five thousand credits, we’ve got nothing to talk about.”

The Iceman stared at him appraising him carefully. “What do you think you know that’s worth five thousand credits?”

Quinn leaned back on his chair and smiled confidently. “I know where you can find the Prophet.” He paused. “Are we in business, or do I walk?”

“We’re in business,” said the Iceman.

“I haven’t seen any money yet.”

The Iceman pulled out his roll and counted out five thousand credits, then laid it on the table in front of him.

“Start talking,” he said.

“She’s on Mozart.”

“Mozart? I never heard of it.”

“There’s a star in the Terrazane sector called Symphony,” said Quinn. “They named all the planets after composers, even the ones that weren’t habitable. Beethoven and Sondheim are gas giants. Mozart is the third planet out from the star.”

“What makes you think she’s on Mozart?” asked the Iceman.

“Because I’ve seen her,” said Quinn.

“What does she look like?”

“Blonde, medium height, late twenties, rather pretty actually.”

The Iceman shoved the pile of notes over to Quinn.

“What else can you tell me about her?”

“She’s one very strange lady, I can tell you that.”

The Iceman laid his roll of notes on the table. “Keep talking.”

“I work on a cargo ship,” said Quinn. “Two weeks ago we developed engine trouble near the Symphony system and went into orbit around Mozart while we made repairs. Some of us got to spend a day on the planet.”

“And?”

“It’s not much of a world, just an agricultural colony that supplies food to half a dozen nearby mining worlds. But she rules it as if she were some kind of goddess. I mean, her word is law, and God help anyone who disobeys her, who even thinks of disobeying her.” He paused. “She must be some kind of mutant or something, because she seems to know what they’re thinking even before they do. They’ve tried to kill her a couple of times, and even though she doesn’t have any bodyguards, they’ve never gotten close to her. I mean, hell, I saw her myself, plain as day, walking through town like she didn’t have a care in the world. She never even asked what we were doing there; it was like she already knew.”

“How long has she been there?” asked the Iceman.

Quinn shrugged. “Maybe four or five months.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why is she on Mozart? What’s her purpose there?”

“That’ll be another five thousand.”

The Iceman counted off the amount, and Quinn grabbed the money greedily.

“She plans to set up her own empire in the Inner Frontier,” said Quinn.

“She told you that?”

“No, but she told someone on Mozart that I spoke to.”

“You’re sure?”

“I got no reason to lie to you.”

“How does she plan to go about it?”

“They say she’s pretty tight with a bunch of mercenaries,” replied Quinn. “Maybe she plans to use them and pick up one colony world after another.”

“Do you know anything else about her?” asked the Iceman.

“That’s it.”

“Well, you’ve been most helpful, Mr. Quinn. Let me buy you a drink before you leave.”

“You’ve done enough for me already,” said Quinn, smiling and holding up the wad of money.

“It’s no problem.”

“I really have to be going.”

“But I insist,” said the Iceman.

“I told you, I have to—”

Suddenly Quinn was looking into the barrel of the Kid’s sonic pistol.

“Try to be a little more gracious, Mr. Quinn,” said the Iceman, getting to his feet. “I’ll be right back with your drink.”

He walked over to the bar, whispered something to the obese bartender, then returned a moment later with a drink.

“Here you are, Mr. Quinn,” he said pleasantly, placing the drink down on the table in front of Quinn.

“If you think you can poison me right here in front of everyone, you should know that I have friends,” said Quinn.

“How very comforting,” said the Iceman. “Now, drink up.”

Quinn looked at the Kid’s pistol once more, and then, very slowly, he lifted the glass up to his lips.

“Now swallow it,” said the Iceman sternly.

Quinn closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and downed the drink in a single gulp. Then he leaned back, half-expecting to die in hideous agony. When nothing happened, he blinked once, then leaned forward, seemed about to say something, and then became almost rigid.

“It’s all right, Mr. Quinn,” said the Iceman. “You can hear and understand every word I’m saying. Let me assure you that you have not been poisoned, nor do I intend to rob you. I just want to repeat a couple of my questions.” He paused. “What is the Prophet’s purpose on Mozart?”

“I don’t know,” murmured Quinn, his words slurred slightly.

“And no one on Mozart told you that she planned to set up her own empire, did they?”

“No.”

“But you did see her there?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you very much, Mr. Quinn,” said the Iceman. He leaned over and took half of his money back. “You earned the first five thousand credits … but you really shouldn’t be so greedy. I didn’t get to be a rich man by paying people to lie to me.” He got to his feet and motioned the Kid to do the same.

“We’re going to leave now, Mr. Quinn,” he continued. “Your muscles will respond to your commands in about ten minutes, and you’ll suffer no side effects from the drug I had placed in your drink. It’s a powder that encourages you to tell the truth, with just enough of a narcotic added so that you should enjoy the next couple of minutes immensely.” He gave the motionless man a friendly pat on the shoulder, and suddenly his voice became low and ominous. “I would strongly suggest that you enjoy your five thousand credits, and that you make no attempt to follow us when you are once more capable of movement.”

Then he and the Kid walked back through the labyrinthian corridor and out the main entrance of the House of Usher.

“What do we do now?” asked the Kid, as they began walking down Nightmare Alley.

“Now?” repeated the Iceman. “Now we follow our lead as far as we can. We try to learn a little more about Mozart, and we try to find some more people who have been there and seen the Prophet. Then we try to find out what she’s done that has alerted the Anointed One to her presence and made him decide that she presents a greater threat to him than the Democracy does.”

“If she does,” the Kid corrected him.

“Oh, she does, all right,” said the Iceman with absolute conviction. “I’m just surprised that he’s figured it out.”

“And once we do all that,” said the Kid, “then we go to Mozart?”

“One of us does,” answered the Iceman.

13

The Iceman remained on Confucius IV for another day, but could learn nothing further about the Prophet. However, the Silicon Kid managed to learn a little something about the Iceman.

They were sitting in the lobby of their pagoda-like hotel, having breakfast prior to going to the spaceport, when Quinn entered the building, walked across the lobby, and confronted them.

“I see you’re feeling better,” said the Iceman pleasantly.

“You son of a bitch!” snarled Quinn, attracting considerable attention from the other diners. “You doped me up and took my money!”

“You sold information you didn’t have,” answered the Iceman. “That made it my money.”

“It’s mine, and I’m here to take it back! If I have to kill you for it, I will!”

The Kid tensed, but the Iceman leaned over and laid a restraining hand on his shoulder.

“The man means business,” he said. “We’d better give him what he wants.”

“But—” began the Kid.

“It’s just money,” said the Iceman. “It’s not worth dying for.”

He reached into the pocket where he kept his roll of bills while Quinn watched him intently. Then he calmly pulled out a small pistol and fired it, point-blank, between Quinn’s eyes. Two women shrieked and a waiter dropped his tray. The tall man was dead before he hit the ground.

“I told you it wasn’t worth dying for,” said the Iceman to the corpse.

“You killed him!” said the Kid.

“I sure as hell hope so.”

“You didn’t even give him a chance.”

“You think this is some kind of a game?” said the Iceman irritably. “We don’t play by any rules out here.” He paused. “The man came here to rob me or kill me. Maybe you think I should have waited for him to draw his weapon?”

The Kid made no reply, and the Iceman got to his feet as the manager and two security guards approached him.

“Everyone in the restaurant was a witness,” said the Iceman. “He threatened to kill me.”

“He threatened to kill you if you didn’t give him your money,” said a man at the next table.

“Same thing,” said the Iceman. “I didn’t come here to be robbed at gunpoint.”

“His gun’s still in its holster,” noted the manager.

The Iceman shrugged. “He was a lousy robber.”

“We’ve got the whole thing on holotape,” said one of the security guards. “If it happened the way you said, you don’t have any problem.”

“I never did,” replied the Iceman, and somehow the Kid knew that he was right,

Two policemen entered the hotel a moment later and walked over to the crowd that was clustered around Quinn’s body, then listened as the Iceman repeated his story.

“Sounds good to me,” said one of them. “You want to come down to headquarters and make a statement?”

“I’ll make it right here,” said the Iceman. “The man was a fool. He paid for his foolishness.”

“That wasn’t the kind of statement I had in mind,” said the officer with a smile.

“It’s the only one I care to make,” replied the Iceman. “Can you check the holotape this morning? My associate and I plan to leave Confucius this afternoon.”

The officer stared at him intently. “You’re Carlos Mendoza, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

The officer nodded. “I thought so,” he said. “If you say it was self-defense, that’s good enough for me. You’re free on your own recognizance, and we’ll view the tape before noon. If it supports your story, you’ll be free to leave on schedule.”

“Fair enough,” said the Iceman.

The holotape verified the Iceman’s account of the incident, and they took off in early afternoon.

“Now I know why they call you the Iceman,” remarked the Kid, as they left Confucius far behind them.

“Oh?”

“You’re as cold and emotionless as you say Penelope Bailey is,” said the Kid. “I’m not saying that’s a bad way to be,” he added hastily. “Out here it’s probably a survival trait.” He paused. “You must have been one hell of a dangerous man when you were younger.”

“I’m more dangerous now.”

The Kid stared at him for a long moment, then shrugged. “If you say so.” He paused. “By the way, a lot of people on Confucius seemed to know you.”

“I’ve done business there before.”

“They all called you Mendoza rather than the Iceman,” continued the Kid. “Why?”

“Nicknames come and go, but I’ve been Carlos Mendoza all my life.”

“The Iceman fits you better.”

“Thank you… I think,” replied the Iceman with an amused smile.

“What other names have you had over the years?”

“They’re not important.”

They fell silent for the next few minutes. Then the Kid walked to the galley and made himself some dinner. When he returned to his seat, he found that the Iceman was studying the navigational computer’s holographic representation of the Terrazane sector.

“Looking for Mozart?” asked the Kid.

“I’ve found it,” said the Iceman, indicating a star that was blinking a bright yellow. “This is Symphony. Mozart is the third planet circling it.”

“How far away is it?”

“From here?” said the Iceman. “At full speed, we can make it there in a little over one Standard day.”

“What do I do once I get there?” asked the Kid.

“Eventually you’ll try to get close enough to Penelope Bailey to find out what her plans are. As for what you’ll do immediately, I don’t know yet. That’s why we’re heading for Aristotle.”

“Aristotle?”

“It’s a university planet on the edge of the Democracy. We’ll pay a fee and tie in to their computer, and find out what we can about Mozart.”

“Why don’t we just tie in to the Master Computer on Deluros VIII?” asked the Kid.

“Because she’s more likely to have someone monitoring the Master Computer than the one on Aristotle,” replied the Iceman.

“What makes you think so?” persisted the Kid. “After all, if she’s as bright as you say…”

“I never said she was bright. I said she was precognitive.”

“Whatever,” said the Kid. “Why won’t she be monitoring the computer on Aristotle?”

The Iceman leaned back and switched off the holographic display. “She’s the most powerful and dangerous being alive, but she’s not without her limitations,” he said at last. “She spent her childhood on the run until she was eight years old, and she spent the next sixteen or seventeen years in a twenty-by-twenty cell. How much of the galaxy can she have seen? Deluros VIII is the capital world of the race of Man, so of course she knows about it—but I’ll bet she’s never even heard of Aristotle.”

“You’d better be right,” said the Kid. “You may be making the bet, but I’m the one who has to pay if you’re wrong.”

“I’m not wrong,” said the Iceman. “She has powers beyond anyone’s comprehension, but she’s not all-knowing.” He paused. “Anyway, once we learn a little more about Mozart, we’ll have a better idea what identity you should assume there.”

“Why don’t I just show up as a gun for hire?” suggested the Kid.

The Iceman chuckled.

“What’s so funny?” demanded the Kid.

“Nobody ever needed a hired gun less that Penelope Bailey,” said the Iceman. “Besides, even if she did, she’d want references—and since I’m the only reference you’ve got, you wouldn’t make it to noon.”

“I could say I worked for the Gravedancer.”

“Lomax is a hired gun. He doesn’t hire them himself.”

The Kid shrugged. “It was just a suggestion.”

“If you believe even half of what I’ve told you about her, it was a stupid suggestion,” answered the Iceman. “If you want to live through this, you’d better start using your brain.”

“All right,” said the Kid irritably. “You don’t have to bite my head off.”

“Your head is all you’ve got,” said the Iceman. “My advice to you is that you remember that, and forget about your silicon-enhanced physical abilities.”

“Some of those abilities may prove damned useful on Mozart.”

“Like what?”

“Like being able to see in the dark.”

“She doesn’t have to see; she’ll know where you are and where you’re going to be thirty seconds and thirty minutes from now.”

“If I’m so stupid and so useless, why are you sending me in at all?” demanded the Kid.

“I’d go myself if I could, but I can’t hide this limp, and besides, she’d know who I was anyway.” He paused. “You’re going in because you’re the only piece I’ve got to play.”

“Thanks for building my confidence,” said the Kid sardonically.

“Just see that you don’t get overconfident,” responded the Iceman. “No matter how I’ve prepared you, if you live long enough to meet her, what you’re going to see is a very normal-looking young woman, and you’re going to think I’ve exaggerated the threat she poses.” He paused for a moment. “Just remember: Better men than you have tried to stop her, and every last one of them is dead.”

“Then why am I going in at all?”

“You’re not going there to hurt her, or even threaten her,” answered the Iceman. “You’re just trying to get some information. If she can’t see far enough ahead, if she doesn’t know what you plan to do with it, you just might come out of this in one piece.”

The Iceman stood up, stretched his arms (as much as he could stretch them in the cramped confines of the cockpit), and turned to the Kid. “I’m going to grab some sleep before we reach Aristotle,” he announced. “You might consider doing the same.”

The Kid nodded and went to his own bunk. He was sure that he would have a difficult time falling asleep, but after what seemed only a moment to him the Iceman was shaking him by the shoulder.

“What’s the matter?” he said groggily, sitting up abruptly and inadvertently banging his head against a bulkhead. “Am I in the wrong bunk?”

The Iceman smiled. “There are only two.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. You’ve been asleep for eleven hours.” He paused. “We’re in orbit around Aristotle.”

“You’re kidding!” said the Kid, getting stiffly to his feet.

“Check the ship’s chronometer if you don’t believe me,” said the Iceman. “I already made us some breakfast.”

“You never miss a meal, do you?”

“Not if I can help it.”

The Kid joined the Iceman in the galley, which was almost as claustrophobic as the cockpit. “Did you ever consider getting a bigger ship?” he asked as he picked up his coffee mug and took a swallow.

“I suppose if I had thought about it, I would have,” admitted the Iceman. “I had never planned to leave Last Chance again.”

“Not much of a world, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t.”

“A man like you, with the money you’ve made, you ought to be living next to your friend on Sweetwater.”

“It’s a matter of taste,” answered the Iceman. “I like the Inner Frontier.”

“Sweetwater is on the Frontier.”

“But it’s not really a Frontier world,” said the Iceman. “It’s a haven for retired billionaires. Last Chance suits me just fine.”

“I kind of liked Confucius, myself,” said the Kid. “Especially Nightmare Alley.”

“You’re young yet.”

The ship’s computer beeped twice.

“Yes?” said the Iceman.

“I have established a link to the geopolitical computer on Aristotle,” announced the computer.

“Good,” said the Iceman. “Extract whatever information it has on a planet called Mozart.”

“Star system?” asked the computer.

“Symphony, in the Terrazane sector.”

“Working … extracted.”

“All right,” said the Iceman. “Now see if it’s got any data on a human known as the Prophet.”

“Working … negative.”

“All right,” said the Iceman. “Break the connection and have the connect fee billed to my account on Binder X.”

“Working … done … connection broken,” said the computer.

“Now give me a hard copy of what you extracted.”

A moment later the computer produced a single sheet of paper.

“That’s everything?” asked the Iceman, frowning.

“Yes.”

“Deactivate.”

He picked up the sheet and read it, then looked at the Kid. “There’s not much information here to go on,” he announced.

“So I gather,” replied the Kid. “What do we have?”

The Iceman looked down at the sheet again. “Mozart is an oxygen world, 96% Standard gravity, population 27,342 as of the last census.” He paused. “The population breaks down this way: 63% agricultural; 22% in the export business—and of course what they’re exporting are agricultural products; the rest in miscellaneous businesses. No standing army, no navy. The planet is divided into six states, with a central governing body that’s elected every three years. Only one spaceport, no tourist industry.”

“So I show up as a farm worker looking for a job?” asked the Kid.

The Iceman shook his head. “You get stuck on a farm, you might never get off it.”

“I could go to one of their towns and hire on at some store, I suppose.”

“Too obvious,” answered the Iceman after some consideration. “I mean, who the hell goes to an agricultural world to work as a clerk, or even a store manager?”

“Then what?”

The Iceman stared at him for a long moment. “You’re the Silicon Kid,” he said. “Go there as a specialist, selling your skills.” He paused, waiting for the full scenario to come to him, and then spoke again. “You travel the Inner Frontier, creating whatever chips are needed. A farmer with a predator problem needs to see in the dark to protect his stock; an exporter needs to store a dozen alien languages in his head; a bartender wants to be able to mix drinks faster. You can produce the chips they need. I think it should work.”

“I’m good,” said the Kid, “but I’m no miracle man—and I’m no surgeon. Even if I make the chips, I can’t implant most of them.”

“That’s not your job,” said the Iceman, shrugging it off. “Your job is just to create the chips. It’s up to the buyers to get them implanted.”

“On a planet with a population of only 27,000 Men, there might not be a doctor who can do it.”

“All the better,” said the Iceman. “It’ll give you a reason to hang around until one can be sent for. They’re not going to let you leave until they know your product works.”

“What kind of chip can I sell Penelope Bailey?” asked the Kid.

“She doesn’t need one.”

“Too bad,” said the Kid. “It would have been a great way to make her notice me.”

“You’re just going there to get information,” said the Iceman. “If you’re very lucky, she won’t notice you at all.”

“You don’t make her sound like the type who confides in her lieutenants,” said the Kid. “If I don’t make personal contact with her, how am I going to find anything out?”

“I’d be surprised if she has any lieutenants,” replied the Iceman. “As for gathering information, keep your eyes and ears open.”

“You mean like, see if they’re importing arms and ammunition?”

The Iceman shook his head. “She doesn’t need that.”

“Then what?”

“I wish I could tell you,” said the Iceman. “It’ll probably be something very ordinary, until you remember that a very extraordinary woman is behind it.”

“Give me an example.”

“See if she’s ordered half a dozen books about Deluros VIII; it could mean she plans to go there next. Find out if she’s ordered a Lodin language tape; she could be planning an alliance with the Lodinites. Don’t bother with what she’s doing now; she’s seen the present so many times in so many of its manifestations it’s almost as if she’s walking through a play. Whatever she’s saying and doing now is old news to her; she’s looking days or weeks ahead.”

“That’s not a hell of a lot to go on,” said the Kid.

The Iceman smiled grimly. “Were you under the delusion that this was going to be easy?”

“No, but—”

“Just remember that you’re only there for information—and if it’s too difficult to get, if you have to rob or kill someone to obtain it, forget it, because she’ll see what you’re going to do before you even think of it. Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”

“Yes.”

“Good—because your life depends on it.” The Iceman paused for a moment. “Your life, and maybe twelve trillion others,” he amended.

PART 3:

The

Silicon

Kid’s

Book

14

Mozart’s spaceport was just beyond the city limits of Minuet, a town that supplied the surrounding agricultural community with the basics: a grocery store, a very small medical clinic, a trio of seed stores, a pair of restaurants, some small hotels, and a theater that housed live entertainment four or five days a year.

Just past the spaceport were huge silos where mutated corn and wheat were dried out and stored until they could be shipped, and enormous pens that held genetically-altered cattle that topped four thousand pounds at maturity.

The Kid landed, made arrangements to store the Iceman’s ship in a hangar, and then entered the small spaceport, where a slidewalk took him directly to a Customs Booth. He entered it, sat down, and faced a computer with a glowing red sensor.

“Name?” said a mechanical voice.

“Neil Cayman,” he replied, then added, “also known as the Silicon Kid.”

“Display your passport to the sensor, please.”

He held his passport up.

“Are you bringing any foodstuffs or animals from off-planet?”

“No.”

“Please state the nature of your business on Mozart?”

“I am a salesman, specializing in the custom tailoring computer chips for surgical implantation.”

“Do you possess cash or a line of credit totaling at least two thousand credits or its equivalent?”

The Kid held up the money the Iceman had given him, and the sensor scanned the denominations.

“No visa is required for your trip to Mozart. Please enjoy your stay, Neil Cayman.” There was a pause. “I can find no reference to your alias,” continued the computer. “Would you like it appended to your passport?”

“Yes, please.”

“Please hold up your passport again.”

He did so, and a very thin laser beam shot out and burnt a tiny notation onto the titanium card, just beneath his holograph and legal name.

“I have some questions,” said the Kid, putting the passport back into his pocket.

“I am programmed to answer most questions dealing with Mozart,” replied the computer. “Should the nature of your question require a subjective answer, I will direct you to the proper planetary authority who can answer you.”

“That’s very accommodating of you,” said the Kid wryly.

“I exist to serve.”

“I’ll need a place to stay while I’m here. Can you recommend a hotel in Minuet?”

The computer’s screen suddenly came to life. “These five establishments currently have rooms or suites available,” it said, flashing a listing.

“Can you make a reservation for me?”

“Yes.”

“Fine,” said the Kid, studying the list. “I’d like a room at the Manor House.”

“For how many nights will you require your room?”

“I don’t know,” answered the Kid. “Can you make it Open?”

“Yes. Ground floor or second floor?”

“Second floor.”

“Room 207 has been reserved in your name.”

“I’ll also need a vehicle.”

The screen changed. “Here is a list of those vehicles available for rental at the spaceport, plus their daily charges.”

The Kid selected one.

“One more thing,” said the Kid. “I’d like to know if any business on the planet specializes in implanted biochips.”

“No.”

“Good. Can I place an advertisement in every planetary newspaper or newstape to the effect that I have just arrived and that that is my specialty, and that I can be contacted at the Manor House?”

“Working…” said the computer, buzzing quietly. “There are three planetary newstapes, Mr. Cayman, two weekly and one daily. Each has requested that you supply an exact wording for your advertisement.”

“I see,” said the Kid. He paused for a moment. “I assume there’s a personal computer with a planetary tie-in in my room at the Manor House.”

“That is correct.”

“If you can have the electronic addresses of the three newstape advertising departments waiting for me on my computer, I’ll create the ads when I get there.”

There was a brief humming. “It has been done.”

“Oh, one more thing,” said the Kid, “I’d like a listing of churches on the planet.”

There was an immediate listing of fourteen churches. All were sects that were known to him; none seemed likely to be connected to the Anointed One or Penelope Bailey.

“Thank you.”

The Kid got up and left the booth, walked to the vehicle rental area, signed for the groundcar he had selected, brought up a map that included the spaceport and Minuet on the instrument panel’s viewscreen, and began driving toward the town, passing what seemed like two or three miles of cattle feedlots along the way.

Minuet was a small town, and as he reached the commercial district he realized that the computer had been somewhat optimistic in its use of the word “hotel”. The Manor House, like its fellow hostelries, was a refurbished structure that had been built some two centuries earlier and had been a very impressive mansion before it had been remodeled and turned into a rooming house. Now it catered to visiting salesmen, most of whom dealt in mutated seeds and fertilizers that had been created to work on worlds similar to this one.

He left the groundcar in a lot behind the house, checked in at the desk, registered his voiceprint, waited until the lock on the door to Room 207 was coded to it, and allowed the airlift to gently transport him to the second level of the boarding house.

The room itself was a little more spartan than the one he had stayed in on Olympus. It consisted of a bed, two chairs, a computer station in the corner, and a bathroom with a dryshower and a chemical toilet. He pulled the addresses of the newstape offices from the computer, wrote a brief ad, and sent it off to each of them. He then ordered electronic editions of the three newstapes, scanned them as they appeared on his computer, and was not surprised to find no mention of the Prophet in any of them. He left the room after about an hour, descended to the ground level, and walked across the street to a small restaurant, where he ordered lunch.

When he returned to his room there was already one response to his advertisement, from a silo manager who had breathed in one preservative too many and wanted a chip to warn him when the chemical content in the air reached a certain level. He asked the man to send him the formulas for those preservatives that were being used and promised to get back to him within three days. Then, with nothing further to do, and not wishing to spend the afternoon actually creating the chip, he decided to lay down and take a nap until dinnertime.

When he awoke he ate a dinner of mutated soya products in the same restaurant where he had had lunch, then walked out onto the street just as the sun was going down. It was cool and dry, with a very mild breeze coming from the west, and he found it very refreshing.

He looked up and down the street, unwilling to go back to his room right away. Most of the town was already closed down for the night, and he found that if he wished to remain away from his hotel, his choice was limited to a holo theater, a tavern, and a casino. He didn’t like holos, and he knew just enough about gambling to know he wasn’t much good at it, so he wandered over to the tavern.

