The Return of Santiago

Part 2: WALTZIN’ MATILDA'S BOOK

8.

Matilda waltzes, and she grinds.

Matilda gets inside men's minds.

Matilda plunders and she robs;

Matilda's pulled a thousand jobs.

It was an exaggeration. At the time Dante found her, Matilda had pulled only 516 jobs, which was still sufficient to make her one of the most wanted criminals on the Frontier.

Her specialty was that she didn't specialize. Gold, diamonds, artwork, fissionable materials, promissory notes, she stole them all. She'd done two years in the hellhole prison on Spica II, and another four months on Sugarcane. She escaped from both, the only prisoner ever to break out of either penitentiary.

She was a lot of things Dante wasn't—skilled in the martial arts, skilled in the ways of haute couture society, exceptionally well-read—and a few things that Dante was, such as an outlaw with a price on her head. It didn't bother her much; she figured that if she could survive Spica II, she could survive anything the Democracy or the Frontier threw at her.

The most interesting aspect of her past was that she came from money, and had every whim catered to. At eight she was so graceful a ballerina that her family mapped out her entire future—and at nine she proved to be even more independent than graceful by leaving the Democracy forever. She stowed away on a cargo ship bound for Roosevelt III, somehow made her way to the carnival world of Calliope, bought a fake ID with money she'd stolen from her brother, and soon found work dancing in various stage shows.

As she grew older she learned every dance from a tango to a striptease, and made her way from one world to another as an entertainer, dancing solo when possible, with partners when necessary. She changed her name as often as most people changed clothes, and changed her worlds almost as frequently—but she never left a world without some trinket, some banknote, some negotiable bond, something, that she hadn't possessed when she arrived.

Just once she made the error of stealing within the Democracy's borders. That was when she was apprehended and incarcerated on Spica II. She never went back again.

No one knew her real name. She liked the sound of Matilda, and used it with half a hundred different surnames. She was Waltzin' Matilda just once, on Sugarcane, but that was where she was arrested the second time, and after she escaped from jail, that was the name that was on all the Wanted posters.

She still used a different name, sometimes more than one, on every world, but she was resigned to the fact that to most of her friends and almost all of her enemies she had become Waltzin' Matilda, despite the fact that she could not recall ever having performed a single waltz on stage.

It was a pleasant life, punctuated only by the occasional narrow escape from the mignons of the Democracy or those bounty hunters who wished to claim its reward. She liked appearing on stage, and she found her secret vocation as a thief sexually exciting, especially when she knew that her movements were being watched.

Like tonight.

Dimitrios of the Three Burners was in the audience. He hadn't come to Prateep IV to find her—he was after other prey—but he had a notion that Matilda Montez was really Waltzin' Matilda, and since he hadn't turned up his quarry yet, he'd dropped in to check her out, maybe keep an eye on her in case she was up to her usual tricks.

She watched him out of the corner of her eye as she spun and dipped, jumped and pirouetted. It was Dimitrios, all right, with his trademarked burners in two well-worn holsters and the handle of the third peeking out from the top of his boot. He seemed relaxed, sipping his drink, staring at her with the same appreciative smile she'd seen on so many other men in so many other audiences. Well, you just keep drinking and smiling, bounty killer, because before you leave here I'm going to be two million credits richer—and even you, who's seen it all and heard it all, won't believe the only eyewitness.

She spun around twice more, then stopped and bowed, perfectly willing to let the audience think her smile was for them. They were informed that she would take a twenty-minute break, and then return for the evening's finale.

She waited for the applause to die down and bowed one last time, then began making her way to her dressing room. A drunken man jumped up from his chair and tried to climb onstage. She dispatched him almost effortlessly with a spinning kick to the chest, and got another standing ovation as she finally left the stage.

Once there, she locked the door behind her, peeled off her clothes, and donned a thin robe. She picked up a tiny receiving device and inserted it in her ear, then hit the control on her make-up table.

"Twenty minutes . . . nineteen minutes 50 seconds . . . nineteen minutes 40 seconds . . ." droned a mechanical voice.

She slid her feet into a pair of rubber-soled shoes, then ordered her window to open. She climbed up onto the ledge and leaped lightly to the roof of the adjoining brokerage house with the grace of an athlete. A cloth bag was suspended on a very thin line from her room. She walked over to it, removed a pint of hard liquor from the neighboring system of Ribot, walked to a door leading to the building's interior, whispered the code that opened it, and stepped inside.

"Eighteen minutes, 30 seconds . . ."

She removed her shoes, took off her robe, and unstrapped the shocker from her leg. Then, totally naked, she descended two levels on the airlift.

A middle-aged man, dressed in a guard's uniform, suddenly looked up from the musical holo he had been watching on his pocket computer. His jaw dropped when he saw Matilda.

She smiled at him and began walking straight toward him.

"My God!" muttered the man. "Who . . . what are you doing here?"

Her smile widened, promising no end of wonders as she approached him, her hands behind her back.

"You . . . you . . . you shouldn't be here!" he stammered.

She considered replying, but decided that total silence would be more effective as she continued walking toward him.

"This is . . ." he began, and then seemed to run out of words for a moment. He blinked his eyes. "Things like this don't happen to me!"

Her left hand held the whiskey. She stretched it out to him, offering it, and as if in a dreamlike trance, he took a step toward her and reached out his arms.

And then, before he quite knew what hit him, she brought the shocker out in her right hand, aimed it at him, and felt it vibrate with power as it sent its voltage coursing through his body. For a moment he seemed to be a life-sized puppet dancing spasmodically on strings; then he fell to the floor in a silent heap.

She knelt down next to him, poured as much of the whiskey as she could into his mouth without choking him, spilled the rest on his clothes, and, after carefully wiping her fingerprints from the bottle, tossed it onto the floor, where it broke into pieces. She then raced to his desk and began manipulating his pocket computer.

"Fifteen minutes, ten seconds . . ."

She was still trying to find what she needed five minutes later. Then, finally, she broke through the encryption, found the code words she needed, walked to the safe, uttered the words in the proper order, and a minute later was thumbing through a score of negotiable currencies. She finally settled