It was rather small, especially for the only tavern in the town. As soon as he entered it he encountered a purple-and-gold avian that was chained to its perch atop a metal stand. It stared at him, screeched once, and then concentrated on preening itself, paying him no further attention. The Kid gave it a wide berth—it was relatively small, no more than three pounds, but it had a wicked-looking beak—and walked up to the bar, where he ordered a beer. The bartender nodded, filled a glass, and slid it over to him. The Kid picked it up and carried it over to an empty table near the back of the room.

A few moments later a tall man, dark of skin and sporting two gold teeth that gleamed whenever he spoke or smiled, walked over to him, a beer in his hand.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked. “All the other tables seem to be full.”

“Be my guest,” said the Kid.

“Thanks,” said the man. He extended his hand. “My name’s James Mboya.”

“Neil Cayman,” said the Kid, taking his hand.

“You’re new here, aren’t you?”

The Kid nodded. “Just got in today.”

“What are you selling?”

“What makes you think I’m selling anything?”

Mboya laughed. “Because nobody comes to a farming world for pleasure.”

“Doesn’t anyone ever come here to buy instead of sell?”

Mboya shook his head. “All our beef and produce are contracted for the next decade. We supply a hell of a lot of worlds.” He paused. “I could sell you some gold, if you want.” He grinned, displaying his two gold teeth. “They’re removable. I hock them whenever I need some money, then buy ‘em back when I’m flush.”

The Kid sipped his beer. “Chips,” he said at last.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Computer chips. That’s what I sell.”

“What kind?”

“Whatever kind you want me to create for you.”

“Something that would make me feel ten years younger when I wake up in the morning might be nice,” said Mboya with a smile.

“It could be done,” said the Kid.

“Really?”

“You wouldn’t be any younger, but I could create a chip that would mask any aches and pains you had.”

Mboya snapped his fingers. “Just like that?” he asked, still smiling.

“No,” said the Kid. “I’d have to speak to your doctor, find out what’s ailing you, which muscles are degenerating, learn your whole medical history. Then I could make it.” The Kid paused. “He’d have to implant it, though; I’m just a technician, not a surgeon.”

“How long do you plan to be on Mozart?” asked Mboya. “If I can put the money together, you just might have yourself a client.”

The Kid shrugged. “It depends on how much business I can do here,” he said, taking another sip of his beer. “I’ve placed some ads. Now it’s just a matter of waiting.”

“Maybe I can show you around while you’re here,” offered Mboya. “Not that there’s all that much to see.”

“Well, there’s one thing I’d like to see,” answered the Kid after some thought.

“Oh? What is that?”

“While I was on a nearby world, I heard that you’ve got someone here called the Prophet, someone who can see the future.” He paused. “I’d like to meet her.”

“Why?”

The Kid smiled. “I’d sure like some investment advice. Maybe I could trade a couple of custom-made chips for them.”

“Well, I see her from time to time,” answered Mboya. “I can pass the word and see if she’s interested.” He paused. “No reason why she shouldn’t be,” he added thoughtfully. “I mean, just knowing you’re going to wake up with a hangover doesn’t make the hangover go away.”

“I’d appreciate that,” said the Kid. He noticed that Mboya had finished his beer. “Let me buy the next round.”

“Thanks,” said Mboya. “Much appreciated.”

The Kid signaled the bartender to bring two beers over to the table. “Other than frequenting the casino down the block, what do people do for fun around here?”

“This is an agricultural world,” replied Mboya with a laugh. “They talk about planting, fertilizer, and the weather. Mostly the weather. Once in a long while they might have a cattle show. That’s about it.”

“Not exactly thrilling,” said the Kid wryly.

“If you want thrills, you should go to a world like Calliope, or maybe Confucius—not a farm world.”

“Have you ever been to them?”

“Once or twice,” said Mboya.

“What the hell kind of business can a farmer possibly have on Confucius?” asked the Kid, as the bartender arrived with their beers.

Mboya paused and studied the Kid. “I didn’t say I was a farmer.”

“No, I suppose you didn’t,” said the Kid. “What do you do?”

Mboya shrugged expansively. “Oh, a little of this, a little of that. A few deals here, a few there.”

“How long have you been on Mozart?”

“A few months. It’s a pleasant enough world. A little on the dull side, as you’ve already noticed, but the climate’s nice, the people are friendly, and your money goes a long way here.” He paused. “It’s no worse than most worlds, and probably better than a lot of them.”

“Where are you from originally?” asked the Kid, picking up his new beer and taking a swallow.

“Back in the Democracy,” said Mboya with an expression of contempt. “A little world named Far London.” He paused. “I decided that a man with my talents could go a lot farther on the Inner Frontier.”

“What are your talents?”

“You’ll laugh.”

“No, I won’t,” said the Kid.

Mboya shrugged. “Right at the moment, I’m in pest control.”

“Pest control?” repeated the Kid, surprised.

“You have a pest problem, you send for me and I cure it.”

“Well, at least I understand why you’re on an agricultural world,” said the Kid. “They must have a lot of work for you here.”

“I keep busy,” answered Mboya, finishing off his beer and putting the empty glass back on the table.

“Sounds like dull work, if you don’t mind my saying so,” said the Kid.

“I rather enjoy it,” replied Mboya.

“To each his own.”

“True,” agreed Mboya. “As for myself, I’d go crazy spending all my time creating computer chips.”

“So would I,” answered the Kid. “That’s why I was looking for a little action.”

“If you don’t like gambling, you’re out of luck in Minuet,” said Mboya.

“It occurs to me that the Prophet could break the bank if she’s all she’s supposed up to be,” said the Kid.

“I doubt they’d allow her to play,” responded Mboya.

“She’s that good?”

“If you owned the casino, would you take the chance that she might be?” asked Mboya.

“I wonder what the hell someone like her is doing out here on a world like this in the first place,” said the Kid.

“You seem very interested in her,” observed Mboya.

“She sounds like a very interesting person,” answered the Kid. “And I really could use some investment advice.”

“What, exactly, have you heard about her?”

“Just that she’s supposed to be able to foresee the future,” answered the Kid.

“Nothing more?”

“Well, I heard some rumors that she used to be the Oracle, but I don’t believe it.” The Kid watched Mboya to see if there was any reaction. There wasn’t. “Hell, everyone knows that the Iceman killed the Oracle a few years back.”

“The Iceman!” said Mboya. “Now there’s a name to conjure with!”

“You’ve heard of him?”

“Who hasn’t?” replied Mboya. “He’s a legend out here.” He paused. “I’d like to meet him someday—if he’s still alive, that is.”

The Kid looked at the empty glasses. “Care for another round?” he asked.

“No,” said Mboya. “I think I’m going to go try my luck at the roulette table down the street.”

“I never much liked roulette,” said the Kid. “Too big a percentage for the house.”

“I don’t like it all that much myself,” said Mboya. Suddenly he grinned. “But as the old saying goes, it’s the only game in town. In this case, literally.”

“Good luck,” said the Kid.

“Perhaps you’d care to come along?” suggested Mboya, getting to his feet. “They’ve also got blackjack, poker, and jabob.”

“I’ll probably be along later,” said the Kid. “I think I’ll have another beer first. I had a long nap this afternoon; I’m good for hours yet.”

“Well, thank you for the beer, Mr. Cayman,” said Mboya. “I hope you’ll let me return the favor if you show up at the casino before I leave.”

“It’s a deal,” said the Kid.

Mboya grinned. “That’s always assuming I haven’t gone broke in the interim.”

“One of those gold teeth ought to buy the best bottle in the house,” said the Kid.

Mboya laughed and walked out into the night, and the Kid picked up his glass and walked over to the bar.

“I’ll have another,” he said.

“Coming right up,” said the bartender, bringing him a fresh glass.

“Interesting guy, that Mboya,” said the Kid. “Does he come here often?”

“Oh, he comes by every now and then, when his boss sends him,” answered the bartender. “But I’ve never heard him called Mboya before.”

“That’s not his real name?” asked the Kid.

The bartender shrugged. “For all I know it is—but out here on the Frontier they call him The Black Death.”

“The Black Death?” repeated the Kid.

“The way you two were getting on, I thought you knew him.”

The Kid shook his head. “He just walked up and introduced himself. Told me he was in pest control.”

The bartender chuckled. “Well, in a way, I suppose he is.”

“In what way?”

“He’s the Prophet’s bodyguard.”

15

The Kid nursed his next beer for half an hour, then wandered over to the casino.

It was a large room, far larger than the Iceman’s on Last Chance. There were half a dozen blackjack tables, four poker tables, a pair of roulette wheels, a craps table, a billiard table, two jabob games, and another alien game that he had never seen before.

The casino was relatively empty when the Kid arrived. There were perhaps fifteen men and women playing the various games, and not a single alien to be seen. The Kid immediately spotted Mboya, the solitary player at one of the roulette wheels, and walked over to him.

“Hello, Neil,” said Mboya with a friendly smile. “Glad you decided to come on over.”

“There was nothing else to do,” said the Kid with a shrug. “By the way, do I call you Mr. Mboya or Mr. Death?”

Mboya laughed. “James will do.”

“But you are The Black Death?” persisted the Kid.

“Some people call me that.” Mboya studied the table, then placed a pair of chips on Odd and another on Red.

“I see you like to play it safe,” noted the Kid.

“The odds are 35-to-1 that you’ll lose if you bet on a number,” answered Mboya. “I don’t really expect to win when I come here, but I’d like my money to last long enough for me to enjoy myself for a couple of hours.”

“Why are you here at all?” asked the Kid.

“I like to gamble. Where should I be?”

“Talking to me. That was your assignment, wasn’t it?”

“I am talking to you,” said Mboya easily. “No reason why I shouldn’t enjoy myself while I’m doing it.”

“Does she send you out to talk to every newcomer to Mozart?” asked the Kid.

“No,” said Mboya as the wheel started spinning. “Just the ones she’s curious about.”

“Why is she curious about me?”

Mboya shrugged. “Who knows what makes her curious, or why she does anything she does?” He cursed beneath his breath as the number came up Even and Black. “Damn! You wouldn’t think anyone could lose this consistently! I bet Black four times in a row and it comes up Red all four times … so I finally bet Red, and it comes up Black. If I didn’t know better, I’d say the wheel was rigged.”

“What makes you think it isn’t?” asked the Kid.

“Because if it was, no man having anything to do with this casino would be alive tomorrow morning,” answered Mboya seriously. “And they know it.” He stared at the table again, trying to decide which number to bet, then finally shrugged and straightened up. “I’ve had enough of this game. It’s time to find a slower way to lose my money.” He spotted the empty pool table. “You ever shoot any pool, Neil?”

“Once in a while.”

“Good,” said Mboya, walking to the table and studying its green felt surface. “Care to play for a small stake, just to make it interesting?”

“It wouldn’t be fair,” said the Kid.

“I’m not a hustler,” Mboya assured him.

“I know. It wouldn’t be fair, because you can’t win.”

Mboya grinned. “Well, now, I wouldn’t necessarily say that, either.”

“It’s the truth,” said the Kid.

“I thought you only played once in a while.”

“That’s right.”

“Then why should I believe you?”

“Believe whatever you want.” Suddenly the Kid shrugged and smiled. “One hundred credits a game?”

“Sounds good to me,” said Mboya, selecting a cue and starting to chalk the tip of it.

“Just remember I warned you,” said the Kid, picking his cue and walking back to the table.

“I admire your confidence,” said Mboya. “Rack ‘em.”

The Kid’s confidence turned out to be well-placed, as he had known it would be. The chips that were tied into his eyes showed him every tiny irregularity in the table’s surface; the chips in his shoulders allowed him to make every shot with the same sure stroke; the chip he’d had implanted on Sweetwater allowed him to lean far over the table without any discomfort or loss of balance. He easily beat Mboya three games in a row, and was about the rack the balls for a fourth game when The Black Death called it quits and pulled three hundred-credit notes out of his wallet.

“You ought to quit the chip business and turn pool shark,” he said ruefully, as he laid the money on the table.

“Maybe someday I will,” answered the Kid, picking it up and stuffing it into his wallet.

Mboya signaled to a lone waiter, who was wandering around the casino taking orders.

“A pair of beers, please,” he said when the waiter approached them. He wiped his brow and turned to the Kid. “Let’s have a seat. Losing at roulette and pool is thirsty work.”

“You never had a chance,” said the Kid, following him to an unoccupied card table.

“I knew that after about the fifth shot,” Mboya agreed with a wry smile as he sat down opposite the Kid. “I don’t know where you learned to play, and your style is unorthodox as all hell—but somebody sure as hell taught you well.”

It was the Kid’s turn to smile. “I doubt that I’ve played half a dozen times in my life.”

“I don’t believe it!” said Mboya adamantly.

“I have no reason to lie to you,” said the Kid. “I didn’t lie about your chances, either: I told you on the front end that I was going to win.”

“So sue me,” said Mboya. “I didn’t know you’d be that good.”

“There’s a lot about me you don’t know,” replied the Kid. He paused. “That neither you nor your boss knows.”

“I don’t suppose you’d care to confide in me,” suggested Mboya with a smile.

The Kid shook his head. “Anything she wants to know, she can ask me directly.”

“That’s not her style, Neil.”

“Then she’ll have to change it,” said the Kid firmly.

Mboya seemed amused. “She doesn’t change for other people; they change for her.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s the Prophet.” He paused. “Why are you so interested in meeting her?”

“I told you.”

“I know what you told me,” said Mboya. “I just thought you might prefer to tell me the truth.”

“Are you calling me a liar?” said the Kid.

“Not at all,” answered Mboya calmly. “If I called you a liar, you’d probably take offense, and then I’d have to kill you—and you seem like a nice enough young man.”

“I might be a lot harder to kill than you think,” said the Kid.

“That’s possible,” admitted Mboya. “A lot of men I’ve killed were harder to kill than I had thought they would be—but they’re all dead, just the same.” He paused. “Maybe we ought to change the subject, before I start getting curious about just how hard you’d be to kill.”

“Suits me,” said the Kid. “I’ve got no quarrel with you. You’re just the hired help.” He paused. “Of course, you did lie to me over at the tavern.”

“Why would I lie to you?”

“You said you were in pest control.”

“I am,” answered Mboya easily. “That’s why I’m here: to see just how much of a pest you intend to be, and how much controlling you’ll need.”

“I told you,” said the Kid. “I sell computer chips.”

“I know what you told me,” said Mboya. “I didn’t believe you then, and I don’t believe you now.”

“Order a chip from me and you’ll see you were wrong.” The Kid smiled. “If nothing else, it’ll improve your pool game.”

The waiter finally arrived with their beers, and Mboya tossed a couple of coins on his tray.

“They make a lot of good things on Mozart,” said Mboya, grimacing as he emptied the container into his glass, “but beer, alas, isn’t one of them.”

“So order an import.”

“As long as I’m here, I feel I ought to support the local industries.”

The Kid stared at him curiously. “You’re a strange kind of killer.”

“Well, if it comes to that, you’re a strange kind of traveling salesman,” replied Mboya.

The Kid stared at him. “I was minding my own business,” he said defensively. “You sought me out.”

“That’s my job.”

“So you said,” replied the Kid. “I’d just like to know why she’s curious about me.”

Mboya grinned. “Mine is not to reason why.”

“Yours is just to protect her with your life, right?”

“Wrong.”

“The bartender at the tavern said you were her bodyguard,” said the Kid.

Mboya shook his head. “She doesn’t need a bodyguard. I’m just her eyes and ears when she’s occupied with other matters—which is most of the time.”

“What’s she like?”

“Different.”

“In what way?”

“I’m supposed to be asking the questions,” said Mboya.

“I don’t have to answer them.”

“No,” agreed Mboya. “But you’d make my job much easier if you would.”

The Kid finally took a long swallow of his beer, then stared at Mboya. “Why do I care if your job’s easy or hard?”

“Because when I get frustrated in my work, I get ill-tempered,” said Mboya. “Believe me, you wouldn’t like me when I’m ill-tempered.”

“I don’t think I like you all that much right now,” answered the Kid.

Mboya studied him carefully. “Do you know something else you’re not telling me, Neil?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. But most people don’t talk to me like that unless they think they’d got some kind of an edge.”

“What I know is my business,” answered the Kid. “And you can stop calling me Neil.”

“I thought it was your name.”

“It used to be. Nowadays I’m the Silicon Kid.”

“Never heard of you,” said Mboya.

“You will,” said the Kid. “That’s a promise.”

“So you think you can make your reputation by taking out the Prophet, is that it?” asked Mboya, obviously amused by the thought. “Take my advice, Kid, and forget about her. Go after the Gravedancer, or maybe Lizard Malloy. Who knows? If you get lucky, or you catch them on a bad day, you just might live through it.”

“I’m didn’t come to Mozart to kill anyone,” replied the Kid. “I’m just here to sell computer chips.”

“Ah, I understand now!” said Mboya with an amused grin. “We’re all going to hear about you because you’re going to become the galaxy’s most famous traveling salesman.”

“You’re going to hear of me because there’s always going to be someone like you who doesn’t take me seriously,” said the Kid. “And that’s a mistake.”

“Well, I’ll certainly take that under advisement,” said Mboya. He paused and stared at the Kid. “By the way, where’s all the silicon that makes you the Silicon Kid?”

“It’s in place,” said the Kid.

“That’s right,” said Mboya. “You specialize in implants, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you’ll have to pardon me if I don’t faint dead away with terror,” said Mboya.

“I pardon you,” said the Kid seriously.

Mboya placed his glass on the table. “You’re an interesting young man,” he continued. “I bear you no ill will, and I wish you a long and happy life.”

“Thanks. I plan to enjoy it.”

“Then take my advice and don’t go looking for—” Suddenly Mboya froze, his eyes on the doorway.

“Is something wrong?” asked the Kid, turning to see what Mboya was staring at.

Three men, all dressed in nondescript outfits, their pockets bulging with weapons, had entered the casino, but instead of walking to the tables they fanned out across the front of the room, staring at Mboya.

“Time for me to go to work,” said Mboya wryly.

He got up and walked halfway across the room, stopping about twenty feet from the newcomers.

“I thought I told you you weren’t welcome here,” he said, facing the man in the center.

“I know what you told me,” replied the man.

“Nothing’s changed since last week. You’re still not welcome on Mozart.”

“Oh, something’s changed all right,” said the man. He grinned. “This time I’m not alone.”

“Nothing’s changed,” repeated Mboya. “I think the three of you had better turn around and go right back to the spaceport.”

“Not a chance,” said the man.

“Well, I can’t make you behave sensibly,” said Mboya with a shrug. “I can only suggest it.”

“You know what we’re here for,” continued the man. “Where is she?”

“Where is who?”

“No games now,” said the man. “We’ve come for the Prophet.”

“The Prophet?” repeated Mboya. “Never heard of her.”

“If we have to kill you to get to her, we will.”

“What’s all this talk of killing?” asked Mboya pleasantly. “This is a peaceful little world.”

The man laughed. “If it’s such a peaceful world, what are you doing here?”

“Keeping the peace,” said Mboya.

“I’m going to ask you just once,” said the man. “Where is she?”

“None of your business,” said Mboya. “Now I’ve got a question for you.”

“Yeah?”

“Can you count to five? Because that’s how many seconds you’ve got to get out of here.”

The man glared at him for the briefest of instants, then he and his two cohorts all reached for their weapons. Mboya’s own sonic pistol appeared in his hand as if by magic, and two of the men were dead before they could draw their weapons. Mboya crouched as he pivoted toward the third man, only to find that he was already wounded, his left arm smoldering from the blast of a laser beam. The man got off a quick, inaccurate shot at Mboya, who killed him a second later.

“Somebody go for the police!” ordered Mboya as the patrons, most of whom had hit the floor, began getting to their feet. Two men immediately left the building.

“I suppose I should thank you,” continued Mboya as he turned to the Kid, whose laser pistol was still in his hand, “but it was stupid to get involved. Why the hell did you do it?”

“I wanted to see if I was faster than you,” said the Kid. “I am.”

“You shot a man you never saw before just to see if you were faster than me?” repeated Mboya incredulously.

“That’s right.”

“Some people might call that attempted murder.”

“If they arrest me, they’ll certainly have to arrest you too,” said the Kid. “Do you think they’re going to?”

Mboya stared at him for a long moment. “You’re a dangerous young man, you know that?”

“I know that.”

“How many men have you killed?”

“None yet,” admitted the Kid. “But I have a feeling I’m going to enjoy it when I finally get around to it.”

“I’ll just bet you are,” said Mboya. He paused. “You’d better get your ass back to the hotel. I’ll take care of the authorities.”

The Kid nodded and walked around the bodies. When he got to the doorway, he turned back to Mboya.

“I was faster than you,” he said.

“But you didn’t kill him,” Mboya pointed out. “You missed.”

“I’m still adjusting to the chips. I’ll aim better next time.”

“If it had been me instead of him, you wouldn’t have lived to have a next time,” said Mboya. “You took him by surprise. He was looking at me when you shot him.” He paused. “Now that I know what you can do, you’ll never take me by surprise.”

“I don’t want to. If I ever take you, it’ll be in a fair fight.”

“Well, that’s comforting to know,” said Mboya wryly.

The Kid remained in the doorway. “Do you think she’ll meet with me now?” he asked at last.

“I don’t know.”

“Remind her that they were out to kill her.”

“I don’t have to remind her,” answered Mboya. “That’s why I left the restaurant and came here. She knew they were going to show up.”

“Remind her anyway,” said the Kid. “I still want some investment advice.”

“Sure you do,” said Mboya.

The Kid heard a commotion about a block away. The police were accompanying the two gamblers, and he decided that he might as well follow Mboya’s instructions and return to his hotel. Remaining here wouldn’t get him any closer to the Prophet, and the resultant publicity might cost him enough customers so that he would no longer have an excuse for spending two or three weeks on the planet.

“I’m staying at the Manor House,” he said to Mboya.

“I know.”

“I’ll be waiting to hear from you.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” said Mboya.

The Kid stepped outside, waited until the policemen and gamblers had passed him and entered the casino, and then walked back to his hotel.

It had been an interesting night. He had made contact with a man who worked for the Prophet, and he seen a shootout. In fact, he had participated in it, and the adrenaline his body had produced wasn’t totally dissipated yet. It was a hell of feeling, that sense of excitement, and he knew that he had found his future vocation, once this business with Penelope Bailey was over. As he took the airlift to his room and sprawled, fully dressed, on his bed, he promised himself that those minstrels who wandered from world to world, singing songs of Santiago and Billybuck Dancer and the Iceman, would someday sing songs about the Silicon Kid as well.

16

The Kid was having breakfast across the street when Mboya entered the restaurant and walked over to his table.

“She’ll see you,” he said.

“When?” asked the Kid.

“Now.”

“Just wait until I finish my breakfast and I’ll be right with you.”

“You’re finished,” said Mboya. “You don’t keep the Prophet waiting.”

“I do,” said the Kid, taking another mouthful and chewing it thoughtfully.

“If you’re doing this to impress, you’re wasting your time,” said Mboya. “You’re less than an insect to her.”

“You may be less than an insect,” said the Kid. “I’m not.”

“What makes you think so?” asked Mboya contemptuously.

“Because you don’t invite insects for interviews,” said the Kid. He spent a few more minutes finishing his meal while Mboya watched him, then drank his coffee, left a pair of New Stalin rubles on the table, and finally got to his feet. “All right. Let’s go.”

He followed Mboya to a groundcar, and a moment later they were speeding south, out of the city. They passed a number of farms, then came to still another farm, no different in any respect from the last dozen, and pulled up to a geodesic dome that overlooked a small pond.

“No guards,” noted the Kid.

“She doesn’t need any.”

“Not even you?”

“Not even me,” said Mboya.

“Well, let’s go on in.”

“She wants to see you alone,” said Mboya. “I’ll be waiting for you out here.”

“What room is she in?” asked the Kid, getting out of the landcar.

“How should I know?”

The Kid shrugged, let the slidewalk take him from the car to the front entrance, and waited for the door to open. There were no cameras, no retina identification scanners, no signs of any security system. The door slid into the wall after a moment, and he walked into a circular foyer.

“I am here,” said a feminine voice, and he followed it into a large room that possessed a window wall overlooking the pond.

Seated on an exotic chair carved from some alien hardwood was Penelope Bailey. She was blonde, slender, dressed in a loose white gown. The Kid decided that she should have been rather pretty, but somehow she seemed to possess no sexuality, and precious little humanity. There was something about her eyes, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on; even when she looked at him, she seemed to be focusing on something beyond him, something that only she could see.

“Welcome, Mr. Cayman,” she said, and even her voice seemed remote, as if her mind were elsewhere and the rest of her was going through some pre-ordained performance.

“Good morning, Prophet,” replied the Kid.

“Please be seated.”

“Where?”

“Wherever you choose.”

“Thank you,” said the Kid, sitting down on a couch covered in a metallic fabric that continually changed colors as the sun shone in on it.

Suddenly Penelope shifted her position, and raised her right arm above her head for just an instant.

“Is something wrong?” asked the Kid.

“No.”

“You seem uncomfortable,” he noted.

“You are very transparent, Mr. Cayman,” she said with an almost alien smile.

“I don’t think I understand what you’re saying.”

“You know why I changed my position, so why pretend that you do not?”

“I have no idea why you moved the way you did,” answered the Kid.

She shook her head, still smiling, her eyes still focused on some unimaginably distant point. “You come to ask for my advice, Mr. Cayman, and yet you refuse to be honest with me.”

“I am being truthful with you.”

“No, Mr. Cayman.” She arose and walked over to the window. “You were sent to Mozart to find me, and I know that you were not sent by that bizarre criminal who calls himself the Anointed One.” She paused. “That means whoever sent you knew me many years ago, before I became the Prophet. Only two such men are still living, and one of them is retired.” She turned to him, her eyes staring into his, but focusing beyond them. “You were sent by Carlos Mendoza, who is known as the Iceman, and since he would not send you here without telling you who and what I am, you know that when I make sudden movements or commit acts that seem incomprehensible to you, as many of them must, I am controlling or manipulating various futures.”

The Kid stared at her without answering for a long moment. “You’re as good as he said you were,” he replied at last.

“I take that as high praise,” she said. “He is the one man who has ever stood against me, the one man in the whole of creation whom I have ever feared.”

“Are you still afraid of him?” asked the Kid.

She shook her head. “No, I am not.”

“You haven’t got much reason to be,” said the Kid. “He’s a fat old man with a limp.”

“A limp I gave him twenty years ago,” she said, staring off into the distance.

“Why didn’t you kill him then?”

“I was very young,” replied Penelope. “I thought he would die of his wounds, and I wanted him to suffer.”

The Kid was about to make a comment when she held up a hand.

“What is it?” he said.

“Watch,” she said, indicating the far side of the pond.

“What am I supposed to be looking at?” he asked, staring out through the window.

“There is a small animal atop its burrow, is there not?” she asked, still looking into his eyes.

“Yes,” he said. “Kind of a muddy red in color.”

“Watch closely,” she said.

A few second later an avian swooped down, grabbed the animal in its claws, and flew off with it.

“You knew that was going to happen.”

“I know everything that is going to happen,” she said. “I am the Prophet.”

“Could you have saved the rodent?”

“Certainly,” she said. “There are an infinite number of futures. In some of them, the rodent spotted the avian in time to retreat to its burrow. In others, the avian was distracted and did not see the rodent.”

“How could you have changed what happened?” asked the Kid.

She smiled again, but did not answer him.

“Would you care for something cool to drink, Mr. Cayman?” she asked after a moment. “It promises to be a warm day.”

“Why don’t you make it cooler?” suggested the Kid.

“The house is climate-controlled,” she replied. “And I have more important things to do.”

“In that case,” said the Kid, “I’ll have some water.”

“Follow me, please,” she said, walking down a gleaming white corridor to the kitchen.

“Don’t you have any servants?” asked the Kid, as he looked around the gadget-filled room.

“Millions of them,” she replied, holding a glass under a tap. “Cold,” she whispered, and the water poured out. When the glass was filled she said, “Stop”, the flow of water ceased, and she handed the glass to the Kid.

“Thank you,” he said, draining the glass with a single swallow.

“You are welcome, Mr. Cayman,” she said. “Come sit outside with me, beneath the shade trees.”

“Are you sure you want to go out?” he asked. “As you pointed out, the house is climate-controlled.”

“I had an unpleasant experience, which I am certain you were told about,” she replied, leading him out to a shaded patio. “I don’t like feeling confined.”

The Kid recalled the dust and asteroids circling Alpha Crepello. “No, I guess you don’t.”

He sat down on a wooden bench and she seated herself on an identical bench about ten feet away from him, then stood up instantly.

“What’s the matter?” asked the Kid.

“Nothing is wrong, Mr. Cayman.”

“Then why—”

She smiled. “There is an event—its nature need not concern you—that must come to pass on a world called Cherokee. The past is a fixed event, Mr. Cayman, but there are literally an infinite number of futures. In every future in which I remained seated, it did not come to pass. In a handful of those in which I stood up, it may yet happen.”

“But how can standing up on Mozart effect something light years away?” asked the Kid.

“I neither know nor question the why of it; I only know the truth of it.” She paused. “Now shall we get down to business, Mr. Cayman?”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

She stared at him, and for just a moment her eyes focused. He decided uneasily that he preferred her to stare off into what he imagined was the future.

“You must excuse me, Mr. Cayman, but I’m not at all sure what you’re here for.”

“I thought you knew everything,” said the Kid.

“I know the plethora of futures that will be,” she replied. “I do not know everything that was.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It makes sense to me,” she said. “Now perhaps you will be kind enough to tell me why you have come to Mozart.”

“If you know the future, you already know what I am going to say.”

“You might say any of a hundred things,” replied Penelope. “You are quite a liar, you know, and a bit of an egomaniac as well. I wish to hear whatever it is that you will say.”

“How will you know if I’m lying?” asked the Kid.

“Because I already know most of the answer to any question I ask.”

“Then why ask at all?”

“To determine how trustworthy you are, Mr. Cayman.”

“Why do you care?”

“All in good time, Mr. Cayman,” said Penelope, staring off into time and space again. “Please answer my question now.”

“I’ve come to Mozart to sell computer chips,” said the Kid.

“That is the fact of it,” she said serenely, “but not the truth of it.”

“All right,” he said with a shrug. “I was sent here by the Iceman.”

“I know.”

“That’s it, then.”

“Why did he send you?”

“He doesn’t think anything can kill you, so when he heard about Hades blowing up, he figured you had escaped before it happened.”

“And does the Democracy agree with him?”

“No.” The Kid paused. “He thinks they’re fools.”

“He is correct.”

“Anyway, he wants to know what you plan to do.”

“Of course.”

“Not your immediate plans,” continued the Kid, “but your long-term plans.”

“I plan to survive in a universe that has proven itself hostile to me at every opportunity,” answered Penelope without emotion.

“Well, from what I’ve seen, survival seems to be the least of your problems—assuming you have any problems at all.”

“I am just flesh and blood, Mr. Cayman,” she replied. “Someday I will die, just as any other human being dies.” Suddenly she smiled in amusement. “It will not be at your hands, Mr. Cayman. If you pull out your laser weapon and attempt to fire it, as you are considering doing, it will misfire and explode in your hand.”

“I wasn’t considering any such thing,” lied the Kid.

“You have been warned, Mr. Cayman,” she said. “Your fate is in your hands.”

The Kid withdrew his pistol and studied it. “It was working just fine last night,” he said.

“In a million futures, it will function correctly this morning,” said Penelope. “I will not allow any of those futures to come to pass.”

The Kid stared at his pistol for a moment, then shrugged and replaced it in its holster.

“Now I’ve got a question for you,” he said.

“About investments?” she asked in a mocking tone.

“No.”

“Ask your question, Mr. Cayman.”

“Why haven’t you made yourself ruler of the whole damned galaxy? It doesn’t seem to me that anyone’s got the power to stop you.”

“Perhaps someday I shall,” she replied. “I have other, more pressing things to do first.”

“Such as?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

She stared at him, and a contemptuous smile crossed her face. “If you could see what I see, if you tried to make sense of it and bring order to it, it would drive you quite mad. Even as we speak, a starship on its way to Antarres must malfunction, a miner on Nelson 5 must dig a mile to the west of his camp, a politician on New Rhodesia must accept a bribe, a chrystalline alien on Atria must receive a subspace message from far Orion. There are a thousand events that must transpire, each in its exact order; a million futures must vanish every nanosecond; and you ask me to explain all this to you? Poor little human, who seeks only a full belly and a fat wallet, who dreams of heroic deeds and grateful maidens, and who is doomed only to become a speck of dust in a galaxy already overflowing with dust.” She paused. “No, Mr. Cayman, I do not think you could comprehend my goals or my explanations.”

The Kid stared at her for a moment. “Whatever your goals are, you need a better lieutenant than James Mboya,” he said.

“You have a candidate in mind to replace The Black Death?” she asked, and he got the distinct impression that she was laughing at him.

“You’re looking at him,” he said.

“I thought you worked for the Iceman.”

“I work for winners,” said the Kid. “You’re a winner.”

“I am very happy with The Black Death’s services,” replied Penelope.

“I’m better than he is.”

“In what way?”

“I’m quicker, stronger, faster,” said the Kid. “And I can make you just as quick and strong.”

“With your chips?” she suggested.

“That’s right,” said the Kid. “You fire Mboya and take me on and, as much as you are, I can make you more.”

“You can make me even less human than I am?” she asked mockingly. “That’s an interesting proposition, Mr. Cayman.”

“You don’t even have to fire him,” said the Kid. “I can kill him as soon as I leave the house. He’s waiting outside for me.”

“But I don’t want you to kill him, Mr. Cayman,” she said. “Nor do I want your chips.” She stared at him, and once again her eyes seemed to focus on the here and now. “I never wanted to be the Prophet, Mr. Cayman. What seems a gift to you has often seemed a curse to me. I wanted to be like every other human being, and I have been harassed and chased and imprisoned for most of my life because I was different. And now you offer to make me even more different? You’ll have to do better than that.”

“If you want to be like everyone else, why not just take a new identity and move out to the Spiral Arm or the Outer Frontier?” asked the Kid.

“Because I am different,” replied Penelope. “I didn’t wish to be, but I cannot deny the fact of it. Wherever I go, they will seek me out; wherever I hide, they will find me. Fate has been very cruel to me, Mr. Cayman; now that my powers are mature, I plan to defend myself as best I can.”

“You can defend yourself by hiding.”

“I can defend myself by making sure that no one alive or yet to be born can ever harm me again,” she said. “I will do whatever must be done to protect myself.”

“Including blowing up planets?” asked the Kid.

“An eye for an eye, Mr. Cayman—and there were a lot of eyes on Hades. What happened there was justice on a grand scale.” She paused. “You might consider that before opposing me.”

“I’m not trying to oppose you,” said the Kid. “I’m trying to join you.”

“If I allow you to serve me, I must have your complete obedience,” she said.

“You’ll have it.”

“You will be well paid, but you will also be asked to do many things that you may find unpalatable.”

“You just pay me the money, and let me worry about the rest of it,” said the Kid.

“One of the first things I will have you do is betray Carlos Mendoza.”

“I kind of thought you might,” said the Kid with a grin.

“That doesn’t bother you?”

“No.”

“Even though he is your friend?”

“He’s on the wrong side of the fence,” said the Kid. “There’s no way he can win. If I don’t deliver him to you, someone else will—so I might as well get paid for it.”

Penelope stared thoughtfully at him. “You seem like a very practical young man, Neil Cayman,” she said. “I think you may prove useful to me in ways you do not even comprehend.”

“Then I’m hired?”

“You are hired.”

“We haven’t talked about money yet,” he noted.

“You will find that I am more than generous,” answered Penelope. “And if you are loyal, you will wield such power as you have heretofore only dreamed about.”

“Sounds good to me,” said the Kid. “And by the way, I’m not Neil Cayman any longer.”

“Oh?”

“Everyone out here on the Frontier seems to choose a new name for themselves. I’m the Silicon Kid.”

She smiled. “That is a very impressive and descriptive name. It will suffice for the time being.”

“You’ve got another one planned for me?” he asked.

“Perhaps.”

“I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me what it is?”

“When the time comes,” said Penelope. She got to her feet. “And now our interview is over. The Black Death will take you back to your hotel. I know that you wish to pit your skills against his.” She paused. “From this day forth, you are not to fight with anyone except on my express orders. Is that clear?”

“It’s clear,” he said reluctantly.

“Good. You will hear from me when I need you.”

“You can see the future,” said the Kid as she ushered him through the house. “So why not tell me now when you’ll need me?”

“Because I do not exist to serve you, Mr. Cayman.”

He walked out the front door and climbed into Mboya’s groundcar. Penelope watched them pull away, then walked to her bedroom and emerged, a moment later, with a small rag doll. She clutched it lovingly to her bosom and continued to stare blindly into time and space, occasionally making a gesture or striking a pose that would help bring the particular future she envisioned into being.

17

Mboya was waiting for the Silicon Kid in the groundcar as the slidewalk took him away from the Prophet’s domicile. He climbed in, still assimilating what he had heard, and a moment later Mboya was driving him back toward Minuet. “So how did it go?”

“I’m working for her,” answered the Kid.

A humorless smile crossed Mboya’s face. “Remind me never to turn my back on you.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” demanded the Kid.

“I know why you came here and who sent you,” said Mboya. “You sold him out, Judas.”

“I plan to get a hell of a lot more than thirty pieces of silver,” said the Kid. “Besides, he hasn’t got a chance. You know that.”

“That doesn’t make any difference,” replied Mboya. “When you make a commitment, you’re supposed to keep it.”

“Why don’t you let me worry about that?” said the Kid angrily.

“What if you decide the Anointed One is more powerful than the Prophet?” said Mboya. “You going to change sides again?”

“He’d have to be something awfully special to be more powerful than her.”

“Maybe he is. He’s supposed to have more than a hundred million followers who all but worship him.”

“He’s just a Man,” said the Kid. “She’s something … well, more.”

Mboya drove in silence for a few moments, passing the same farms they had driven by on the way out. As they reached Minuet, he spoke again. “I hope you have to go up against him.”

“The Anointed One?” asked the Kid.

Mboya shook his head. “The Iceman.”

“He’s a fat old man,” said the Kid. “I can take him.”

“A lot of people have thought they could take him,” said Mboya. “But he’s still here. Even the Prophet couldn’t kill him.”

“He won’t pose any problem at all,” said the Kid. “Hell, he still thinks I’m on his side.”

Mboya smiled. “Kid, he never thought you were on his side.”

“How the hell do you know what he thinks?” demanded the Kid. “You’ve never ever met him.”

“He’s lived seventy-odd years on the Inner Frontier,” answered Mboya easily. “You don’t get that old out here by being stupid.”

“Are you saying I’m stupid?” asked the Kid heatedly.

“If you think you can fool the Iceman or take him out, you are,” responded Mboya. “Even if he didn’t know you, he knows her. He knows what she can do, how she can influence people and events.”

“So who’s going to kill him? You?”

“When the time comes,” answered Mboya.

“What makes you better able to than me?”

“I respect him,” said Mboya. “I won’t make any careless or foolish mistakes.”

“And you think I will?”

“It’s a possibility.” Mboya paused. “You know that he’s gone up against the Prophet twice and lived to tell about it, and yet you keep describing him as a fat old man who poses no threat to you.”

“That’s right.”

“You still don’t see it, do you?”

“See what?” asked the Kid irritably.

“You don’t think he survived his meetings with the Prophet because he was faster than you, do you? What difference do physical attributes make when she knows what you’re going to do before you yourself do?” Mboya paused again. “He survived because of his brain, not because of his gun. And he’ll beat you the same way.”

“I’ve heard enough of this crap!” said the Kid. “I can take him and you together without drawing a deep breath—and don’t you forget it!”

“Can you take the Gravedancer, too?” asked Mboya.

“What do you know about him?”

“I’ve researched you thoroughly, Kid. I know every place you’ve been since you left Greycloud, and who you’ve been with.”

“Bully for you,” said the Kid sullenly.

“By the way, that wasn’t a rhetorical question. Can you take the Gravedancer?”

“Why?”

“Because he’s working for the Anointed One now,” answered Mboya. “That means sooner or later one of us is going to have to go up against him.”

“I can take anybody,” said the Kid confidently.

“Once you learn to shoot straight,” said Mboya sardonically.

“Anybody,” repeated the Kid.

“Even men who know your secret?”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Just that the Iceman and the Gravedancer both know that whatever you are, you owe it to those implanted chips. If they know they’re going to go up against you, don’t you think they’ll find some way to negate them?”

“There’s no way it can be done,” answered the Kid. “These are biochips. I’m their energy source. There’s no field you can create that can make them stop functioning.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Mboya.

“I do.”

“Maybe … but just about the time you tell a Man he can’t do something—whether it’s climb down from the trees, or cross an ocean, or fly a starship, or negate a biochip—he usually finds a way to do just that. We’re a very successful race of lawbreakers: we’ve broken all the laws of gravity, and Einstein, and—”

“Spare me the lecture,” said the Kid. “These chips will keep functioning until I’m dead.”

“Well, I wish them a long and happy life,” said Mboya, pulling up to the Kid’s hotel.

“You know,” said the Kid, as he got out of the groundcar and turned to face Mboya, “before you worry about the Iceman or the Gravedancer, you’ve got a bigger problem.”

“Oh?”

“You’re going to have to face me.”

“Why?” asked Mboya.

“She can’t have two enforcers,” said the Kid. “I’m going to have to prove to her that I’m the best. There’s only one way to do that.”

“We can do it right here and now, if you’re dead set on it,” said Mboya with no show of fear or surprise.

The Kid shook his head. “I’ll choose the place and time.”

“What makes you think I’ll let you?”

The Kid grinned. “Because you’re an honorable man.”

He turned on his heel and walked into the lobby of the Manor House. He picked up a newstape, took it to his room, watched its headlines flash by with disinterest, and then walked over to a mirror, where he studied himself moodily.

His clothes were flashy and stylish, but he decided they needed to make more of a statement, become an identifiable trademark. It was true that the Iceman dressed for comfort, but Lomax always wore black, and the holos he had seen of Father Christmas always showed him in a modified red-and-white Santa Claus outfit, with a pair of sonic pistols suspended from a shining black patent leather belt.

But what kind of outfit would instantly label him as the Silicon Kid? A shirt with chips sewn into it? He shook his head; too garish. Something with his “S.K.” initials monogrammed onto it? He quickly rejected the notion as amateurish. Then what?

He could simply dress as he had been dressing, but what was the use of being the Silicon Kid if people didn’t know it? That was the problem with the Iceman and Mboya; they had the credentials, but they lacked a certain style. And if he was going to be the Prophet’s right-hand man—at least until he figured out how to get rid of her—he wanted people to know him the instant he landed on a planet, the moment he entered a town or a room.

Perhaps some weapon that was uniquely his own? After all, with his implants, he could handle any weapon with such speed and dexterity that no one alive could match him, so why be limited to laser, sonic or projectile weapons?

The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea. He would create a weapon of a type that no one else possessed, one that would forever be his trademark. And if it was one that could kill the Prophet when the proper time came, so much the better.

Excited, he walked over to the computer on his desk, activated it, and had it tie into tiny Minuet library, accessing information on the various types of weapons currently in use. He found nothing very useful there, and was considering accessing a larger library on a nearby world when the computer’s screen went blank.

“What’s wrong?” he demanded.

“I have an incoming message,” answered the computer in a mechanical voice.

“All right, let’s see it.”

It was from a young woman who had lost the use of her left arm in an accident, and wondered if he could create a chip that would restore the arm to its former state.

“Tell her that if the nerves have been damaged, she’d be better off with a prosthetic arm. If it’s something else, have her doctor forward her records to me.”

“Working…” said the computer.

“Wait a minute!” he said suddenly.

“Operation suspended.”

He’d already made contact with the Prophet, so why bother with the facade?

“Just tell her that I’m sorry, but I can’t help her.”

“Working … done.”

“Deactivate.”

The computer went dead, and an instant later the vidphone came to life.

“Yeah?” said the Kid, activating it.

The holographic image of Penelope Bailey hovered above the machine.

“I see my two guard dogs have been growling at one another,” she said in amused tones.

“I thought he was enough of a man not to go running to you for help,” said the Kid contemptuously.

“He is in my employ, as are you,” she said serenely. “My employees have no secrets from me.”

“Send him on his way,” said the Kid.

“Why?”

“You don’t need him. You’ve got me now.”

“Poor, futile little Man, thrashing about in the darkness, dreaming of triumph and glory,” said Penelope. “How can you have any idea what I need?”

“You didn’t hire him for his personality,” answered the Kid. “You hired him because he’s The Black Death.” He paused. “Well, you’ve got someone better working for you now.”

“Better at what?” she asked with a smile. “Do you really think I need you to do my killing for me?”

“You didn’t seem to have any objection to letting him do it last night,” noted the Kid.

“He merely saved me the bother of dispatching three unpleasant individuals. I was never in any physical danger from them.”

“Come on, lady,” he said. “If you don’t need killers, what are men like Mboya and me doing on your payroll?”

“Great forces have been set in motion,” she answered, “forces far beyond your ability to fathom. Each of you has a role to play, and each of you will play it.”

“What role?”

“You will learn your destiny in the fullness of time.”

“Have I got a destiny?”

“Most assuredly,” she replied. “That is why I let you live.”

“What were you going to do—have Mboya gun me down on the way out if you decided you didn’t want to hire me?”

“You still don’t understand what you are dealing with, do you?” she said. “In a million times a million futures, you will live out the day, Neil Cayman. But you are a very high-strung young man, and in a tiny handful of the futures I can foresee, you will die of a sudden cerebral hemorrhage. And in one future, you will have an intimation of your death. That future will occur when I do this.” And with that, she walked to her window wall and placed both hands against it, fingers splayed wide, as she looked out on her pond.

The Kid felt a sudden pain flash through his head. He yelled incoherently, then dropped to one knee. The pain became worse, more intense than any he had ever known, and he curled into a fetal ball, his fists pressed against his temples.

And then, suddenly, the pain was gone. It took him a full minute to regain his feet and focus his eyes, and he saw Penelope’s image smiling at him a from a few inches over the vidphone.

“Do you begin to comprehend?” she asked serenely.

“How the hell did you do that from thirty miles away?” he muttered.

“You have seen what I did to Hades, and yet you wonder at my abilities? Perhaps The Black Death was correct; perhaps you are not bright enough to be useful to me.”

“He told you that?” demanded the Kid.

“Certainly,” she replied. “He has no secrets from me.”

“Well, if I’m too dumb to work for you, maybe I’ll just go back to the Iceman!” he snapped.

For just the merest fraction of a second he thought he finally detected an emotion on her face—terror, perhaps, or hatred, or possibly simply contempt—but then it vanished and she focused her gaze on him again.

“That would not be very wise, Neil Cayman,” she said. “You would be dead before you left the planet.” She paused. “You have given your allegiance to me. Only I can return it to you; you may not take it back.” She smiled an emotionless smile. “Or perhaps you would like another demonstration of my power.”

“No,” he said. “You win.” For the moment, he added mentally.

“You are high-spirited, just like a young animal,” she said. “I do not hold that against you. In fact, I find it admirable. But like any other young animal, you must be trained. Your spirit must be directed. Then you will begin to earn your keep.”

“I’m no animal,” said the Kid.

“You are all animals,” she said, and broke the connection.

18

The Kid spent the next five days lounging around the Manor House, eating, sleeping, watching holos, doing a little drinking and a little gambling, trying unsuccessfully to keep from being bored. He accepted a couple of assignments to create biochips, just to alleviate the boredom.

He impatiently awaited a summons from Penelope Bailey, and couldn’t figure out why she had hired him only to let him rot in a tiny hotel on a nondescript planet. Then, on the fifth evening after his meeting with her, he happened to catch a newscast on the holo set, and realized that she had far from inactive.

According to the report, more than eighty temples on some thirty different worlds, each belonging to the followers of Moses Mohammed Christ, known as the Anointed One, had burned due to unknown causes, killing almost two hundred thousand men and woman and injuring twice that many. Foul play was suspected, of course, but to date not a single instance of arson had been uncovered at any of the sites.

And why should they have found any evidence of arson, thought the Kid with a grim smile. You want this temple burnt to the ground? Hold your hand thus and so, and the wind will blow the flame from a candle up against the window coverings. You want that temple consumed by fire? Move eight feet to the right, and a man with a lit cigar in his hand will have a heart attack, and the rug will catch fire an instant later. Stand on one leg and lighting will strike another temple.

It was power beyond imagining—and yet she needed him, needed Mboya, needed still others whose names he didn’t know and whose functions he could only guess at. She was power incarnate, but she was not all-powerful; the inhabitants of Hades had kept her imprisoned for almost seventeen years. She needed help—his help, although he couldn’t yet imagine why. And she could be defeated, or at least fought to a draw. The Iceman had proven that, and he was certainly more than equal to anything that the Iceman might have done.

He checked the news the next morning—twelve more temples had been added to the total—and went out for breakfast. He waited for a pair of trucks to pass by, then crossed the street and entered the small restaurant where he had been having most of his meals. To his surprise, Mboya, who usually slept quite late after a night at the casino’s gaming tables, was sitting alone at the back of the nearly-empty establishment, drinking a cup of coffee.

“Good morning,” he said when he saw the Kid.

“’Morning,” replied the Kid.

“Come join me,” said Mboya.

The Kid looked around the restaurant for a moment, then shrugged and walked past half a dozen empty tables. He sat down opposite Mboya and ordered coffee and a roll.

“I haven’t seen you for a couple of days,” said Mboya.

“I’ve been around,” answered the Kid. “Working on chips, mostly.”

“Why bother? You’re working for her, now. No need to keep up pretenses.”

“I’ll stop if she ever gets around to giving me something to do,” said the Kid. He gazed out the window. “I grew up on a planet just like this one. There’s nothing to do here.”

“Have you practiced your marksmanship lately?” asked Mboya with a grin.

“I don’t need to. It’s just a matter of adjusting to the implants. I’m used to them now.”

“Then I assume you’ll never miss again?”

“That’s right,” said the Kid seriously.

“Good,” said Mboya. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“And I don’t need someone taunting me this early in the morning,” added the Kid, making no attempt to hide his irritation.

“I wasn’t taunting you,” answered Mboya. “I was being sincere.”

“Sure you were.”

“I was,” repeated Mboya. “I’m calling it quits. That means sooner or later she’s going to send you up against the kind of men I’ve been pacifying for her. Being a lousy shot isn’t conducive to your health.”

“You’re quitting?” repeated the Kid, surprised.

“That’s right.”

“Aren’t you a little young for retirement?”

“I’m not retiring,” said Mboya. “I’m just not going to work for her any longer.”

“Why not?” asked the Kid as his coffee finally arrived.

“Don’t you listen to the holo or scan the newstapes?” asked Mboya. “She’s just launched an undeclared war on the Anointed One.”

The Kid frowned. “Do you know something about him that I don’t know?”

“Probably not.”

“Then what has that got to do with you quitting?”

“Look,” said Mboya. “I’m a gunman. I kill people for a living. I’m not especially proud of it, but I’m not ashamed of it. I live by a code: I’ve never gone up against a man who didn’t have a chance, and most of those I’ve killed have deserved it.”

“So?”

“Don’t you understand? She can kill half a million men without even leaving her house.” He grimaced. “That’s not killing any more, not the way I do it. It’s genocide, and I don’t want any part of it.”

“What’s the difference between killing three men or three thousand?” asked the Kid. “They all follow the Anointed One and they all want her dead.”

Mboya sighed. “It’s difficult to explain.”

“Try.”

“All right. To me, killing is a profession, and it’s got rules to it. You stand close enough to look your opponent in the eye, you always give him a chance to back off, you talk to him, you try to see into his soul and seek out his weaknesses, you risk your life to take his life. It’s a very personal thing.” He paused. “To her, it’s just expediency. Ten men, ten million men, it’s all the same—and none of them had a chance. None of them even knew what killed them.”

The Kid considered what Mboya had said, then shook his head. “I don’t see it,” he said. “You kill her enemies, she kills her enemies. The only difference is the number.”

“It’s a competition, or at least it should be,” said Mboya. “I’m competing against my opponent, sure, but I’m also competing against a standard of excellence I set for myself. I don’t really care if the person I’m working for is on the right or the wrong side of the dispute; that doesn’t affect me at all. It’s the principle and the competition that counts.” He paused. “But her—she’s gone beyond all reference points. I’m competing with myself, but she’s competing with God, or maybe Nature. No one else can kill that profligately. She doesn’t need me, and I don’t want any part of what she’s doing.”

“But she does need you, or she wouldn’t be paying you,” said the Kid.

Mboya shook his head. “She’s got you now, and good luck to her. Me, I’m going out to the Quinellus Cluster, where no one has ever heard of the Anointed One or the Prophet.”

“Soon everyone shall hear of me,” said a voice from the doorway, and they both turned to see Penelope Bailey standing there, staring at them.

“I thought you might show up,” said Mboya.

“What did you expect?” replied Penelope. “You made a commitment to me, and now you intend to break it.”

“You must have known I would, or you wouldn’t have hired him,” said Mboya, jerking his head in the Kid’s direction.

“Why I hired him is not your concern,” she said.

“True enough,” agreed Mboya with a shrug. “My only concern is getting out of this situation.” He stared at Penelope. “You can keep whatever money I’ve got coming.”

She shook her head. “I have no need of money,” she said. “I hired you. You have yet to serve your purpose.”

“If you can see the future, you know that I’m leaving and that nothing can change my mind,” said Mboya. “If you force me to stay right now, I’ll just catch the next ship out of here once you’re gone.”

“No you won’t,” replied Penelope. “You will not leave until I say that you may.”

“But why? You’ve got the Kid now. He says he’s faster than I am, and for all I know he’s right. You don’t need me.”

“I alone know what I need,” answered Penelope. “You made a commitment to serve me. I will not release you from that commitment.”

“You can kill whole planets without even leaving your house,” persisted Mboya. “Why do you need me to kill your enemies off one at a time?”

“I owe you no explanation,” said Penelope coldly. “You came to me for employment. I gave it to you. Now you will fulfill the terms of our agreement.”

“You probably manipulated me into coming, just as you manipulate everything else,” said Mboya. “Free will isn’t a valid concept when you’re involved.”

“What are you doing here?” asked the Kid, who had been listening to them intently.

“I am here to stop The Black Death from betraying me,” answered Penelope.

“If you can see the future, you know I have no intention of betraying you,” said Mboya, trying to keep his voice level and reasonable. “I just want to get out of here.”

Penelope stared unblinking into his eyes. “I will not permit it,” she answered.

“But why?” he insisted.

“I told you: you have not yet served your purpose.”

“Just what the hell is my purpose?”

“To serve me faithfully and obediently.”

“For how long?”

“Until I no longer need you,” answered Penelope.

“How long will that take?”

Penelope shrugged eloquently. “A day, a week, a month, a year, a lifetime—or perhaps only a moment.”

“How will I know?”

“Because I will tell you,” she said.

Mboya stared at her long and hard, and finally he nodded. “All right,” he said. “But it had better be closer to a day than a lifetime.”

“Are you giving me orders now?” she asked, making no attempt to mask her amusement.

“No,” he said.

“That was a damned quick change of heart,” said the Kid sardonically.

“She’s the Prophet,” answered Mboya. “If I can’t convince her to let me go, what else is there to do?”

“I’m glad you have seen the error of your way,” said Penelope. “Now I want both of you to come with me. We have business elsewhere.”

Mboya and the Kid got to their feet, left a handful of coins on the table, and followed her out into the street. The sun was higher in the sky now, the morning dew had evaporated, and the air was warming up. There were a handful of vehicles parked in front of the various feed and general stores, but it was totally devoid of pedestrians.

Penelope turned to her left and started walking south, and the Kid and Mboya turned to follow her. After they had gone half a block, she stopped.

“What is it?” asked the Kid.

Penelope turned to him, though once again her eyes were focused far into the future. “The restaurant was the wrong place,” she said. “Here, in the street, is where we shall resolve our conflicts.”

“I don’t understand.”

She pointed to Mboya. “That man tried to desert me. He still harbors the hope of leaving the planet once I have returned to my house. Such disobedience cannot be tolerated.”

The Kid suddenly felt the muzzle of a sonic pistol jammed against his ribcage.

“Sorry, Kid,” said Mboya, “but I want your pistol.”

The Kid remained motionless for a moment.

“Give it to him,” said Penelope.

“I don’t give my weapon to anyone,” said the Kid.

“He will kill you if you disobey him,” said Penelope. “And then what use will you be to me? Give it to him.”

The Kid paused for another moment, then very carefully withdrew his laser pistol and handed it to Mboya.

“Thanks for not being stupid,” said Mboya, tucking the pistol into his belt. He looked at Penelope. “I thought we had an agreement.”

“You had no intention of keeping it,” she said.

“What happens now?” asked Mboya. “Do I die of a stroke or a heart attack? Or do you cause a meteor to fall on my head? I know I can’t touch you, but whatever happens, I plan to take him with me.”

“I will do nothing to hinder you,” said Penelope. She smiled at him, a smile that terrified him far more than the thought of the various fates awaiting him.

“You’re just going to let me go to the spaceport and take my ship out of here?” Mboya said dubiously.

“You will not live to reach the spaceport.”

“I thought you just said that you weren’t going to kill me.”

“I am not,” said Penelope. She looked at the Kid. “He is.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” rasped the Kid. “He’s got a gun in my ribs, and you made me give my own weapon away.”

“I am the Prophet,” she said serenely. “Did you not promise to follow me blindly?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then kill him.”

The Kid stared into her expressionless face for a moment. Then he pivoted on his heel and tried to slap the pistol out of Mboya’s hand.

Mboya was ready for him and stepped back. The Kid missed, and went sprawling on the street.

“Get up,” said Penelope.

The Kid got carefully to his feet, staring at the barrel of the sonic pistol that was aimed at him.

“Don’t make me do this, Kid,” said Mboya, alternating his attention between the Kid and Penelope.

“Now attack,” said Penelope.

“You’re crazy!” snapped the Kid. “I take one step toward him and I’m a dead man!”

“Would you rather face him—or me?” said Penelope.

The Kid considered her question, then sprang toward Mboya with a howl of animal rage, fully expecting to be dead before he reached him.

Mboya pulled the trigger, and his sonic pistol sputtered once and then went dead. The Kid reached him an instant later, and the two men rolled on the street, scratching, gouging, kneeing, pummeling.

The Kid tried to pull a knife from his boot, but Mboya knocked it loose from his hand, and it flew some twenty feet away. Then, suddenly, they were on their feet again, and the Kid realized that he was up against a superior fighter, a man who knew every martial discipline, whose feet were as deadly as his hands, perhaps more so.

The Kid swung a roundhouse right at Mboya, who ducked, stepped inside it, gave him two quick blows to the ribs and a spinning kick to the jaw that sent him sprawling.

He was up again instantly, and this time he remembered the implants. No longer did he try to overpower his heavier antagonist, but concentrated on blocking blows and kicks while striking with lightning-like swiftness. He broke through Mboya’s guard three times, but realized that he wasn’t doing sufficient damage, that speed alone wouldn’t carry the day against Mboya’s expertise. He began backing away in the direction of the knife, and a moment later allowed Mboya to land a solid kick to his chest, hurling him backward onto the street.

This time when he got up it was with the knife in his hand. Mboya saw it and went into a defensive posture, but for all his many skills he was no match for the sheer speed with which the Kid wielded his weapon, and within seconds the Kid had slashed him twice on the ribs and once on the side of the neck. Mboya instinctively placed a hand to the neck wound, exposing his torso, and the Kid plunged the knife deep into his belly. He fell to the ground, holding both hands to his newest wound, and groaning.

“Finish the job,” said Penelope, as the Kid stepped back.

“Why bother?” replied the Kid. “He’s not going to cause you any trouble for a long, long time.”

“I said, finish the job,” said Penelope.

The Kid stared at Mboya, then looked up at Penelope. “Why?”

“Because I told you to, and no other reason is necessary.”

“I thought you were keeping him for a purpose.”

“He has served it,” said Penelope, staring off into the distance. “Finish the job.”

The Kid looked at her for another moment, then knelt down next to Mboya, grabbed his hair with his free hand, and slashed his throat. Mboya gurgled once and then died.

“Satisfied?” said the Kid, straightening up.

“Yes,” said Penelope. “I am satisfied.”

“What was that all about?” asked the Kid, looking up and down the street for signs of the police, but finding none. “Why didn’t you kill him yourself?”

“Because this was a necessary part of your education,” answered Penelope.

“I didn’t learn all that much,” said the Kid wryly.

“You learned the most important lesson of all,” said Penelope. “You learned that when I tell you to do something, it must be done, even in the face of certain death.” She paused. “You also learned that when I tell you to finish a job, you may not disobey me.” She smiled at him, her gaze back from the future and trained intently on his face. “Soon you will obey me without hesitation, without thinking. Soon you will be worthy of the tasks I shall give you and the rewards you shall receive. You are progressing very rapidly, Neil Cayman.”

“I told you before: that’s not my name anymore.”

“I know,” she replied, “and I shall not use it again. You have proven yourself to me, and you have earned a new name.”

“Good,” he said. “I’m glad we agree on that.”

“Yes, we do,” said Penelope, stepping around Mboya’s corpse and walking off toward her groundcar. “Follow me, Fido.”

The Kid was about to protest. Then he remember the pain she had visited upon him at the beginning of the week, and he sighed and fell into step behind her.

19

Penelope commanded her front door to slide open, then ushered the Kid inside and led him through the foyer to the large room that overlooked the pond.

The Kid looked around and saw a rag doll lying on the couch.

“Whose is that?” he asked, pointing toward it.

“Mine,” said Penelope with no show of embarrassment. She picked it up and cuddled it to her breast.

“Aren’t you a little old for dolls?”

“I had a kitten once,” she replied, tightening her grip on the doll as if afraid that someone would come into the room and take it away from her. “It wouldn’t come near me, and whenever I reached out to it, it hissed and spat at me.”

“Maybe it was just a spooky kitten,” he suggested.

She shook her head. “I bought a puppy three months ago. It ran up to every stranger, wagging its tail—but it would never remain in the same room with me.”

“A rag doll’s a poor substitute,” said the Kid.

“Perhaps,” she agreed. “But it has never run from me, and it has never attempted to betray me, and that is more than I can say about any human I’ve ever known.”

“Any human?”

She paused, a wistful expression on her face. “There was one, a very long time ago, a woman who fed me and protected me, and whom I loved very much—but even she turned against me in the end.” She turned to face the Kid. “It is more difficult than you think to be the Prophet, to know that every member of the race that gave you birth hates and fears you.”

“Not without cause,” noted the Kid. “You really did a job on them last night.”

“Only because the Anointed One has decreed that I must die.” She smiled bitterly. “The Anointed One, whom I have never met, never challenged, never opposed. He was well on his way to attacking the Democracy, but then he somehow heard of my powers and instead he has decided to make war on me instead of upon the navy. The Iceman, who knows he cannot possibly hinder me, nonetheless pays you to spy on me. The Black Death, who knew what happens to those who are disloyal to me, died rather than stay and continue working for me.” She paused and sighed. “I always knew he would.”

“If you knew he was going to be disloyal, why didn’t you get rid of him sooner?”

“As I told you, he had a function to perform.”

“To die in Minuet?”

“To provide you with the opportunity to prove your fidelity to me,” she said. “It was imperative that you be presented with a situation where you would surely die if you did not trust in my powers and yield to my authority.”

“Why?” asked the Kid. “You had Mboya already.”

She shook her head. “He was destined to desert me.”

“How do you know I won’t?”

“Because you are selfish enough and greedy enough and immoral enough to realize that your best interest lies in total fealty to me,” she replied.

“I don’t know that I especially like that assessment of me,” said the Kid.

“The question is not whether you like it,” replied Penelope, “but whether it is true.” She paused. “You have made only two friends on the Inner Frontier—Felix Lomax and Carlos Mendoza—and yet here you are, working for me and prepared to betray both of them.”

“What do you know about the Gravedancer?” demanded the Kid, surprised.

“Do you think I am without my spies and my informants, or that you can keep any secrets from me?” she asked with an amused smile. “Do not try to change the subject, Fido: have you deserted them or not?”

“My name’s the Silicon Kid.”

“Your name is whatever I choose it to be,” answered Penelope. “Just as your destiny is.”

“Speaking of destinies, there are a lot of people who would pay a hell of a lot of money to know what yours is.”

She looked out at the pond.

“I know what it should be, but there are still too many variables, too many intangibles, in the equation.” She turned to stare at him. “That is why you are here.”

“What do you expect me to do?” asked the Kid.

“I have many tasks for you,” said Penelope. “If you succeed at them, you will be handsomely rewarded. If you fail, you will surely die.”

The Kid looked unimpressed. “This is silly,” he said. “Why don’t you just read the future and tell me what I have to do in order to succeed?”

She shook her head and looked back at the pond. “That presupposes that there is only one future,” she answered. “And as I have explained to you before, there are more futures than there are grains of sand on a beach. I cannot yet see them all with equal clarity.”

The Kid sat down on a couch and stretched his arms along the top of it. “All right,” he said. “Just what is it that you want me to do next?”

She turned to him, but again he got the distinct impression that she was looking past or through him, into the future.

“You will kill Moses Mohammed Christ, who calls himself the Anointed One.”

“Just like that?” asked the Kid with a smile. “He’s probably better protected than the Secretary of the Democracy—and he’s certain to be awfully well-hidden.”

“I know where he is.”

“How many bodyguards has he got?”

She shrugged. “It makes no difference,” she said. “His bodyguards, with one exception, will cause you no problems.”

“Who’s the one who will cause me a problems?”

“Felix Lomax.”

“The Gravedancer?” said the Kid. “What trouble can he cause? Hell, he still thinks I’m working for him and the Iceman.”

“He will know.”

“Not unless you tell him, he won’t,” said the Kid confidently. “Or are you saying that he’s a telepath, too?”

“Neither he nor I are telepaths,” answered Penelope. “But on the other hand, neither of us are fools. He will see you there and he will deduce the reason for your presence.”

The Kid considered her statement, then shrugged. “Then I’ll kill him.”

“He will not be as easy to kill as you seem to think,” she said.

“I killed Mboya, didn’t I?”

“I was there to help you.”

“You didn’t lift a finger,” he said. “I killed him on my own.”

“I did not lift a finger?” she repeated with a smile. “Why do you suppose his pistol failed to function?”

“Well, after that,” said the Kid uneasily.

“You really believe that, don’t you?” she said with a sigh. “You are a fool, Fido.”

“I told you not to call me that!” he snapped.

She looked amused. “Do you think to frighten me? Or do you think that I will be as easy to kill as The Black Death was?”

He glared sullenly at her, but said nothing.

“I admire a show of spirit in any young animal, even a young man,” she continued. “But if you direct it at me again, I will have to discipline you. There are men out there—many men—who need killing. You must learn to focus your rage.” She paused. “You must also learn that being young and strong and fast, and even unafraid, is not enough when you face an opponent such as Felix Lomax.”

“Come on,” he said, unimpressed. “If I get in any trouble, you’ll just do whatever you did with Mboya, and that’ll be that. Why are you trying to make this seem more dangerous or difficult than it is?”

“You will be hundreds, perhaps thousands, of light years away from me,” she answered. “I cannot control events that precisely from so great a distance. If I could, I wouldn’t need you.”

“I can do it without you,” he said confidently.

“If it was an impossible task, I wouldn’t send you,” she said. “I detest waste.”

“Well, then?”

“I know that you can kill the Anointed One. I do not know if you will kill him.”

“Thanks for your confidence,” he said sardonically.

“There are many futures in which you kill him, and in some you kill Felix Lomax as well. But there are an almost equal number of futures in which you lie dead at Lomax’s feet.”

“None of those are going to come to pass.”

“I hope not, but I do not know.”

“I know,” said the Kid. He paused. “Once I take care of the Gravedancer and the Anointed One, maybe I’ll go after the Iceman.”

She shook her head. “He is the only man that I have ever feared. You cannot kill him.”

“He’s an old man who lets other people do his fighting for him.”

“You will not oppose him, now or ever,” she said.

“But I can take him.”

“He was responsible for the death of the only person I ever cared for,” she said so softly that the Kid had difficulty making out the words. “He is the man who convinced the Democracy to try to kill me.” She paused as the memories came flooding back. “He is the reason I remained imprisoned on Hades after I had manipulated events to arrange my escape. Whenever I have been made to suffer—and I have suffered much, believe me—he has been the cause of it.”

“All the more reason for me to kill him.”

And for the first time since he had known her, the emotionless mask dropped from Penelope’s face. She turned away from the window to face him, and her eyes shone with a terrifying hatred.

“He is mine!” she whispered.

The Kid left Mozart six hours later. As his ship broke out of orbit, he was still contemplating the almost tangible fury in Penelope’s voice, and feeling very relieved that all he had to do was face the best killer and the most powerful fanatic in the galaxy. He did not envy the Iceman.

And far behind him, Penelope Bailey hugged her doll to her bosom and wondered what her life might have been like had she been an ordinary woman. Then she realized that for the first time in many years she was crying. She wiped the tears off her cheeks, put all thought of the way things might have been out of her mind, and went back to sorting out the various futures that confronted her.

PART 4:

The

Anointed

One’s

Book

20

Felix Lomax awoke with a start when the ship signaled him that he had an incoming message. He sat erect, blinked his eyes very rapidly for a moment, then instructed the screen to activate.

A holograph of Otis Korbekkian, with Mt. Olympus clearly visible through the window behind his desk, instantly appeared.

“Good morning, Gravedancer,” he said. “It took me a while to track you down.”

Lomax shrugged. “The Iceman keeps moving. I missed him on Sweetwater, and again on Confucius VI.” He paused. “He’s not doing much to cover his trail. I’ll catch up with him sooner or later.”

“Sooner,” said Korbekkian. “I just got word that he’s finally returned to Last Chance.”

“You’re sure?”

“My source claims to have seen him.”

“I notice your source didn’t feel compelled to go up against him,” noted Lomax caustically.

“The Anointed One has given you the commission. No one else in our organization will try to kill him unless you fail.”

“I won’t fail,” said Lomax. “Just have the second half of the money ready to deposit in my account next time you hear from me.”

“We have an agreement. We shall not renege on it.”

“See to it that you don’t.”

Lomax broke the connection and directed his navigational computer to lay in a course for Last Chance, far into the Inner Frontier. Then he unstrapped himself from his seat, made his way through the cramped quarters to the lavatory, shaved and took a quick dryshower, and emerged feeling somewhat refreshed. He selected a few mutated fruits from the galley, ordered the computer to brew a pot of coffee, and sat down to eat the skinless oranges and sweetlemons.

It had been a dull two weeks since he had met the Anointed One. He had no intention of finding the Iceman where anyone loyal to his new employer might chance to see them, and so he had purposely gone off on false trails, and had made sure he hit Sweetwater and Confucius long after his prey had gone. He didn’t dare raise the Iceman on subspace radio to relay his findings, since he couldn’t know whether the men operating the various sending stations were in league with the Anointed One, so he had simply bided his time, waiting for the Iceman to return to his home world.

In the process, he had learned even more about the extent of the Anointed One’s empire, enough to conclude that Moses Mohammed Christ did in fact pose a serious threat to all those worlds on the outskirts of the Democracy and possibly to the entire Inner Frontier as well. He may have held his legions together through the religion he had invented, but he was anything but a simple fanatic. His organization was structured along military lines, and functioned with clocklike precision. Every man knew his position, knew who he must report to, knew what was expected of him. Their financing was quite sophisticated: the Anointed One floated the bulk of his principal on a four-world circuit during the course of a Galactic Standard day, drawing interest at each bank during that bank’s operating hours before transferring it to the next.

They were ready for the unexpected, as well. Take that fire-bombing or whatever it was of the churches. By the next morning the Anointed One had a list of every damaged building, every lost member of his organization, every police report concerning what might have happened and who might have been responsible. Monies were dispersed, auxiliary plans were brought to bear, and the organization barely missed a beat.

As for the Anointed One himself, Lomax had the feeling that if he were just one whit more cynical or untrusting, he’d have had the perfect temperament for a gunfighter. He had met with him twice now, and he still didn’t know if he was dealing with a religious fanatic, a masterful politician, a superior tactician, or a combination of all three.

Lomax finished his meal, got his coffee, and walked back to the cockpit. It was perhaps the most uncomfortable section of the ship, but for some reason he preferred sitting up there. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t control the ship—and even its weaponry—by voice from his bunk, or couldn’t direct the computer to display a hologram of the viewscreen anywhere within the body of the ship … but for some reason, he tended to read, nap, and drink in the pilot’s chair. It made him feel closer to the action, even though he knew that was a false premise and that, indeed, there was no action to be had.

So he loafed, and read, and slept, and thought, and two days later the computer announced that he had reached his destination and was entering orbit around Last Chance. He requested permission to land, received the necessary coordinates, and touched down some twenty minutes later.

He walked the dusty mile from the spaceport to The End of the Line, then entered it and looked around for the Iceman, who was sitting alone at a table near the doorway, a tall drink in his hand.

Lomax approached him, holding his hands in plain view, just in case the Iceman either hadn’t received his message or, more likely, hadn’t believed it.

“Good afternoon, Gravedancer,” said the Iceman with a smile.

“Good afternoon,” replied Lomax. “May I sit down?”

“Of course. Care for something cold to drink?”

“A beer would be nice.”

The Iceman signaled to one of the bartenders, who immediately brought over a tall glass of beer.

“Thanks,” said Lomax, taking a long swallow. “You know, someday you really ought to consider paving your streets.”

“And stop all my customers from arriving with a killing thirst?” chuckled the Iceman. “Don’t be silly.” The smile vanished. “And don’t drop your hands below the top of the table until we’re through talking.”

“Didn’t the Kid reach you?” asked Lomax.

“Yes.”

“Then you got my message.”

“I did,” said the Iceman. “The question is: do I believe it?”

“Well, do you?”

“Probably. But let’s talk anyway.”

“Suits me,” said Lomax. “Where’s the Kid? Did you send him packing?”

“Not quite,” replied the Iceman. “He’s on a little errand for me.” He paused. “Tell me about the Anointed One. Who is he, and why does he want me dead?”

“He’s a religious fanatic,” answered Lomax. “His organization is established on more than three thousand worlds, and he’s got a couple of hundred million wild-eyed zealots believing he’s got a direct line to God. They’re willing to go up against the Democracy itself if he tells them to.”

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“Somewhere along the way, he found or manufactured an enemy that he thinks is even more powerful than the Democracy, or at least poses more of a threat. She goes by the name of the Prophet.” Lomax paused. “She’s some kind of bandit or killer out here on the Frontier, and evidently you’ve gone up against her before. More to the point, you survived your encounter, which leads him to believe that you’re now in league with her.”

“A logical conclusion,” said the Iceman. “Wrong, but logical.” He paused. “All right, you can drop your hands now.”

“Logical?” repeated Lomax, frowning. “Are you saying that this woman is so powerful that if you lived, there has to be a reason for it other than your own abilities?”

“I can see where he might think so,” answered the Iceman.

“Why has she kept her identity such a secret?” asked Lomax. “I mean, hell, I’ve heard the Prophet mentioned maybe three times in the past four or five years.”

“You’ve heard of her before,” said the Iceman with the trace of a smile. “She’s had other names in the past.”

“Such as?”

“The Soothsayer and the Oracle.”

“You’re telling me the Oracle and the Prophet are the same person?”

“That’s right.”

“How much danger are you in from her?” asked Lomax.

“Probably no more than you are,” responded the Iceman. “Which is not to say I’m not in danger. We all are.”

“I don’t think I understand.”

“What I mean is, I doubt that she has singled me out for termination,” said the Iceman. “That would be imbuing her with human emotions and human responses that I don’t think she possesses any longer, if indeed she ever did.” He paused. “But that doesn’t mean the entire race isn’t in danger. This is a woman capable of destroying entire planets. I don’t know what her eventual goals are, but I can’t imagine that humanity as a whole is going to be well-served by them.”

“She really can destroy whole worlds?” asked Lomax dubiously.

“Absolutely. I’ve seen the results.”

“Then old Moses is probably right about her being behind the fires.”

“Who’s Moses, and what fires are you talking about?”

“Moses is Moses Mohammed Christ, which is what he calls himself when he’s not busy being the Anointed One.”

“And the fires?”

“A couple of hundred of his temples on worlds all the hell over the galaxy erupted in flames almost simultaneously. The police on the various worlds haven’t turned up any clues, but they’re sure it’s not arson, and the military agrees. As for Moses, he’s dead certain it was the Prophet’s doing.” Lomax looked across the table at the Iceman. “I thought he was crazy—until now.”

“She did it, all right,” said the Iceman. “She’s the only person who could have done it.”

Lomax finished his beer and signaled for a refill, which arrived almost instantly. “Am I correct in assuming that the Kid’s assignment has something to do with the Prophet?”

The Iceman nodded. “I sent him to the world she’s living on.”

“Then he’s probably dead already.”

“I doubt it,” said the Iceman. “First, I told him just to gather information, and if she can’t see a future in which he kills her, she won’t feel it necessary to terminate him. Also,” added the Iceman with a smile, “that young man’s as transparent as glass. Five’ll get you ten he’s already sold out and joined up with her.”

“What use would she have for him?” asked Lomax.

“He’s a connection to you and me, and she probably would like to see us both dead: me on general principles, you because you’re working for her enemy.”

“I thought you were too insignificant for her to bother with,” noted Lomax wryly.

“I’m too insignificant for her to waste her time hunting the galaxy for me,” answered the Iceman. “But if the Kid can deliver me to her … well, that’s a different matter.”

“Has it occurred to you,” suggested Lomax, “that the smartest thing you and I can do is take a vacation to Deluros VIII, or some other world at the center of the Democracy, and just wait there in comfort until the Anointed One and the Prophet kill each other off?”

“He’s no match for her.”

“No match?” repeated Lomax. “I told you: he’s got close to three hundred million followers.”

“Three hundred, three hundred million, three billion, it makes no difference,” said the Iceman. “If he goes up against her, he’s going to lose.”

“Just what kind of power does she possess?”

“She’s precognitive.”

“Then she’ll know how to hide where he can’t find her,” said Lomax. “I’d hardly call that winning.”

“You don’t understand,” continued the Iceman. “She can see every possible permutation, every conceivable future—and when she sees the one she wants, she figures out how to manipulate events so that it comes to pass.” He paused and, finally remembering his drink, took a sip from it. “Take those fires the other night. You don’t think she had agents on two hundred worlds set them, do you?”

“There was no sign of arson,” admitted Lomax.

“Of course there wasn’t.”

“Then how did she do it?”

“She sat down and stared into the future—into hundreds, maybe millions of futures—and saw that in one of them, someone dropped a lit cigarette, and in another, a meteor made a dead hit on a temple, and in a third, someone left some oil-soaked rags in one of the storerooms, and so on.”

“Okay, she saw all that. How did she make it happen?”

“I don’t know,” said the Iceman. “I wasn’t there. But I’ve seen her do it before. She’ll flinch, or strike a pose, or move to a different spot, or—”

“How does that effect events thousands of light years away?” interrupted Lomax.

“I don’t know,” repeated the Iceman. “Hell, I doubt if she understands how it works. But she knows that it works.”

“And what if she can’t manipulate her way out of a jam?”

“Then she’ll wait until she can,” answered the Iceman. “She’s been captured before—but she’s never stayed captured. And,” he added grimly, “things have not gone very well for those who did the capturing.”

“Okay, so no one wants to get near her,” said Lomax. “What’s to stop the Anointed One from encircling her planet with warships and obliterating it?”

“I don’t know,” said the Iceman. “Maybe a meteor swarm would wipe them out, maybe every member of the crew would contract some virus, maybe the weapons would malfunction. Or maybe the bombs would explode, and every living thing on the planet would die—except her.”

“So how do you defeat someone like that?”

“I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about it this past week,” answered the Iceman.

“And?”

“There might be a way. I’m not sure.”

“I think with someone like her, you’d want to be sure.”

The Iceman shook his head grimly. “With someone like her, you can never be sure. All you can do is hope.”

Suddenly there was a shrill yell from the casino, where a miner had just hit his number at the roulette wheel. The man did a little jig, cashed in his chips, and offered to buy drinks for everyone in the house, a relatively inexpensive proposition as there were only six people in the casino and another four in the bar.

“Where was I?” asked the Iceman, turning back to Lomax.

“You were saying you thought you knew how to beat her,” replied Lomax.

“Well, it’s a possibility, anyway,” said the Iceman.

“Care to tell me about it?”

“I’m going to do more than that,” said the Iceman. “I’m going to enlist your aid.”

“Oh? How?”

“You came here to do a job, right?”

“I came here to tell you what I had learned,” Lomax corrected him.

“You came here to kill me for the Anointed One,” said the Iceman.

“Well, that’s what he thinks, anyway.”

“I need his help to accomplish my plan,” continued the Iceman. “He’s not going to give it to me, of course, but there’s every likelihood that he’ll give it to you.”

“Why the hell should he?” replied Lomax. “I’m going to have to report that you were gone by the time I got to Last Chance.” He paused, then smiled wryly. “Even if he buys it, he’s not going to have much use for me.” He considered the prospects. “Maybe I’ll just keep clear of him and live on the down payment I got for killing you.”

“No,” said the Iceman. “You’re not going to tell him an obvious lie about not finding me, and you’re not going to go into hiding. I told you: I need his help.”

“So what am I going to do?” asked Lomax.

“You’re going to earn his trust, and maybe even move up a couple of notches in his organization, to where you can do me even more good.”

“And how do you think I’m going to do that?” demanded Lomax.

The Iceman smiled. “You’re going to kill me, of course.”

21

They were in the Iceman’s office, and Lomax, sitting in a corner beneath a number of plaques and awards that had been given to Carlos Mendoza for his fifteen-year period of government service, was examining various hand weapons. Finally he looked up.

“I think it would be easiest with a projectile pistol,” he said. “We could just fill it with blanks. They make a hell of a bang, and you could stick some phony blood beneath your tunic in a plastic bag. Just grab your chest when you hear the shots and cut the bag open.”

“True,” said the Iceman. “But you don’t use a projectile weapon. Your trademark is a laser pistol.”

“Hard to fake a laser burn, though,” answered Lomax. “I can set it for a precise distance, but if you’re a foot father away everyone will see that it didn’t reach you, and if you’re three inches too close you’re going to have a roasted heart.”

“How about a sonic gun?” asked the Iceman.

Lomax shook his head. “If I’m going to use a gun that’s not my own, the projectile pistol makes more sense.”

The Iceman considered that for a moment, then sighed. “Okay,” he said. “I suppose we’ll just have to go with it.”

Lomax got up, walked to a bar opposite the Iceman’s desk, and poured himself a drink from the Iceman’s private stock. “You really think this will fool her?” he asked after he had downed the drink and poured himself another.

“It was never intended to fool her,” replied the Iceman, swiveling on his chair to look at Lomax. “If she looks at enough futures, she’ll find me in some of them.”

“Then why…?”

“To fool him,” answered the Iceman.

“Why bother?”

“Two reasons. First, I don’t want the Anointed One wasting his time or his resources hunting me down,” said the Iceman. “And second, I want a nice, spectacular killing to help you win his trust.” He paused. “Two killings, actually.”

“Two?” asked Lomax.

“Unless I miss my guess, our friend Neil Cayman has taken a look at Penelope Bailey and a look at us, and decided that he’ll live a lot longer if he joins forces with her.”

“It’s possible,” admitted Lomax.

“And since the one thing she doesn’t need is a personal bodyguard, the likelihood is that she’ll send him out to kill either me or the Anointed One. The Kid isn’t exactly a genius, but he’s not suicidal, either. If she sends him after me, he’ll desert; he knows I can’t be touched on Last Chance. But if she sends him after the Anointed One, you can score even more points with your boss by killing him.”

“Can I kill him?” asked Lomax. “You mentioned that he’s got another implant.”

“You do this for a living,” said the Iceman. “He’s just a kid with quick reflexes and delusions of grandeur. I trust you to find a way.”

Lomax grimaced. “I have a feeling it won’t be quite as easy as you make it sound.”

“I’m about to face Penelope Bailey herself,” said the Iceman with a wry smile. “You’ll forgive me if my heart doesn’t bleed for a professional killer who has to face a hot-headed kid who’s feeling his hormones.”

“Point taken,” said Lomax, returning his smile. Suddenly the smile vanished. “Do you know yet how you’re going to take her out?”

The Iceman put his feet up on his desk. “I’m working on it,” he replied.

“Well, you’ve gone up against her twice before. Probably you learned something from it.”

“Not much,” came the answer. “The first time I just tried to stop her from killing someone I cared for. The second time I tried to prevent her from escaping from a prison cell on Hades. I’ve never actually tried to harm her before.”

“Can it be done?”

“I don’t know,” said the Iceman honestly. “I think I might have been able to do it when she was eight years old. But now?” He shrugged. “I just know that I have to try.”

“Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

“Go ahead.”

“Why do you have to try?” asked Lomax. “I mean, with the Anointed One, we’ve got a legitimate fanatic who’s sworn to overthrow the Democracy and has a couple of hundred million followers who will shoot at anything he tells them to shoot at. But the Prophet—she’s never actually caused any harm, and she’s hardly got an army at her beck and call. So why not leave her alone?”

“She doesn’t need an army,” answered the Iceman, lighting a small, thin Antarrean cigar. “All by herself she’s more than a match for the Anointed One.” The Iceman puffed on his cigar. “I still don’t think you realize just what she is: her motivations aren’t human, her thought processes aren’t human, her powers certainly aren’t human, and her goals aren’t human.”

“What are her goals?”

“Whatever they are, they’re contrary to ours.”

“How can you be sure of that?”

“Someday, if you live through this, fly out to the Alpha Crepello system,” said the Iceman.

“And then what?”

“Then try to find the third planet.”

“You’re telling me she destroyed an entire planet?” said Lomax, finally finishing his second drink and walking back to his chair.

“That’s right.”

“Why?”

“She was kept prisoner there for sixteen years.”

“Then she had some cause, didn’t she?”

“To kill everyone on an entire planet?” demanded the Iceman. “What happens if she doesn’t like her tax bill next year? There are eleven billion Men on Deluros VIII; believe me when I tell you she can destroy it just as easily as she destroyed Hades.”

“Hades?”

“Alpha Crepello III.”

“To your knowledge, has she ever killed any human who wasn’t trying to kill her?” persisted Lomax.

The Iceman’s mind flashed back over the years, to an ever-youthful gunfighter lying dead in the street, and to a small, wiry woman with a pained, puzzled expression on her face as a red blotch spread across her shirt.

“You might say no,” answered the Iceman. “I say yes.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Because when you have the power to save people and you let them die, I call it murder.”

“That’s debatable.”

“That’s why I said you might not agree with me.” The Iceman paused. “It’s academic anyway. Either you’re with me, or you’re not. And if you’re not, then you’re with her whether you know it or not.”

“You’re paying the bills,” said Lomax laconically. “Besides, who knows? I might get to take out the Anointed One as an added bonus.”

The Iceman shook his head vigorously. “Absolutely not! We need him.”

“We do? For what?”

“All in good time,” said the Iceman.

“You can trust me,” said Lomax.

“I know I can,” said the Iceman. “In fact, I can’t do what I have to do without you. I’m just not quite sure of all the details yet.”

“Once I leave here, how will you be able to let me know what you want me to do?”

“Give me a scramble code for your ship,” said the Iceman, putting his cigar out, withdrawing another from a pocket of his tunic, changing his mind, and replacing it. “When I’m ready to move, I’ll contact you and give you your instructions.”

“That may not be enough,” said Lomax. “The Anointed One moves around. We could be on any of fifty planets when you finally decide to get in touch with me. There’s every chance I’ll be out of sending range.” He paused. “Maybe I should contact you.”

The Iceman shrugged. “As you wish.”

“You’ll be at The End of the Line?”

“I’ll be on Last Chance, at any rate,” answered the Iceman. He scribbled a number on a piece of paper. “Here’s my code. Load it into your ship’s computer when you leave.”

“Thanks,” said Lomax. “One more question.”

“Go ahead.”

“What if he’s so impressed that I was able to kill you that he sends me after the Prophet?”

“He won’t.”

“How do you know? You’ve never met him.”

“No man reaches his position without having a brain and using it,” answered the Iceman. “If you’re good enough to kill me, you’re too good to waste against Penelope Bailey. You’ll be far more valuable to him as a bodyguard.”

“Maybe he doesn’t know she can read the future,” persisted Lomax. “Maybe he thinks she can be killed just like anyone else.”

“Then stall.”

“He’s not the kind of man you can stall.”

The Iceman stared at him for a moment. “All right, then—we’ll just have to see to it that you’re in no condition to go out after Penelope Bailey for a few weeks.”

“I don’t like the sound of this,” said Lomax.

“You won’t like the feel of it, either,” said the Iceman. “But it’s the only way to make sure he doesn’t send you after her.”

Lomax returned the Iceman’s stare. “Let’s have it.”

“I think I’m going to have to bust you up a little bit in the bar tonight. It’ll lend authenticity to your reason for shooting me down.”

“How much?” asked Lomax suspiciously.

“Not too much. Maybe an arm or a leg, just enough to keep you from being able to go after Penelope.”

“And what if the Silicon Kid shows up three days later?”

“Shit!” muttered the Iceman. “I forgot about him.” He sighed. “You can take him if you’re one hundred percent, but not if you’re crippled up. I suppose we’ll have to fake it.”

“That sounds like a lot of faking for two men who aren’t exactly professional actors,” said Lomax.

“It’ll work,” said the Iceman. “By the time anyone pays much attention, it’ll all be over. You’ll walk out immediately—I’ll instruct my men to let you go, and there will be a couple of them outside waiting to rush you to your ship, just in case someone wants to avenge me, or more likely add to his reputation by killing the man who killed me—and I’ll be carried into my office before anyone can examine me. The word will get out by tomorrow morning, and Last Chance will issue formal denials for a few days and then admit that I was killed by the Gravedancer.” He grinned. “Once I’m sure you’re safe inside the Anointed One’s sphere of influence, we might even put a price on your head, just to make it look legitimate.”

“You’re sure this is all necessary?” asked Lomax. “I mean, you could just go into hiding for awhile and I could pass the word that I’ve killed you.”

The Iceman shook his head. “No, we’ve got to go through with it. Somebody told your boss that I was on Last Chance. That means somebody saw me here. For all we know, he’s still on the planet, and if he is, he’ll certainly be at the bar or the casino tonight; I mean, hell, there’s nowhere else to go here. Whoever he is, he’s got to see you kill me and confirm your story, or there’s every chance the Anointed One won’t believe it.”

“All right,” said Lomax, settling back in his chair and smiling. “I suppose I can live with being known as the man who killed the Iceman.” He paused. “I wonder how many men died trying to get that title?”

“More than I hope you can imagine,” said the Iceman grimly.

22

The End of the Line was crowded.

Lomax arrived after taking a dryshower and dining in his room, and found himself in the midst of the usual miners, traders, explorers, adventurers, bounty hunters, whores and misfits, some dressed in brilliantly-colored silks and satins, some in outfits that would look more at home in the midst of a war. There was a fair-sized alien contingent there, too: a few Canphorites, some Lodinites and Robelians, an enormous Torqual, and even a pair of diminutive, faerie-like Andricans, the first of that species Lomax had ever seen.

The Iceman wasn’t in evidence, so Lomax strolled over to the gaming tables. He passed up the roulette wheel and the blackjack games, and spent a few minutes losing a quick seventy credits at a jabob game. The Andrican who beat him look so childishly pleased with itself, strutting and waving its money around with a laugh that sounded like the delicate tinkling of wind chimes, that even Lomax was amused, and finally he wandered back to the tavern.

Most of the tables were full. There were a pair available near the casino, but the last thing he needed to do was make his escape past half a dozen bounty hunters, some of whom might start wondering if they would post a reward for the Iceman’s murderer, and so he waited until one opened up by the outside door.

He sat down, ordered a bottle of Cygnian cognac, poured himself a glass, and once again surveyed the room. His path to the door was clear; he was in plain sight of the huge one-way mirror behind the bar, where the Iceman would have a couple of men stationed to protect him. He was partially in shadow, so if he didn’t jerk his supposedly-wounded arm just right, no one would see it. The best of the bounty hunters—by reputation, anyway—were some sixty feet away at the gaming tables, and they wouldn’t risk hitting any customers as he walked out the door.

He gingerly felt his left arm with the fingers of his right hand. The artificial blood was there, right over his bicep, where the Iceman could slit it open with a knife. Then he checked his weaponry again: the projectile weapon, filled with blanks, sat on his right hip, where he could reach it with his “good” arm. And on his left hip was a laser pistol, just in case the Iceman’s protection wasn’t quite as promised.

Lomax forced his body to relax, content that he had done everything he could do to help carry off the ruse. Now it was just a matter of waiting for the Iceman, who in turn was undoubtedly waiting long enough to be sure that the Anointed One’s informant was on the premises.

One of the whores sidled up to him, and he spoke to her for a few minutes. When she realized that he had no interest in transacting any business with her, she moved off to a likelier target, and something about her body language conveyed to the other whores the fact that the man in black wasn’t in a buying mood.

Finally, after another hour had passed, the Iceman emerged from his office. He walked past Lomax’s table with no sign of recognition, spent a few minutes glad-handing the customers, checked with his gamesmen and dealers to see how the casino was doing, then stopped by the bar for a beer. He downed it, asked for a refill, and carried his glass over to Lomax’s table.

“You all set?” he asked softly.

Lomax nodded. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Good. Let’s wait a few more minutes, just in case our man is a late sleeper.”

“Even if he is, you’ll have a hundred eyewitnesses,” noted Lomax.

“True,” admitted the Iceman. “But I’m sure the Anointed One would rather have a first-hand report. I would.”

“You’re the boss,” said Lomax, picking up his glass and taking yet another sip of his cognac.

They passed a few minutes in silence, and finally the Iceman spoke again.

“I’d say it’s about time.” He paused. “I almost hate to see you leave Last Chance,” he added wryly. “That’s expensive stuff you’re drinking.”

“That’s okay,” said Lomax with a smile. “It’s on my tab, which I have no intention of paying.”

“The hell you’re not paying it!” yelled the Iceman in a voice that rang out throughout the tavern. “When you come into my establishment, you’re no different than anyone else!”

“You’d be surprised how different I am, old man,” replied Lomax, not quite yelling, but making sure that he, too, could be heard.

“You bleed like anybody else!” snapped the Iceman, drawing a knife and slashing at Lomax’s left arm, just below the elbow, and Lomax felt a bolt of pain surge through him, and blood—real blood—began discoloring his shirtsleeve.

“That was supposed to be my upper arm, you asshole!” he grated as the Iceman hurled his aging body at Lomax.

“I decided we couldn’t take the chance,” whispered the Iceman. “Now shoot me before someone pulls us apart!”

Lomax managed to withdraw his projectile weapon, and an instant later four loud explosions echoed through the tavern. The Iceman clutched at his chest, managed to slit open the blood bag with his knife, spun around once so that everyone could see that his chest and stomach were drenched in blood, and collapsed to the floor.

While the attention had been focused on the Iceman, Lomax had holstered the projectile weapon, painfully withdrawn his laser pistol, and transferred it to his good hand. Now he began backing out of the tavern very carefully, watchful for any indication that one of the customers might try to stop him. Nothing happened, and a moment later he found himself in the street.

“Let’s go!” whispered a voice, and he was instantly surrounded by three men.

“In just a second,” he said, his speech starting to slur. “I just have to get my bearings.”

“What bearings?” whispered the voice. “You’re standing right in front of The End of the Line.”

“It must be raining,” mumbled Lomax. “I’m all wet.”

“What’s the matter?” demanded another voice. “Just how much did you drink tonight?”

“Not much,” answered Lomax. “What’s the matter with me? I’m dizzy.”

“Come on!” whispered the first voice. “Before someone comes after you!”

“Right,” said Lomax. Suddenly he dropped to his knees. “I can’t stand up,” he murmured.

“Jesus!” hissed a third voice. “Look at his arm! I think the Iceman hit an artery. He’s lost a lot of blood!”

“Then fix a tourniquet, but let’s get out of here!”

“Hold him still! He’s soaked with the stuff.”

“Very good cognac,” muttered Lomax, and passed out.

23

He remembered nothing about the next four hours. Evidently they patched him up, put him in his ship, and set the navigational computer to take him a few hundred light years away and then brake to a stop in the void between star systems.

They could have doped him up a bit, he thought bitterly, as he tried to ignore the shooting pain whenever he moved his left arm, however slightly. They had cut his shirt off and bandaged his arm with the few strips of the cloth that weren’t already blood-soaked, but the blood had congealed and he was in utter agony as he cut the material off. He had disinfectants galore in his medical kit, but nothing with which to sew up or cauterize the wound, and he instructed his ship to land at the first human outpost.

It was the Iceman’s fault, he decided, trying to restrain his rage. Nobody could ever tell that fat old man anything. He had planned this from the start, and all that stuff during the afternoon about how he would fake a wound was just a smokescreen. He knew exactly what he was doing, old Mendoza; it was a deep and painful wound, and Lomax was weak enough from loss of blood that the Anointed One was sure to give him a few days to recuperate rather than send him out after the Prophet … and yet, with the experience of a lifetime, the Iceman had managed to miss most of the major nerves and tendons while opening the artery. It was an ugly wound, and a painful one, but it wouldn’t incapacitate him if he had to go up against the Kid in a few days’ time. A quick transfusion of blood and some painkillers and he’d be almost as good as new by the time the Kid showed up. He’d fake weakness, as the Iceman knew he would, rather than go after the Prophet, who seemed totally invincible to him anyway, and probably the rumors of his brush with death and his weakened condition would be just the edge he needed against the Kid.

The goddamned Iceman thought of everything, and although he was undoubtedly right, Lomax couldn’t stop feeling furious with him.

He faded in and out of consciousness for the next day, and finally awoke with a start when his computer signaled him that it had received permission to land on Pollux IV. He radioed ahead for medical service, was transferred to an ambulance and raced to a nearby medical center, and two days later, his arm bound in sterile packing and his blood count back to normal, he took off again.

He had no idea where the Anointed One was, but he contacted Korbekkian on Olympus via a scrambled channel, and was told that his leader was currently ensconced in a fortress on the desert world of Beta Stromberg, known locally as New Gobi. He loaded the coordinates into his computer, ate a light meal, and slept most of the way there. Once in orbit he used the secret frequency Korbekkian had given him to announce his presence, and a few moments later was directed to land at a small field on the equator.

He emerged from his ship into the incredibly hot sunlight, and felt a momentary dizziness as he carried his duffel bag to the tiny customs station, where he was immediately given a tall container of water and some salt tablets.

“It takes getting used to,” confided one of the guards.

“No more than hell does, I’ll wager,” muttered Lomax, downing the water and a pair of tablets.

The guard laughed at that. “No bet,” he said.

Lomax looked around, shading his eyes from the sun with his good hand.

“What now?” he asked.

“Come with me,” said the guard, leading him off to a groundcar. “He’s waiting for you.”

“He is?”

“You’re a hero, Gravedancer,” said the guard. “He sent a lot of men out after the Iceman. You’re the one who succeeded.”

“You people know about that already?”

“Not much happens that the Anointed One doesn’t know about,” answered the guard as they climbed into the machine. He ordered the ignition to activate, and suddenly Lomax felt a life-giving cold breeze hit him from all directions. “Better?” asked the guard.

“Much,” answered Lomax. “I may never get out.”

The guard laughed again, and sped off along a narrow tract of ground that differed from the rest of the surrounding area only in that it possessed tire marks. They drove for about ten miles, circled an immense sand dune, and suddenly were confronted by an enormous fortress, capable of housing at least three thousand men.

“You guys didn’t build this on the spur of the moment,” remarked Lomax, studying the building, a huge, angular structure with tight molecular bonding that made the relatively thin walls almost impervious to attack.

“No,” answered the guard. “It was standing here, deserted, when we first arrived a few years ago. Evidently there was a native race that resented Man’s presence a few centuries ago. There are maybe two dozen fortresses like this all over the planet.”

“And the native race?”

“Gone.”

“What’s so important about New Gobi that we had to kill off an entire race to possess it?” asked Lomax curiously.

“Beats me,” said the guard. “Probably just because it was here.”

Lomax nodded. “Sounds about right.”

“Well,” said the guard, “we might as well go in.”

“It’d damned well better be climate-controlled,” said Lomax as he reluctantly got out of the groundcar’s cool compartment.

“It probably wouldn’t bother the Anointed One if it wasn’t,” confided the guard. “He’s totally beyond such mundane concerns as physical comfort. But he understands that the rest of us have human weaknesses and limitations, and he takes care of his followers.”

“That means it’s cool inside?” asked Lomax as the sun bore down upon his head and neck.

“Right.”

“Then let’s hurry,” said Lomax, increasing his pace.

They reached the heavily-guarded entrance, and were passed through without question. The guard turned Lomax over to a pair of men in military uniforms, then left and began driving back to the spaceport. The two men accompanied Lomax down a long, high-ceilinged corridor until they came to a pair of ornate double doors.

“He’s inside,” said one of the men. “You’re to go in alone.”

“Thanks.”

“You know the procedure?” asked the other.

“Well enough to get by,” answered Lomax.

The man stared at him but offered no comment, and a moment later the two doors swung open just enough for Lomax to pass through them, then silently closed behind him.

Moses Mohammed Christ was on his self-styled throne, wearing the white robe and gold chain that seemed to be his trademark. His alien feline carnivore lay at his feet, as always.

“Welcome back, Mr. Lomax,” he said, a smile of greeting crossing his ascetic face. “You have done well.”

“Thank you, My Lord,” said Lomax, approaching to within fifteen feet of him, then stopping as the carnivore’s muscles began tensing.

“I understand that you did not emerge unscathed,” continued the Anointed One.

“Not quite,” said Lomax. He gestured to his left arm, which was hanging limp at his side. “The medics say that I’ll be as good as new in three or four weeks.”

“That’s excellent news,” said the Anointed One. “I would hate to lose the services of the man who killed Carlos Mendoza.” He paused. “The remainder of your fee has been deposited in your account, as we agreed.”

“I never doubted that it would be,” said Lomax. “Everyone knows you are a man of your word, My Lord.”

The Anointed One leaned forward. “Tell me about your adventure, Mr. Lomax.”

“There’s nothing much to tell, My Lord. I insulted him, he lost his temper, and I killed him. It was just another day’s work.”

“You’re too modest, Mr. Lomax,” said the Anointed One. “I sent five men to Last Chance ahead of you. Why did you succeed when they failed?”

“It’s like I told you when we first met, My Lord,” said Lomax. “I’m the best there is.”

“And how did you escape? Surely the Iceman had bodyguards, men posted around his establishment.”

You’re a sharp son of a bitch, aren’t you? thought Lomax wryly. You’ve heard the story from at least one confederate, and you still smell a rat.

Aloud he said: “Partly it was the element of surprise, My Lord. The Iceman and I were old acquaintances, and his men probably weren’t expecting anything. Also, I was positioned right by the front door, so I could make a quick exit.”

“Surely they could recover their composure and shoot more rapidly than you could move out the door,” suggested the Anointed One.

“I knew that his men were stationed in the casino and behind a one-way mirror that hung over the bar,” answered Lomax. “I waited until enough patrons were blocking their view before I precipitated his attack on me.” He paused. “It takes a long time to tell, but it was over in just a couple of seconds.”

“And how did you make it to your ship, as badly wounded as you were?”

“I had a vehicle waiting outside,” lied Lomax.

“That was a most remarkable escape,” commented the Anointed One.

“Look,” said Lomax heatedly, “if you think I’m lying, you can check with Last Chance; they’ll confirm that the Iceman’s dead. And you can check with the hospital on Pollux IV; they’re the ones who patched me up.”

“I already have,” said the Anointed One.

Lomax stared at him. “Well, then?”

“I have a fondness for tales of derring-do,” said the Anointed One with a smile.

“As long as you keep paying for them, I’ll keep giving you new ones,” said Lomax.

Am I doing it right? Did I get too mad too soon? Should I have been so defensive? Damn it, Iceman, I wish you were here. You’re a hell of a lot better at lying and double-dealing than I am … and this is one smart bastard, this Anointed One. Almost as smart as you.

“You shall have ample opportunity to,” said the Anointed One. “I have already selected your next target.”

I’ll just bet you have.

“But until you are fully healed, you will remain here on New Gobi with me.” He paused. “I have long needed a man of your capabilities, Mr. Lomax. I think we shall have a long and fruitful relationship.”

“I hope so, My Lord.”

“If you are loyal to me, and fulfill your assignments, you can become one of the most powerful men in the galaxy.”

“I can live with that, My Lord,” said Lomax, forcing a smile to his face.

“I am sure that you can.” The Anointed One paused and stared at him intently. “But if you betray my trust, I can promise you a death such as few men have ever experienced.”

Lomax returned his stare. He doesn’t want to impress me with that. If he could scare me, I’m not the man he’s seeking.

“Save your threats, My Lord,” he said in level tones. “I’m a businessman, and I’ve made a considered judgment that my best interests lie in serving you. If I should ever become convinced that I made a wrong decision, you’ll be in no position to order my death.”

The Anointed One smiled. “I like you, Mr. Lomax,” he said. “You are forthright and uncomplicated. You wish to kill and become rich; I seek an executioner whose motivation is reasonable and predictable. I foresee that we shall work in harmony for many years to come.”

“I see no reason why we shouldn’t, My Lord.”

“Good,” said the Anointed One. “Now go to your quarters, unpack your gear, and relax. You will join me for supper tonight.”

“Where?”

“I’ll send some men to accompany you until you become better acquainted with your surroundings,” answered the Anointed One. “It’s a very large fortress.”

“Thank you, My Lord,” said Lomax, bowing and backing toward the doors, which opened just before he reached them.

He was escorted to his quarters—a large, airy room with a window overlooking a flowered courtyard—and immediately took another pain pill. Then he sent for his belongings, which the guard from the spaceport had left at the entrance of the fortress, took a dryshower—being careful to keep his left arm free from the light chemical spray—and shaved. He considered taking more salt tablets, but the interior of the fortress was pleasantly cool, and he had no intention of going outside again, so he settled for drinking from the huge container of ice water he found at his bedside. Then, after too many days of napping in the cockpit of his ship, he lay down on the airbed, floating on the gentle currents, and was soon sound asleep.

He was awakened by a rasping sound, and realized that someone was ringing the small bell outside his door. He got up groggily, winced as he used his left arm to support some of his weight as he got up off the bed, and ordered the door to open.

“It’s dinnertime, sir,” said a uniformed guard.

“Five minutes,” he muttered.

“The Anointed One doesn’t like to be kept waiting,” said the guard.

“Well, if the Anointed One doesn’t want me passing out at the table, he can wait until I’ve taken my medication,” said Lomax irritably.

He went into the bathroom, washed his face with cold water, ran a brush through his hair, and took another pain pill. He noticed some seepage coming through the dressing on his arm, but decided that it would lend verisimilitude to his story, and elected not to change the dressing until he returned to the room.

Then he approached the guard, who was fidgeting uncomfortably, and nodded. The man walked off rapidly, and Lomax followed him through a maze of cool, tiled corridors until they came to a large chamber where the Anointed One sat alone at one end of a long, polished table made of some alien hardwood. His pet was nowhere to be seen, and Lomax concluded that probably even the Anointed One couldn’t control it when there was food present.

“You are late, Mr. Lomax,” he said emotionlessly.

“I’m sorry, My Lord,” responded Lomax, as the guard silently left the chamber. “But I’m still on medication for my arm.”

“I see,” said the Anointed One. He paused for a moment, then inclined his head almost imperceptibly. “You are forgiven.”

“Thank you, My Lord.”

“While you are on medication, I will send for you a few minutes early.”

“That’s the most reasonable approach, My Lord.”

A man and a woman, both clad in conservatively-tailored beige robes, entered the chamber, bearing bowls of salad.

“We do not imbibe stimulants, Mr. Lomax,” said the Anointed One, as the two servers placed the bowls before them. “I hope this will not present a hardship for you.”

“Not at all,” said Lomax, as another woman brought in a container of water and two large glasses. She filled them to the top and set one in front of each man.

“Good. For our main course, we will have roasted blacksheep.”

“Blacksheep, My Lord?”

“A mutated sheep from Balok XIV,” answered the Anointed One.

“Balok XIV, My Lord?” asked Lomax, frowning. “From the number, I’d have guessed it was a gas giant.”

The Anointed One smiled. “Balok has 31 planets. The only habitable one is Balok XIV, an agricultural colony where they’ve done genetic experimentation with sheet and goats.” He paused. “Blacksheep go about eight hundred pounds apiece, and are said to be the most succulent meat on the Inner Frontier.”

“Really?”

“I’m surprised you’ve never had any.”

“I eat very little meat, My Lord,” answered Lomax.

“Good. I like a man who watches his diet.”

“And his blood pressure, and his cholesterol level,” added Lomax with a wry grin.

“Ah!” said the Anointed One with a smile. “Then you are not superhuman after all.”

“I’m afraid not, My Lord.” Lomax paused, wondering if he should bring up the subject of Penelope Bailey or wait for the Anointed One to do so. Finally he decided to take advantage of the opening. “The only superhuman I’m aware of is the Prophet.”

“Good!” said the Anointed One. “I had hoped that we might discuss her this evening.” He paused. “Did Mendoza talk to you about her?”

“Not much,” answered Lomax.

“He said nothing about her powers?”

Lomax shook his head. “No, My Lord. I was hoping you might tell me about her.”

The Anointed One stared at him intently. “If you know nothing of her powers, why do you claim that she is superhuman?” he asked.

That’s right, Lomax. Put your foot into it again, why don’t you?

“The Iceman seemed to think she was,” he said carefully. “And as for me, I can’t believe he’d work for anyone who wasn’t something out of the ordinary.” He shrugged. “He said something about her predicting the future, but I don’t put much stock in it.”

“Oh? Why not?”

“Maybe she can read the backs of cards, or do party tricks, but if she could really see the future, why didn’t she warn him that I had come to Last Chance to kill him?”

“Maybe she no longer had any use for him.”

“Maybe,” said Lomax, striving to look unconvinced. “But predicting the future? That’s a little hard to swallow.”

“Then what do you think makes her superhuman, Mr. Lomax?” persisted the Anointed One.

You’d better put an end to this before you say something else that he can pounce on, Lomax.

“I have a reason, My Lord, but I have a feeling it may offend you.”

“Come,” said the Anointed One. “You have my permission to speak frankly.”

“All right,” said Lomax, feigning reluctance. “I think you fear her, My Lord, and if a man who has no fear of the Democracy fears a single woman out of the Frontier, then she must be, in some way, superhuman.”

“I fear no one!” snapped the Anointed One.

“Then I apologize, My Lord.”

“No one, do you hear!”

“I hear, My Lord,” said Lomax. “And since I was mistaken about that, then I am certain I was mistaken about the Prophet as well.” He stared unblinking into the coal-black eyes of the Anointed One. “Once my arm is totally healed, I hope you will commission me to kill her … and because I have offended you, and I wish to convince you of my loyalty and my desire to remain in your service, I will accept such a commission for no fee at all.”

Evidently it was the right answer, for the tension left the Anointed One’s thin body, and he leaned back on his chair.

“That will not be necessary, Mr. Lomax,” he said, his voice once more under control. “I will pay for value received.”

“If you insist, My Lord,” said Lomax. “But my offer stands.”

The Anointed One continued staring at him. “You are a most unusual man, Mr. Lomax.”

“I take that as a high compliment, My Lord.”

“Perhaps,” said the Anointed One. “At the moment, though, it is merely an observation.”

They ate in silence, and then the servers took away their empty salad dishes and brought in the blacksheep.

Get here soon, Kid, thought Lomax, as he cut himself a small piece of meat and chewed it thoughtfully. This man is too goddamned sharp. Maybe the Iceman could handle him, but I sure as hell can’t, not for any lengthy period of time. If you don’t show up quick, I’m going to make one mistake too many.

24

Two days passed, days in which Lomax did his best to keep to himself—or at least keep away from the Anointed One.

He complained that his medication made him groggy, then spent hours each afternoon feigning sleep on his bed, just in case his room was under surveillance. He insisted that the Anointed One’s security was paramount, and spent more hours each day walking the perimeter of the castle and even the sun-baked grounds, checking every means of ingress, trying to imagine how he might gain access to the fortress if he was an assassin. He spent an hour a day cleaning and polishing his weapons, and another half hour taking target practice.

And still he found himself in the Anointed One’s presence too often for his liking. He took lunches and dinners with him, and his presence was requested for the evening entertainments (a request no one dared refuse). Strangely, the Anointed One made no attempt to convert him to the One True Faith, probably because he made it clear early on that he had no interest in any religion, and this one—a combination of the harsher features of Christianity, Judaism and Islam—made less sense to him than most.

He arose on the morning of the third day, allowed himself the luxury of a shower with actual water, shaved, dressed, and ordered his door to open. He no longer needed assistance finding his way around the fortress, though it was nonetheless frequently given, but on this particular morning there were no guards to be seen, and he walked to the enormous kitchen, where he usually had a glass of juice and a cup of coffee before the Anointed One could find him and invite him to breakfast.

This morning, though, there was no one working in the kitchen, and the coffee had not yet been made. Shrugging, he walked to the enormous refrigerator, pulled out a container of fruit juice, held it to his lips, and took a long swallow before replacing it.

As he was leaving the kitchen, he looked out the window, which overlooked the same garden as his bedroom, but from a different angle, and something caught his eye. Not a movement, for nothing was moving in the morning sun, but a patch of color that didn’t seem to belong. He stared at it for a moment, then blinked his eyes and stared again—and suddenly the whole picture seemed to take shape, and he realized that he was staring at the leg of a dead man who had recently been the Anointed One’s personal chef.

He drew his laser pistol and walked carefully to the kitchen door. It opened out to the dining room where the Anointed One took his meals, but the room was totally deserted, and Lomax quickly walked through it, into the high-ceilinged corridor beyond.

Here he came to two more bodies, both dead, both displaying the effects of sonic distortion. He couldn’t remember if the Silicon Kid used a sonic pistol—in fact, he couldn’t recall the Kid carrying a weapon at all—but there was no doubt in his mind that this was the Kid’s doing. The Iceman had predicted it, and he had come to the conclusion that the cagey old man was damned near as good at predicting the future as was Penelope Bailey.

He stepped over the two bodies, then looked out into a nearby courtyard. There were no bodies there—but there also weren’t any guards, and two men were usually positioned there, even in the heat of the day.

The Kid was good, he had to give him that. He’d killed at least three men, possibly more, and done it swiftly and silently, without alerting anyone to his presence. But he couldn’t keep it up; there were close to a thousand armed men in and around the fortress, and any moment now he would have to hear the explosions of projectile weapons, the crackling of lasers, the eerie humming of sonic guns.

But he heard nothing as he proceeded along the corridor. He came to a turn, very near the front entrance to the fortress, and looked out a circular window. There were some thirty men in the courtyard, some standing at attention, a few in conversation with each other, four of them picking up tiny pieces of litter. He considered alerting them to the Kid’s presence, but thought better of it: if he was to win the Anointed One’s total confidence, he would have to go up against the Kid alone, as the Iceman had said. Calling in the army might save the day, but it wouldn’t win the war.

Gun still in hand, walking in a semi-crouch, his left arm still hanging limply by his side, Lomax increased his pace to the “throne room”, for it was there that the Anointed One conducted his morning business. He turned two more corners, then found himself facing the massive double doors. Four men lay dead in front of them.

He walked past them silently, then gave one of the doors a slight push. It didn’t give.

“Open,” he murmured.

The door swung open just enough for him to pass through, then closed behind him.

The Kid, his back to the door, was facing the Anointed One and three of his closest advisors, a sonic pistol in each hand. The three advisors had their hands above their heads, and the Anointed One’s feline carnivore lay dead on the floor, but Moses Mohammed Christ sat passively upon his throne, staring at the Kid as if he somehow held the advantage.

“That wasn’t so difficult at all,” the Kid was saying. “She told me getting to you would be easy; I should have believed her.”

“Did she tell you how you were going to get back out?” asked Lomax.

The Kid whirled to face him.

“She warned me about you, too, Gravedancer,” he said. “You’re the one to watch out for.” He grinned. “I can’t imagine why.”

“Probably because I’m going to kill you,” said Lomax in level tones.

“I’m the only one who’s doing any killing today,” said the Kid. “Because we were friends once, I’ll give you five seconds to get out of here.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” said Lomax. “Now drop your guns and you just might live long enough to leave the room in one piece.”

The Kid laughed. “You’ve got a gun aimed at me, I’ve got a pair aimed at you. It’s a standoff.”

“No it’s not,” said Lomax. “I’m prepared to die for the Anointed One. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you, Kid; are you ready to throw it away for a woman who hasn’t got the guts to do her own dirty work?”

Just in case I come out of this alive, you’d damned well better have been listening to every word. I could just as easily have back-shot him, but the Iceman says I’ve got to be a hero for you.

“Neither of us has to die,” said the Kid, and suddenly Lomax saw what he was looking for: the first tiny flickering of uncertainty.

“Oh?”

“You can throw in with me.”

“Why should I want to?”

“So you can be on the winning side,” said the Kid.

“What does she pay?”

“The sky’s the limit,” said the Kid enthusiastically. “You wouldn’t believe it.” He relaxed slightly. “What do you say, Gravedancer?”

“This is what I say,” answered Lomax, firing his laser weapon and hurling himself to the ground, rolling rapidly to his left.

The Kid uttered a strangled gurgle and swept Lomax’s vicinity with his sonic pistols, but they were aimed too high, and before he could lower them he had collapsed to the floor.

“This can’t be happening,” rasped the Kid, coughing up mouthfuls of blood. “I can’t lose!”

Lomax walked over to him and kicked his weapons across the floor.

“I told you you should have stayed on Greycloud, Kid,” he said.

The Kid tried to answer, but couldn’t.

“You could have been a farmer or a chip manufacturer or half a hundred other things.” Lomax paused and stared down at him, “Now you’re just one more fool who came out to the Frontier and wound up in an unmarked grave.”

The Kid glared at him for just an instant. Then a look of terror crossed his face, he tried to say something else, coughed again, and died.

“Are you all right, My Lord?” asked Lomax, turning to the Anointed One.

“I am, thanks to you,” answered the Anointed One.

“I’m glad I arrived in time.”

“You knew this man?”

“Yes, My Lord,” replied Lomax. “He called himself the Silicon Kid. His real name was Neil Cayman.” He paused. A little distortion of the truth probably won’t hurt. “I took him in, fed him, gave him money. He used it to implant some biochips in his body, chips that made him a killer with phenomenal reflexes.” He looked at the Anointed One. “Then he deserted me and went to work for the Prophet.”

“He offered you your life,” said the Anointed One.

“Yes, he did.”

“Knowing that these chips made him a formidable opponent, and still recovering from your wounds as you are, why did you not accept his offer?”

Lomax’s first instinct was to look him in the eye and say, “Because you are my leader, My Lord, and I am loyal only to you.” He caught himself just in time. Once you were finished laughing at that, you just might decide to lop off my head.

He paused for a moment, and then spoke: “It was a value judgment, My Lord.”

“A value judgment?”

Lomax nodded. “If I agreed to join him, it would be an admission to both him and to myself that I couldn’t defeat him, and no matter how high I rose in the Prophet’s organization, I would always take my orders from him.” He paused and smiled a properly self-satisfied smile at the Anointed One. “But by taking him on and killing him, I’ve proved both my worth and my loyalty to you. I ask for no specific reward for my actions; I shall trust to your wisdom and generosity.”

The Anointed One nodded. “You are a simple man, Mr. Lomax, but an honest one and a brave one.” He smiled. “You shall have your reward.”

“Thank you, My Lord.”

The Anointed One sighed deeply. “I wish I could read the Prophet as easily as I can read you.”

“Perhaps when you meet her, you’ll discover that you can,” answered Lomax.

“Perhaps,” said the Anointed One. He turned to his three advisors, who had remained where they stood, silent and motionless. “Summon my military leaders.”

The three men practically ran from the room, and returned a few minutes later with six uniformed soldiers.

“My Lord,” began the largest of them. “I had no idea. I—”

“Silence!” commanded the Anointed One.

The man snapped to attention.

“While you and your subordinates were doing God only knows what, this man”—he indicated Lomax—“stood side by side with me and helped me dispatch the notorious assassin known as the Silicon Kid, the very same assassin who entered this fortress as if there were no guards at all!”

Well, thanks for admitting that I helped you, thought Lomax wryly.

“This man,” he repeated, again pointing to Lomax, “and this man alone, was prepared to defend me with his life.”

“That is not so, My Lord! We all—”

“Shut up!” snapped the Anointed One. “In all matters of security, this man, this Gravedancer, now speaks for me, and must be obeyed as I would be obeyed. Is that clear?”

The six men stared sullenly at Lomax and muttered their acquiescence.

Wonderful. Six more men waiting to stick knives in my back. Just what I needed.

“I want you to conduct an immediate investigation and find out how this assassin was able to penetrate our defenses, how he came to sneak into the fortress past hundreds of armed men who were supposed to be protecting me from just such an occurrence.” The Anointed One smiled a humorless smile. “When the report is in my hands, and I expect it no later than this evening, we shall mete out justice to those deserving of it.”

The men’s expression betrayed a certain uneasiness at his notion of justice.

“Your arm is bleeding again, Mr. Lomax,” said the Anointed One, turning to Lomax. “Tend to it, and then join me in the dining room. We have many things to discuss.”

“We do, My Lord?”

The Anointed One nodded. “She couldn’t protect him. Perhaps she is not superhuman after all.” His eyes blazed with passion. “You may soon have your wish, Mr. Lomax.”

“My wish?”

“You wish to kill her, do you not?”

“Yes, My Lord,” said Lomax, wondering just what he was getting himself into.

“I think as soon as your arm is healed, I shall give you the opportunity.”

“Thank you, My Lord,” said Lomax, bowing and backing out of the room.

And just how do I get out of this one, Iceman?

25

Lomax returned to his room and noticed that his left arm was indeed throbbing. He went into the bathroom to change the dressing, then reached for his container of pain pills—and stopped.

He closed the door behind him, and performed a thorough, inch by inch survey of the bathroom. Finally, satisfied that there were no security cameras embedded in the walls or ceiling, he took a pill and placed the container in his holster, just beneath his laser pistol.

Then he emerged from the bathroom, walked to the door of the bedroom, and ordered it to open. There were four guards this time, more, he assumed, for his security than because the Anointed One distrusted his motives.

“I’ve got to go to my ship,” he announced.

“Is something wrong, sir?” asked one of the guards.

“I left the rest of my pills there,” answered Lomax. “Anti-inflammatories and painkillers.”

“I can send someone to get them for you, sir,” offered the guard.

Lomax shook his head. “My ship’s got a very complex security system. Your man would blow it up the second he tried to open the hatch.” He paused. “Can you get me a ride there? I doubt that I could find it myself.”

Which should assuage most of your doubts.

“Certainly, sir,” answered the guard. “Let me just report to the Anointed One and tell him why you’ll be late for your meeting.”

“Of course,” said Lomax.

The guard walked a few feet away, raised the Anointed One on his communicator, whispered something, listened for a moment, and returned to Lomax.

“It’s all arranged, sir,” he announced. “There will be a groundcar waiting for you at the main entrance. The Anointed One requests that you join him for lunch when you return.”

“Thank you,” said Lomax, heading off down the corridor.

A moment later he was racing across the hardened surface of the sun-baked desert, wondering what kind of native race had lived in such a place. The spaceport came into view the instant they rounded the huge dune that protected the fortress, but the light and the perspective played tricks with his estimate of the distance involved, and it took the groundcar five minutes longer than he anticipated to reach his ship.

“I’ll wait right here for you, sir,” said his driver.

“That won’t be necessary,” replied Lomax. “I may be a few minutes.”

“Just to get some pills, sir?”

“I want to recharge my laser pistol.”

“We have chargers at the fortress, sir.”

“I trust my own,” answered Lomax.

The driver shrugged. “Whatever you say, sir.”

“It could take half an hour or so, and I don’t want either you or the vehicle overheating,” said Lomax. “Why don’t you go over to the observation tower and have a cold drink? Keep an eye on the ship; when you see me come out of the hatch, drive by and pick me up.”

“Whatever you say, sir,” replied the driver, already uncomfortable as the hot air poured in through Lomax’s open door. He sped over to the tower as Lomax opened the hatch of his ship, stepped through, and locked it behind him.

The interior of the ship was excruciatingly hot. He immediately activated the climate control system, and in a short time the temperature dropped down to a comfortable level. He began charging his pistol’s power pack—it wouldn’t do to be caught charging it at the fortress that evening—then seated himself at the pilot’s chair, activated the radio, masked his signal as best he could, and put through a subspace transmission on the Iceman’s private scrambled code.

A moment later a voice, crackling with static, could be heard. “This is the Iceman.”

“Lomax here.”

“What’s happening?”

“The Kid is dead, the Anointed One loves me, and I’m going to cut your arm open the next time I see you.”

The Iceman chuckled. “I had to make it believable. I hope I didn’t do any permanent damage.”

“I’ll live,” answered Lomax. “At least, it won’t be the arm that kills me,” he amended. “But the Anointed One might, if I give him too many wrong answers.”

“Are you in trouble there?” asked the Iceman.

“Not yet, but it could blow at any minute. I’m operating in the dark here. I don’t know what you want, and I know just enough about the Prophet so that he thinks I know more.”

“I see,” said the Iceman. There was a brief pause in the transmission. “All right. I suppose it’s time to move.”

“Move where?” asked Lomax.

“Figure of speech,” answered the Iceman. “I have to move. You’re staying right where you are.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Somehow, you’ve got to convince the Anointed One to attack a planet called Mozart, and to attack in force.”

“Mozart?” repeated Lomax, frowning. “Never heard of it.”

“It’s the third planet in the Symphony system. Alpha Montana III on your charts.”

“What’s so special about Mozart?”

“That’s where Penelope Bailey is.”

“Really, or is that just what we want him to think?”

“She’s really there,” said the Iceman.

“And you want him to attack in full force?”

“That’s right.”

“Does that include nukes and chemicals?”

“Everything he’s got,” said the Iceman. “Even anti-matter, if he has any.”

“I doubt it,” replied Lomax. “Even so, there won’t be much left of Mozart after he hits it.”

“Don’t kid yourself,” said the Iceman. “He won’t be able to harm a hair of her head.”

Lomax frowned again. “Then what’s this all about?”

“I need to get onto the planet.”

“You plan to use a navy of two hundred million men as a distraction?” exclaimed Lomax in disbelief.

“In a matter of speaking. They’ve got to keep her so busy that I can land.”

“Just a minute, Iceman,” said Lomax. “If she’s what you say she is, she’ll know you’re going to land. I mean, she can see past the battle, can’t she?”

“Of course she can. But she’ll be so preoccupied with the immediate threat that she’ll have to put me on hold, so to speak, and deal with me later.”

“And what happens when she does deal with you?”

“That’s my concern,” said the Iceman. “You just see to it that the Anointed One attacks. You killed the Kid, and he thinks you killed me. Give him a good reason to attack, and he ought to trust you enough to do what you tell him.”

“He’s not the most trusting soul you’d ever want to meet,” said Lomax dubiously.

“Then think of some reason why he has to trust you, and make it stick,” said the Iceman.

“I’ll do my best.”

“You’re best’s been good enough so far,” said the Iceman. He paused again. “Oh—I need to know one other thing.”

“What is it?”

“Do his ships have any special military insignia? I don’t want them blowing me to bits before I reach the planet.”

“Not to my knowledge,” replied Lomax. He considered the question. “No, I’m sure they don’t. When the Democracy thinks you’re planning to attack it, you don’t advertise your presence by plastering an insignia all over your ships.”

“You’d better be right,” said the Iceman.

“If I find out otherwise, I’ll try to get word to you,” Lomax promised him. “Does your ship’s radio respond to the same scramble code?”

“Yes.”

“Good enough. I’ll signal you if I’m wrong about the insignia.”

“How soon do you think you can get him to attack?” said the Iceman. “You’re a lot closer to Mozart than I am. I want to make sure that I don’t get there too late.”

“He’s got his forces spread out all over the Democracy and the Inner Frontier,” said Lomax. “If he gave the word right now, it would probably take them a couple of months to assemble and get into some kind of coherent formation—and he won’t think he’s got that kind of time.” He paused thoughtfully, then continued. “My guess is he’ll pull in whatever he can get from nearby systems—five thousand ships or so, maybe three to five million men—and attack within a week.”

“Then I’d better take off in a couple of days and just stay a few systems away until my sensors pick up your fleet.”

“Don’t be in such a hurry,” said Lomax. “I still have to convince him to attack. It’s not as easy as you might think.” He paused. “I’m not as quick as you, Iceman. Every time I start stretching the truth, he starts getting suspicious.”

“Then don’t tell him a thing,” said the Iceman promptly.

“What are you talking about?”

“Let him discover the truth on his own,” answered the Iceman. “The truth we want him to believe, that is.”

Lomax stared at the blank viewscreen above the computer panel, lost in thought.

“Hello?” said the Iceman. “Hello? Are you still there?”

“Yeah, I’m here,” said Lomax.

“You didn’t transmit for almost two minutes,” said the Iceman. “I thought I’d lost you.”

“I came up with an idea,” said Lomax.

“Oh?”

“I think I can make the Anointed One buy it—but I’m going to need your help.”

“I’ll help in any way I can,” answered the Iceman. “But don’t forget—the Anointed One thinks I’m dead.”

“I know,” said Lomax. “Are you recording this transmission?”

“Yes.”

“All right.” He rattled off a nine-digit code. “Did you get that?”

“Yeah. What is it?”

“It’s a code that will reach a man named Otis Korbekkian on Olympus.”

“Okay, what do I do with it?” asked the Iceman.

“Create a phony name and send him a message that can’t be traced back to Last Chance or to your ship.”

“No problem,” said the Iceman. “What kind of message?”

“Tell him,” said Lomax, barely able to suppress a smile, “that the Prophet’s military machine won’t be ready for war for another month or two, that she’s relatively defenseless on Mozart, and that Korbekkian’s assignment is to commission some assassinations, including mine, that will take the Anointed One’s attention away from her vulnerability.”

“You think that’ll do it?” asked the Iceman.

“I think so,” replied Lomax. “He sees conspiracies everywhere, so why not give him one? Korbekkian’s just a contact man; there’s no reason to assume he won’t play both ends against the middle, supplying killers to both sides for a fee.” Lomax paused. “Yeah, the more I think about it, the more I think it’s just the kind of double-cross the Anointed One will buy. And he if buys that, he’ll buy the Prophet’s being defenseless. It shouldn’t take much to convince him to hit her before she builds up her forces.

“How much does he know about her?”

“Not much.”

“Enough to know that she hasn’t got any forces, or that she doesn’t need any?”

“It would be inconceivable to him,” answered Lomax. “Hell, I know all about her, and I have a hard time believing it.”

“All right,” said the Iceman. “You’ve had a busy day already, and we don’t want to hit the Anointed One with too many things all at once. I’ll send the message exactly two Standard days from now.”

“Right.”

“One word of advice, Gravedancer,” said the Iceman.

“What is it?”

“Somebody always lives to tell the story. If you want it to be you, see to it that you’re not in the attack fleet.”

The Iceman broke the connection.

26

The Anointed One was waiting for him when he returned from the spaceport.

He entered the dining room, found a fruit plate already laid out for him, and promptly sat down. He took a long swallow from his water glass, then went to work on some citrus slices.

“Killing people seems to increase your appetite,” remarked the Anointed One dryly.

Lomax smiled and shook his head. “No, My Lord. But being out in that heat makes me want to replenish some fluids.”

“Did you remember your salt tablets?”

“No,” said Lomax, surprised. “I totally forgot about them.”

“As long as you remain on New Gobi, you must always keep them with you,” said the Anointed One. “You have become one of my most valued men. I should hate to lose you to a case of heat prostration.”

“I’d hate it every bit as much, My Lord,” replied Lomax. “I’ll make sure I’m not without the tablets again.”

“Did you find your medication aboard your ship?” continued the Anointed One.

Lomax nodded. “And I recharged my power pack.”

“I wouldn’t have thought your weapon expended that much energy in this morning’s altercation.”

“It didn’t, My Lord,” answered Lomax. “But when you depend on your weapons for a living, you care for them the way a mother cares for her baby.” He forced a smile to his lips. “I can survive forgetting my salt tablets … but if my weapons ever fail me, I’m not likely to get a second chance.”

“Very sensible,” said the Anointed One. “I approve.”

Lomax didn’t know what to say next, so he fell silent and concentrated on his food.

“Tell me, Mr. Lomax,” said the Anointed One, breaking the silence after a moment, “how do you think the Silicon Kid gained entrance to the fortress?”

“He had to have a confederate on the inside,” lied Lomax promptly.

“That is my conclusion, too. Have you any suggestions concerning whom it might have been?”

Lomax shook his head. “I haven’t been here long enough, My Lord.” He paused. “But there’s no question in my mind that an organization this size is riddled with traitors and double agents.”

“A few, perhaps,” admitted the Anointed One. “But riddled? I think not, Mr. Lomax.”

“I hate to disagree, My Lord,” said Lomax, “but whenever one man holds as much power and wealth as you do, it’s an open invitation to, shall we say, disloyalty?”

“I am the Anointed One. My people follow me as a matter of faith and belief. Temporal rewards are secondary to them.”

“They’re no more secondary to your followers than they are to me, My Lord,” said Lomax. “The only difference is that I make no bones about it.” He stared across the table at the ascetic, white-robed man. “Take your man on Olympus, for example.”

“Otis Korbekkian has served me loyally for seven years,” responded the Anointed One.

“Otis Korbekkian has served you for seven years,” responded Lomax.

“You are impugning his loyalty?” demanded the Anointed One.

“Let’s say I’m trying to define it,” answered Lomax. “I’m sure he’s loyal—to Otis Korbekkian. And to Mrs. Korbekkian, if there is one. And to the capitalistic principle. But I know for a fact that Korbekkian has taken commissions from people other than yourself, and has arranged various killings that you know nothing about.” He shrugged. “That doesn’t make him disloyal, My Lord. In all likelihood his other dealings have no effect on you or your plans.”

“How do you know that he has accepted other commissions?” demanded the Anointed One.

“It’s my business to know,” said Lomax. “I’m the kind of man he hires.”

“I don’t believe you, Mr. Lomax.”

“That’s your prerogative, My Lord,” said Lomax with an air of unconcern.

The Anointed One stared at him long and hard across the table. “Prove it,” he said at last.

“How?” asked Lomax. “It would just be my word against his.” He paused. “I suppose you could monitor his incoming and outgoing messages, if you wanted to go to the trouble.”

“I do not,” said the Anointed One. “The subject is closed.”

But Lomax saw the shadow of doubt cross his face, and he knew the subject was far from closed. Satisfied, he devoured the rest of his fruit plate, and spent the rest of the meal offering wild speculations as to which guards had been paid to turn a blind eye to the Kid’s presence that morning. Then word of still another body turned up—some hapless attendant that the Kid had killed and hidden earlier in the day—and the Anointed One, suddenly in a rage, went off to see the corpse and question his guards, while Lomax returned to his room and spent most of the afternoon feigning sleep for the benefit of any unseen observers.

Things proceeded uneventfully for the next two days. Lomax remained in his quarters as much as possible, spoke as little as possible during meals, concerned himself with examining the fortress’s security, secretly tested his ever-stronger left arm and publicly favored it, and even began developing a taste for blacksheep.

Then, in late afternoon two days after he had spoken to the Iceman, Lomax was summoned once again to the throne room, where Moses Mohammed Christ sat alone on his chair, a look of triumph on his long, lean face.

“You were right, Mr. Lomax,” said the Anointed One, “as you have been right all along.”

“My Lord?” said Lomax, trying his best to look confused.

“Otis Korbekkian,” said the Anointed One.

“What about him?”

“He was also in the employ of the Prophet, as you yourself suggested.”

“I knew he was working for someone else besides you, My Lord,” replied Lomax. “I never said it was the Prophet.” He paused. “I assume you’ll want me to eliminate him.”

“That has already been taken care of,” said the Anointed One.

“That’s too bad,” said Lomax. “I might have been able to pry some information about the Prophet out of him.”

“I am in possession of all the information I need.”

“Oh?”

The Anointed One leaned forward excitedly on his throne, his coal black eyes shining with triumph. “She is hiding on a planet named Mozart in the Alpha Montana system—and she is practically defenseless!”

“You’re sure of this?” asked Lomax.

“There is no doubt whatsoever!” exclaimed the Anointed One. “The Silicon Kid was sent here to divert my attention from her until she can build up her defenses. And from such information as I now possess, it is absolutely certain that Korbekkian also hired many others to wreak terror and confusion among us, to get us to look inward for traitors and conspirators rather than turning our eyes toward Mozart.”

“If your information is correct,” said Lomax carefully, “and if she is truly defenseless, then our next logical move is—”

“Attack!” cried the Anointed One, finishing his sentence for him. “I have summoned my forces here, and given orders to my commanders: we attack Mozart in three days’ time!”

“Can you mobilize that quickly, My Lord?” asked Lomax, amazed once again at the accuracy of the Iceman’s assessment.

“Not all of my followers are warriors, and not all who are warriors are available to me,” answered the Anointed One. “But we will attack in force, with almost four million men and women in close to eight thousand vessels that have been equipped for war.”

“May I make a suggestion, My Lord?”

“Certainly.”

“I don’t think any of us know the full extent of the Prophet’s powers, if indeed she has any powers at all,” said Lomax. “But if we are to expose this many of our people to potential danger, then I think we should hit Mozart with everything we have. We should settle for nothing less than blowing it out of existence.”

“My own thinking precisely,” said the Anointed One, nodding his head in agreement. “We will spare no expense, withhold no weapon, and show no mercy.”

“Good,” said Lomax firmly. “I think you’ve made a wise decision, My Lord.” He smiled. “Today the Prophet, tomorrow the Democracy.”

“So it shall be,” intoned the Anointed One. “And you, Mr. Lomax, will be beside me to share in the spoils.”

“I wouldn’t think there’d be anything left of Mozart to share in,” replied Lomax.

“There will be the glory of victory over my enemy, a victory in which you will have played a fundamental part.”

“I’m just doing what you pay me to do, My Lord,” said Lomax. “Nothing more.”

“Don’t be modest, Mr. Lomax,” said the Anointed One. “Without you, the Silicon Kid might well have killed me. And had you not expressed your doubts about Korbekkian, I might never have learned of the Prophet’s whereabouts before she was ready to meet me in battle. You are truly one of the architects of our forthcoming victory.”

“I’m flattered that you should think so, My Lord,” answered Lomax.

“In fact,” continued the Anointed One magnanimously, “it would be unfair to you not to allow you to participate in this Holy War. I have decided to give you your own ship to command.”

“My own ship?” repeated Lomax, startled.

The Anointed One smiled. “I had my doubts about you initially, I confess it. But by your actions you have overcome every one of them. This is my way of rewarding you.”

“You’re quite sure, My Lord?” asked Lomax. “I mean, I’ve killed many men, but I’ve never commanded a ship or led men into battle.”

“You will do both for the first of many times,” said the Anointed One.

“But—”

“I will have no more of your false modesty, Mr. Lomax,” said the Anointed One, still smiling. “It really does not become you.” He got to his feet. “Our interview is over.”

Lomax returned unhappily to his room, wondering exactly what the Anointed One’s smile actually meant.

PART 5:

The

Prophet’s

Book

27

Penelope Bailey stood beside a wooden bench next to the pond behind her house, her eyes trained blindly on the sky, seeing what no one else on Mozart could see, what no more than a handful of sophisticated instruments on the planet could detect.

“You are a fool, Moses Mohammed Christ,” she murmured. “Have you learned nothing from our prior encounters? Do you think my power is limited to destroying your churches?” She paused. “There is still time to turn back—but you will not retreat, will you? What lunacy has possessed you, what demons have goaded you into attacking me when the only possible result is your destruction?”

She sighed deeply, then went inside to make herself a cup of tea. The fleet was not yet in the formation she desired, and she knew that she had an hour or more to prepare herself. She sat down at a small table in the kitchen, added some lemon to the tea, stirred it absently, and continued looking out the window.

There were still factors to be sorted out, alternatives to be found, actions to be considered. Six of the Anointed One’s ships had developed engine trouble; should she destroy them, or let them live to tell the story of his defeat, to spread tales of her power throughout the galaxy? There was another ship, too, one that she foresaw would not join the formation, that seemed somehow special though she could not yet determine why.

Then she turned her attention to the Democracy. The Plan took constant modification, incessant monitoring. This man must die; that woman must not. This world’s economy must collapse; that lone miner must discover his planet’s only diamond pipe. She twitched, she posed, she postured, she did all that was necessary to bring about the desired events, and then she began reading the permutations of those events, for each of them altered a million possible futures, and she was presented with a new set of choices, a new spate of alternatives, all of which must be read and analyzed and extrapolated.

She concentrated on the Plan for perhaps forty minutes. Then, satisfied that it was on track for another day, she made another cup of tea and walked out to the pond once more. Again she looked blindly up to the skies.

“Soon, Moses Mohammed Christ,” she murmured. “Soon.”

She finished her tea and set the cup and saucer down on the wooden bench.

“I would have given you another six years,” she said softly, staring at the sky. “Eventually I would have defeated you in the Spica sector, but you would have enjoyed six more years of power and authority. Now I will have to rebuild your organization, will have to assert myself sooner. I will adjust and I will triumph, but I cannot fathom why you have chosen to throw your life away. When we met at Spica, I would have given you no alternative but to fight or run, and because you could not lose face before your followers you would have fought.” She paused, frowning. “But there is no reason for this confrontation today, no reason for you to die on the Inner Frontier. I must learn what brought you to this unhappy end, for it became likely only a week ago and certain only this morning.”

And because she did not have the gift of reading the past, she turned her attention once more to the future, to the infinite number of futures confronting her, searching through them for a key to unlock the recent past, to determine the reason for her enemy’s suicidal decision.

And, within a very few minutes, she found it.

“Of course,” she said, with no feeling of surprise. “It had to be you.”

She closed her eyes to better see the future.

“You learn well, Carlos Mendoza,” she said, a half-smile on her lips. “You will not approach until the attack has begun, and at that time I shall be too busy neutralizing the doomsday weapons to bother with you. Their threat is immediate, while yours, though greater, is further removed in time, and I will have to let you land.”

She concentrated harder, sifting through the futures. “You chose your position with foresight and intelligence,” she continued. “No meteor, no asteroid, no debris can reach you before you join the battle. And yet,” she said, “perhaps I can show you that I have more weapons in my arsenal than even you anticipate.”

Suddenly she smiled. “A pacemaker? Blood thinners? You are prepared, are you not? Very well. You shall not die of a heart attack or a stroke before you can face me.” She paused. “Some things even I cannot change. Evidently it has been ordained in the Book of Fate that I must confront you one last time.”

And now her face contorted with rage. “I have never sought to make you my enemy. Twice I could have killed you, and twice I allowed you to live. I could have destroyed Last Chance in the twinkling of an eye, and yet I did not. And still you seek me out, you remain dedicated to my destruction. It is because of you that I have become a fugitive among my own people, that I have spent the past twenty years in hiding or in confinement. You are the architect of my unhappiness, and today, when I have done what I must do to the fleet that approaches, I shall face you one last time.”

She paused, trying to control her emotions.

“I will show you no more mercy than you would show me,” she whispered. “I have things to do in the galaxy, great things, things that are beyond your feeble comprehension. You will never hinder them again.”

She looked up at the sky once more, not to where the fleet was gathered, but to where a lone ship, still light years away, was speeding toward Mozart.

“You shall learn what it means to oppose me now that my powers are mature,” she promised. “You shall learn why men fear the darkness, and why death itself can be a mercy. Prepare yourself, Carlos Mendoza, for this is your last day of life.”

28

Lomax summoned his second-in-command to the bridge of the ship.

“Sir?” said the man.

“We have a serious problem here,” he announced.

“Problem, sir?”

Lomax nodded. “One of the goddamned bombs has armed itself.”

He stood aside so that the man could study his control panel, and especially the blinking red light on the left side of it.

“Could it be a malfunction on the board, sir?”

“I already thought of that,” answered Lomax. “The board is working perfectly.”

“Let me check the bomb itself, sir,” said the man. “Perhaps it’s emitting a false signal.”

“Do so,” said Lomax. “And be discreet. No sense upsetting the rest of the crew until we know what we’re dealing with.”

The man nodded and headed off toward the weapons bay. He returned some four minutes later.

“It’s armed, sir,” he reported.

“How much time do you think we have before it blows?”

“I don’t know, sir. Maybe ten minutes, maybe ten hours. We’ve never carried this type of weapon before.”

“It’s new to me, too,” complained Lomax. “Hell, the whole ship is new to me. I’m just a gunman that the Anointed One took a liking to.”

“You saved his life, sir,” protested the man with the passion of a fanatic. “We are prepared to carry out any orders that you give.”

“The problem is that I don’t know what orders are required in this situation,” said Lomax grimly. “I suppose we should jettison the bomb, but according to my computer, it’s in a position where we’d have to jettison the entire payload.” He paused. “I hate to do that. We’re attacking with a smaller force that I would have recommended had time not been a vital consideration. The Prophet is the most formidable antagonist in the galaxy; we may need every weapon we possess.”

“There is an alternative, sir.”

I was wondering when it would occur to you.

“What is that?” asked Lomax aloud.

“We can load the crew onto our landing craft and leave them to make their way to the planet behind the bulk of the fleet, while you and I stay aboard and try to deactivate the bomb.”

“Excellent suggestion!” replied Lomax. “Pass the word. I want them all off the ship within fifteen minutes.” He paused. “Yourself included.”

“I request permission to remain on board, sir.”

“Permission denied.”

“I insist, sir. One of us is going to have to go down into the weapons bay and try to deactivate the bomb, and one of us is going to have to navigate the ship.”

“I’ll put it on automatic.”

“That might work in deep space, sir, but we’re in a war zone. You may come under attack.”

“I doubt it,” said Lomax.

“You yourself have stated that she is the most formidable foe we will ever face, sir.”

Lomax realized that further argument could arouse the man’s suspicions. Furthermore, it was essential that he get the crew off the ship as quickly as possible, before someone discovered what was really happening.

“All right,” he said. “You can stay. Now see to the evacuation, and report to me when it’s complete. I’ll continue trying to deactivate the bomb from here.”

The man saluted and left, and Lomax lit a small cigar and pretended to work the control panel until the bridge was totally deserted. He watched the viewscreen as the shuttlecraft left the mother ship one by one, until the last of the crew had gone and only Lomax and his second-in-command remained.

The man approached him and saluted. “The evacuation is completed, sir.”

“Good,” said Lomax.

“Now I’ll go down and see if I can deactivate the bomb, sir.”

“Be careful,” said Lomax.

“Yes, sir.”

The man departed, and Lomax lit another cigar and hoped the Prophet could see far enough into the future to know that his ship was no threat to her.

The man returned some ten minutes later, a puzzled frown on his face.

“Sir?” he said.

“Yes?”

“As nearly as I can tell, the bomb is not malfunctioning.”

“You mean it’s not armed?”

“It’s armed, all right—but it seems to have been armed purposely, from here.”

“You don’t say.”

“Yes, sir. From your panel.”

Lomax pulled his pistol out. “You should have abandoned ship with the others.”

“I don’t understand, sir.”

“You’re a good man,” said Lomax. “And I am truly sorry for what I must do.”

He fired his gun. The man uttered a single surprised grunt and fell to the deck, dead.

Then, having done everything within his power to convince the Prophet that his ship wanted no part of the doomed battle, Lomax sat back to await the outcome.

29

In the first thirty seconds of the would-be battle, the life support systems of 74 of the Anointed One’s ships lost all power; 18 more were destroyed when their ordinance, unlike Lomax’s, actually did activate and explode.

A meteor wiped out 27 more ships. A comet, crazily careening off its eternal course, accounted for another 19. One ship’s weapons computer malfunctioned and destroyed 37 of its allies before it in turn was demolished.

“What is happening here!” demanded the Anointed One, his face contorted with rage and terror. “No one has fired upon us, and yet we are being decimated.” He glowered at the planet Mozart, spinning, blue and green and serene, in his viewscreen. “She is just one woman! What is happening?”

And a million miles beneath him, Penelope Bailey, staring blindly at the sky, smiled and whispered, “Not yet, my foolish one. Not yet. First you must see the folly of attacking me. When all of your men have been killed, when all your ships float dead in the void, then I shall tend to you.”

30

After receiving permission to land from a bored spaceport employee who had no idea that a war had erupted a million miles above his head, the Iceman’s ship broke out of orbit and plunged down toward Mozart’s surface. He wasn’t worried about being fired upon, because he knew that whatever defenses Penelope possessed, they weren’t military in nature. As for the local authorities, they caused him no concern whatsoever; he was willing to bet that no one else even knew that the Anointed One’s fleet was out there, or that it was being torn to pieces.

When he got to within five miles of the surface he pressed a button and released a trio of parachutes, designed to save him just in case Penelope was able to stop concentrating on the heavily-armed ships in orbit and devote a few seconds to him. But the landing was accomplished without mishap, and the Iceman climbed into the hold of his ship to prepare the cargo he had brought along.

It took him almost twenty minutes to assemble the components. Then he attached it to the loose vest he had brought, slipped the vest on, covered it with a bulky coat, and finally emerged from his ship.

A spaceport official was waiting for him.

“Welcome to Mozart,” he said.

“Thank you,” said the Iceman.

“You certainly took your time getting out of your ship,” continued the official. “Is everything all right? Do you need any mechanical assistance?”

“No,” answered the Iceman. “I was just rearranging some cargo.”

“Will you require either fuel or a hangar?”

“Neither,” said the Iceman. “My business here should be done before nightfall.”

“If it isn’t, there will be a two hundred credit fee for leaving your ship where it is.”

The Iceman reached into a pocket and pulled out a wad of bills, then peeled off a pair of hundred-credit notes. “Here,” he said, handing them to the official. “You can return them to me when I leave this evening.”

“I’ll make out a receipt while you’re clearing customs,” said the man, putting the bills between the pages of a small notebook.

“Where is customs?”

“At the base of the tower,” replied the man, leading the Iceman into the lobby of the observation tower and over to the customs desk, where a handsome, uniformed woman looked up at him.

“Name, please?”

The Iceman pulled out his titanium passport card and laid it on her desk. “Carlos Mendoza.”

She ran the card through a computer, waited a few seconds for it to scan his retina and verify his identity, and returned it to him.

“May I ask the purpose of your visit, Mr. Mendoza?”

“I’m here to conclude some very old business,” he replied.

“And the name of the party you have come to see?”

“Penelope Bailey.”

She looked up from her computer and stared at him for a moment. “Does Miss Bailey know you are coming to see her?”

“I’d be very surprised if she didn’t,” answered the Iceman.

“All right, Mr. Mendoza, you are cleared to stay on Mozart for fourteen days. Should you decide to extend your visit beyond that limit, please inform this office.”

“Thank you.”

“The Democracy credit is the official currency of Mozart, but we also accept New Stalin rubles, Maria Theresa dollars, New Zimbabwe dollars, and Far London pounds. If you possess any other form of currency, please declare it on this form”—she handed him an official-looking document—“and record all your currency conversion transactions.”

The Iceman took the form, folded it neatly, and place it in a pocket of his overcoat.

“Welcome to Mozart, Mr. Mendoza,” she said. “Today’s temperature is 28 degrees Celsius, which translates into 542 degrees Rankine, 22 degrees Reaumur, and 83 degrees Fahrenheit.” She paused. “You may find your overcoat rather warm.”

“I won’t be wearing it that long,” he replied. “How do I get to town from here?”

“There is free public transportation every two hours.” She checked her timepiece. “I’m afraid you just missed it. If you don’t wish to wait, there are usually a few groundcars for hire in front of the spaceport.”

“Thank you,” said the Iceman. He turned, walked through the small lobby at the base of the observation tower, and out the main entrance. A single groundcar was parked there, and he quickly climbed into it.

“Where to?” asked the driver.

“I’m looking for a private residence,” answered the Iceman. “Have you got a directory here?”

The driver pressed a button, activating a holo screen that hovered in the air about two feet from the Iceman.

“Just state the name of your party,” said the driver. “His address will appear at the top of the screen, and the one-way and round-trip fares will be computed and appear in the lower right-hand corner.”

“Penelope Bailey.”

Instantly an address appeared. This was followed by a map that instantly traced seven or eight routes, selected the quickest one, left it on display, and posted a rate of 48 credits one-way or 88 credits for a round-trip.

“She’s out in the sticks, isn’t she?” remarked the driver as an identical screen appeared above his dash panel.

“I suppose so,” answered the Iceman. “I haven’t been there before. How long will it take?”

The driver stared at the map. “Maybe twenty minutes, twenty-five if we run into some traffic.”

“Traffic? On this planet?”

“Harvesters or combines on the road, moving from one farm to another,” explained the driver. “They can slow you down plenty.” He paused. “Well, are we going?”

“Yes.”

The groundcar pulled away from the spaceport.

“One-way or round trip?”

“One-way will do,” answered the Iceman. “If I need a ride back, I’ll call for one.”

“Remember my tag number and ask for it,” said the driver. “I can use the business.”

“I’ll do that,” replied the Iceman.

They drove in silence for almost twenty minutes, passing through town and going out along the back roads, and finally the Iceman leaned forward. “How much longer?” he asked.

“Maybe another two miles.”

“Stop when you’re a mile away.”

“You’re sure?”

“Just trying to save you some engine trouble.”

“I don’t have any engine trouble.”

“You never can tell,” said the Iceman, handing a hundred-credit note to the driver.

“You’re the boss,” said the driver with a shrug.

A moment later the groundcar slowed down and pulled over to the side of the road, and the Iceman got out.

“If the map’s right, it should be just around the next curve,” said the driver. “You sure you don’t want me to wait?”

“I’m sure.”

“All right.” He paused. “From what I hear around town, this is a very strange lady you’re going to visit. I don’t know what kind of business you’ve got with her, but good luck.”

“Thanks,” said the Iceman. “I’ll probably need it.”

The groundcar turned and headed back toward the spaceport, and the Iceman began walking along the edge of a mutated cornfield toward Penelope Bailey’s house. When he finally was able to see the top of the geodesic dome he removed his overcoat and left it lying in a ditch at roadside.

He stopped, lit a cigar, paused to enjoy the taste of the first puff, and then reached down to his vest and activated two tiny switches. Then he continued walking, and five minutes later he reached his destination.

He approached the front door and found that it was locked, and since he was no longer in any condition to pound it or pull at it, he gingerly walked around to the back, where he saw a young blonde woman, her back to him, standing beside a small pond, her eyes trained on the heavens, striking a new position every few seconds.

“Welcome, Iceman,” she said without turning to face him. “I have been waiting for this moment for a long time.”

“I don’t doubt it,” replied the Iceman, coming to a stop.

“I have only 40 more ships to destroy,” she announced, “and then I shall be able to give you my full attention.” She paused. “Now 23, now 17. You are very clever to have gotten this far, Iceman.”

“I was fortunate.”

“You would have been more fortunate had you elected to remain on your own world,” she replied, still motionless. “Eleven, now seven, now four.” She paused again. “And now there is only the Anointed One.” Finally she turned to the Iceman. “Shall we let him live a little longer, so that he may grasp the full extent of his defeat?”

“It makes no difference to me,” replied the Iceman.

“No, of course it does not,” she said. “You care no more about Moses Mohammed Christ than I do.” She paused and stared into the Iceman’s eyes. “So it comes down to you and me, as I always knew it would.”

31

The Iceman stared at the young woman confronting him.

“You were an appealing little girl, Penelope,” he said, thinking back to the first time he had ever seen her. “Small, frightened, vulnerable.” He paused. “I should have killed you then.”

She smiled. “You would have failed.”

“Probably,” he admitted. “You were more than capable of protecting yourself even then.”

“I still am,” she replied. “I have grown stronger over the years.”

“We’ve both grown, Penelope,” said the Iceman, meeting her gaze. “You’ve grown stronger, and I’ve grown wiser.”

“Wise enough to kill me?” she asked, amused.

“I think so,” he replied seriously.

She laughed. “I don’t even need my powers to destroy you. You haven’t grown wiser, merely older. You are a fat, lame old man. Already you pant and sweat from the mere exertion of walking the last mile to my home. Your heart beats faster, your blood races through your body, you have trouble catching your breath. I could kill you with my bare hands, Iceman.”

“Look ahead, and see what will happen if you do,” suggested the Iceman.

“You will die.”

“But not alone.”

“You refer to the vest you wear, of course?”

“If you hit me or shoot me, I’ll fall down. And if I fall down, every map of Mozart is going to be obsolete half a second later. I’m carrying enough explosives to make this the center of a twenty-mile crater.”

She stared at him. “So five million men died this morning merely to let you approach me with your plans and your explosives—and you call me a monster?”

“I don’t call you anything, Penelope,” he said. “I’m your executioner, not your judge.”

“And did you really think it would be this easy?” she asked. “Did you think there wasn’t a single future in which your switches failed to activate your explosives?”

The Iceman felt a sudden tension at the pit of his stomach.

“You’re bluffing,” he said with more confidence than he felt.

She shook her head serenely. “I never had any need to bluff. I could have disabled your explosives whenever I wanted to.”

“But you didn’t?” he said, frowning.

“No, Iceman, I didn’t.” She stared at him for a long moment. “You are prepared to die today, are you not?”

“I am.”

“So am I,” she replied. “Our deaths, like our lives, are intertwined.” She paused. “But first I would like to talk to you.”

He looked surprised. “What do you want to talk about?”

“Oh, about many things,” she replied. “It is strange: I am bound to you by hatred, but I am also closer to you than to anyone now alive. And you alone have never lied to me.” She paused. “The threat of invasion is over. We have all the time in the world to talk.” She smiled ironically. “The rest of our lives. And I have some questions for you.”

“What kind of questions?” he said suspiciously.

“Simple ones.”

“All right,” he said. “Start asking.”

“Why do all living things shun me?” she asked. “Not only people, but even animals.” She paused. “Even puppies.”

The Iceman was taken aback for a moment. It was not the type of question he had anticipated. Finally he spoke.

“Because you’re different,” he said. “Because you are no longer human.”

“Men do not shun the crippled or the senile, the retarded or the deformed,” said Penelope. “They take them into the bosom of their families, and shower them with love and compassion. Why, of all the sons and daughters of your race, have I alone been cast out?”

“Because none of the unfortunates to whom you liken yourself have the power to destroy entire worlds at their whim. You not only have that power, but you have exercised it.”

“Only to protect myself.” She paused. “Do you know that no human being has touched me since the day the Mouse died some twenty years ago? Not a single one?”

“No,” said the Iceman. “I didn’t know that.”

“Kittens hiss and puppies hide,” she continued. “Birds fly away. Even the reptiles in my garden slither off into the shadows when I appear.”

“I have no better answer,” he replied uncomfortably. The sound of a tractor working in a nearby field came to his ears. “Have you any more questions?”

“You have hated me from the first day we met,” she said. “Why? What had I ever done to you?”

“I don’t hate you, Penelope,” he replied. “You don’t hate an ion storm that threatens your ship, or a meteor swarm that bombards your planet. If you’re alone in a jungle, you don’t hate the carnivores that stalk you in the night. None of them are good or evil. They’re just hazards of nature that have to be overcome in order to survive.” He paused. “I feel no hatred toward you at all. I bear you no malice. I blame you for only one thing—the death of the Mouse.”

“She betrayed my trust.”

“You were a child,” he replied. “You had no grasp of subtleties. You couldn’t fully comprehend what was happening.” He paused again. “She loved you as if you were her own daughter. The only reason she’s dead is because she never truly understood what you were. She thought she was saving you, as if you could be shot down like any ordinary human.”

Penelope paused. “I have not thought of the Mouse in a long time,” she said at last.

“I think of her every day,” said the Iceman.

“Her death caused you that much pain?”

“It did.”

“Then I have repaid you for some of the pain you have caused me.”

He stared at her and made no reply.

“Did she really love me?” asked Penelope after a brief silence.

“Yes, she did.”

“Will anyone ever love me again, I wonder?” she mused thoughtfully.

The Iceman shook his head. “No, they won’t.”

“I know,” she replied. “Do you know what it is like to face a future in which not a single person will ever love you? A future in which every member of your race shuns you as if you were some beast to be avoided?”

“No,” answered the Iceman. “And I don’t envy anyone who does.”

“I never asked for this gift, Iceman,” she said. “All I ever wanted was to be a normal little girl, to play with other girls, to live with my family.” She paused for a moment, lost in her memories. “My own mother was terrified of me. They took me away when I was six, and they killed my father when he tried to prevent it. Do you know how many times I played with children my own age after that, Iceman?”

“No,” he said.

“One afternoon, when the Mouse and I were hiding from you,” she said bitterly. “One afternoon in my entire life!” Suddenly she sighed. “And within twenty minutes they had all run away from me.” She look at him. “They will always run away from me, won’t they?”

“Little girls?” he asked, confused.

“Everyone.”

“Yes, I suppose they will.”

She looked up at him, and for just a moment the emotionless, alien mask disappeared.

“I thought I was escaping from Westerly and Calliope and Killhaven and Hades,” she said, “but there is never really any escape, is there? Mozart is just a bigger cell than the one I had on Hades, and the galaxy is just a bigger cell than Mozart.”

“You can’t escape who you are,” he replied.

She paused. “Do you know something interesting, Iceman?”

“What?”

“Of all the Men I have known since I left Hades as a grown woman, only you have looked at me without repugnance. With fear, yes, as well you should, and with trepidation, but without disgust.”

“I don’t feel any disgust toward you,” replied the Iceman. “Other things, yes. But not disgust.”

“Every other man and woman has felt it. I even saw it on The Black Death’s face, and in the eyes of your young spy.” She sighed. “I have seen it every day of my life, even in the eyes of my own mother.”

“I’m sorry,” said the Iceman sincerely.

“You think me a monster,” she continued. “But you are on the outside looking in. Believe me, Iceman, it is infinitely worse to be Penelope Bailey than to fear her. I inspire fear and hatred by virtue of my very existence. I am as much a prisoner as I ever was, trapped within this body as this body was trapped within a tiny cell on Hades.” She paused. “My only consolation has been the Plan.”

“The Plan?” he repeated.

“I have been working on it for years,” she replied. “It began to form in my mind while I was in my cell on Hades, and I have been implementing it ever since I gained my freedom.”

“What does it involve?” asked the Iceman. “Control of the Democracy? Its overthrow?”

“Even now, on this last day of our lives, in the middle of this conversation, you do not begin to understand me,” said Penelope. “I have no desire to rule anyone. I have no army, I control no politicians, I have not garnered untold wealth.”

“Then what is this Plan?” he persisted.

She stared at him with a level gaze. “Simply this,” she answered. “That no child shall ever bear the curse of precognition again. There are some three hundred men and women with the genetic potential to produce another Soothsayer, another Oracle, another me. I have manipulated events, built and destroyed planetary economies, changed entire political systems, to make sure than none of those three hundred people ever meet.” She paused. “That is my gift to your galaxy, Iceman. More important, that is my gift to the unborn. No child shall ever be cut off from his people as I was.”

He returned her stare. “You are ready to die, aren’t you?”

“Soon,” she replied. “I have a few things yet to do.” She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them. “I have allowed Moses Mohammed Christ to live and fight another day. With his defeat this morning, he can no longer affect the outcome of the Plan.” She shrugged. “Let your vaunted Democracy find out if it is fit to rule, or so corrupt that its time has past.”

“You don’t know the answer?”

“I no longer care about the answer,” she said. Suddenly she walked past him, circled the pond, and entered her house. She emerged a moment later with something small and furry cradled under one arm.

“I seem to remember that doll,” said the Iceman.

She shook her head. “This is a new one. The one you remember fell apart while I was in prison on Hades, and of course I did not request another, because grown women do not lavish their attentions on dolls.” She sighed. “Somewhere along the way I found out what others have always known: that I am not a woman.” She stared at him again. “It is time, I think.”

He carefully pulled his weapon out of its holster and aimed it at her.

“Say a prayer to your God,” said Penelope calmly. “The surge of energy when you pull the trigger will activate your explosives.”

“Just a minute,” said the Iceman. “There is a better way.”

“I thought you were prepared to die,” she said. “I hope you were not lying, for neither of us will survive this day.”

He carefully pulled one tiny explosive off his vest and attached it to his weapon’s power pack.

“Let me take the vest off and deactivate it,” he said.

“Why should I?”

“This bomb is more than enough to kill both of us. If the vest goes off, we’ll wipe out ten thousand people.”

“What are they to me?” asked Penelope.

“Let me do it, for what they might have been to you under other circumstances.”

She considered his entreaty for a long moment, then nodded.

He deactivated the switches, removed the vest, and walked to the house with it, laying it carefully on a couch. Then he returned to the pond, where Penelope was waiting for him.

“Aim straight and true, Carlos Mendoza,” she said.

“That’s what I came here to do,” he replied, raising the weapon and training it on her heart.

Suddenly he froze.

“I have a question,” he said. “You’re probably the only person who ever lived who might be able to answer it.”

“What is it?”

“Can you see another life beyond this one?”

“God, I hope not,” she said with a shudder of revulsion.

The Iceman pulled the trigger.

32

Lomax waited until the Anointed One’s flagship retreated to New Gobi, leaving its disabled companions behind, before he jettisoned the body of the dead crewman. Then, because he was a cautious man who had every intention of surviving, he waited a few hours more.

Finally, when he was all through waiting, he requested permission to land and touched down at the tiny spaceport about two hundred yards from the Iceman’s ship.

He spent a few minutes clearing customs, then made arrangements to refuel the ship and house it in a hangar. There were a pair of groundcars waiting outside the observation tower, and he got into the nearer of them.

“Where to?” asked the driver.

He summoned up Penelope Bailey’s address from the computer’s directory.

“I took someone out there yesterday,” remarked the driver, as they began racing past the endless pastures and fields that lined the road.

“Old fellow with a bad leg?” asked Lomax.

“That’s the one.”

“Do you know if he came back?”

“If he did, he didn’t rent a vehicle to do it,” replied the driver.

Lomax checked his laser weapon, and made sure that the charge was full.

“Did he say anything to you?” he asked.

“Just that he had some personal business to take care of,” said the driver. “Funny thing, though: he had me let him off about a mile short of where he was going. Guess he felt like taking a walk.”

“Probably,” said Lomax noncommittally.

They drove the rest of the way in silence, until at last the geodesic dome came into view.

“Well, there it is,” said the driver. “Are you the walking type too?”

“No, I like my comfort.”

The groundcar pulled up to the house a moment later. “Should I wait for you?”

“It’d probably be better if you didn’t,” answered Lomax. “I’ll call you if I need you.”

He got out of the groundcar and walked up to the front door. It was locked, and the security system, which didn’t recognize him, refused to let him in, so he cautiously walked around to the back of the house.

He found what was left of them by the pond. Not much, but enough to identify them. The back door of the house was unlocked, and inside it he found the Iceman’s vest, loaded with explosives. Try as he would he couldn’t reconstruct what had happened, although the climax of it was there for anyone to read.

He found a tool shed hidden behind some bushes, broke the lock on it, killed the ensuing alarm siren with his laser pistol, and searched through the tiny building until he found a shovel. He picked a shady spot under a huge tree by the pond, dug a shallow grave, and buried what he could find of them.

He filled in the grave, then tried to decide how to mark it. He doubted that either of them wanted a religious symbol, and he had no intention of remaining on Mozart until a headstone could be created and delivered. Then his gaze fell on something small and fluffy lying on the ground. He walked over and picked it up; it was the shredded remains of a small doll.

He tried to imagine what the doll might have to do with either of them, and finally gave it up with a shrug. Besides, it didn’t really matter: except for the vest, which was too dangerous to leave behind, it was the only object around with which to mark the grave, and so he skewered it on a short branch and stuck it into the ground.

It wasn’t much of a marker, he knew, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances. He went into the house and summoned the groundcar via the vidphone, and twenty minutes later he was speeding back to the spaceport.

Epilogue

Five months had passed, and Lomax found himself, much to his surprise, on the world of Sweetwater, being served a mixed drink by a robot.

“That will be all, Sidney,” said Robert Gibbs, and the robot bowed and left the room.

“All right, Mr. Gibbs,” said Lomax. “You got me here. Now suppose you tell me what this is all about.”

“It’s about a crazed fanatic called the Anointed One,” said Gibbs, “a man with whom I believe you have been associated in the past.”

“What about him?”

“We want him.”

“We?” repeated Lomax.

“The Democracy,” answered Gibbs. “I’ve been reactivated and put in charge of my old department, although they’ve allowed me to operate out of my own home for the time being.”

“Then let the Democracy go out and get him,” answered Lomax. “He thinks I’m dead, and as far as I’m concerned, that’s a healthy relationship.”

“I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation, Mr. Lomax,” persisted Gibbs. “This man is a threat to survival of our government.”

“He’s just a man,” replied Lomax calmly. “You’ve already survived the most serious threat you’re ever going to face.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Penelope Bailey.”

Gibbs shook his head. “She’s been dead for four years. She died when Alpha Crepello III was destroyed.”

“She died five months ago, when an old man with one leg hunted her down and killed her.”

“You mean Mendoza?” asked Gibbs, startled. “He’s dead?”

Lomax nodded, and took a sip of his drink. “He’s dead. And so is she.”

“But life goes on, Mr. Lomax, and right now more lives than you can imagine are being threatened by the man known as Moses Mohammed Christ.”

“You survived her,” said Lomax. “You’ll survive him.”

“I am prepared to offer you five million credits for your services,” said Gibbs. “One-third now, the remainder upon completion of your mission.”

“Not interested.”

“Then why did you come here?” asked Gibbs. “You must have known the kind of offer I was going to make.”

“I just wanted to see the man who started all this.”

“All what?”

“You kidnapped Penelope Bailey when she was six years old,” said Lomax. “You weren’t Robert Gibbs back then, but it was you.” He paused. “You know, if you had left her alone or had made some effort to win her confidence, you wouldn’t have had to depend on men like the Iceman and me to do your dirty work for you. She could have told you the outcome of every election, predicted the results of every battle, and if you didn’t like the course events were taking, she’d have found a way to change them. You could have had all that, and because you never learned the secret of the stick and the carrot, you let it slip away.”

“If she was so infallible,” scoffed Gibbs, “how did the Iceman manage to kill her?”

“I don’t think he did,” answered Lomax thoughtfully. “I think she just got tired of fighting—like me.”

“You’re not quitting,” said Gibbs. “Men like you and Carlos never quit.”

“No, I’m not quitting,” said Lomax. “But I’m not fighting your battles, Mr. Gibbs. If you’ve ever got a personal grudge against someone, you know where to find me. But don’t expect me to fight every enemy the Democracy has created through its arrogance or its stupidity.”

“We didn’t create the Anointed One or the Bailey girl, damn it!” snapped Gibbs.

Lomax sighed. “Mr. Gibbs, you’ve created every enemy you’ve ever had.”

“You’ve been with the Anointed One, spoken to him, seen him in action!” continued Gibbs. “Surely you realize that he must be eliminated!”

“He’s a religious fanatic, and he’s probably every bit as power hungry as you think,” said Lomax. He paused and smiled. “Do you know who he reminds me of?”

“Penelope Bailey?” suggested Gibbs, surprised by the question.

“No, Mr. Gibbs,” answered Lomax. “He reminds me of you, and I say a pox on both your houses.” He set his drink down. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have something important to do.”

“You can’t walk out of here!”

“Certainly I can,” said Lomax. “Somewhere out there, on a world you’ve never heard of, there’s a grave that’s marked only with a rag doll. It doesn’t mean a damned thing to you, not any more, but I’m going to deliver a headstone to it.”

“Seven million!” said Gibbs.

Lomax smiled and walked to the door.

“You’ll be back,” said Gibbs confidently. “Carlos always came back, and so will you.”

“You have enemies, Mr. Gibbs,” said Lomax. “You’d better hope I don’t come back.”

And then he was gone.

Table of Contents

Contents

SOOTHSAYER

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Contents

Prologue

The Mouse’s Book

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

The Iceman’s Book

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

The Yankee Clipper’s Book

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

The Mock Turtle’s Book

25

26

27

28

29

The Soothsayer’s Book

30

31

32

33

34

ORACLE

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Contents

Prologue

The Whistler’s Book

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

The Injun’s Book

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

The Jade Queen’s Book

18

19

20

21

22

The Iceman’s Book

23

24

25

26

27

The Oracle’s Book

28

29

30

31

32

PROPHET

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Contents

Half Title

Prologue

The Gravedancer’s Book

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

The Iceman’s Book

8

9

10

11

12

13

The Silicon Kid’s Book

14

15

16

17

18

19

The Anointed One’s Book

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

The Prophet’s Book

27

28

29

30

31

32

Epilogue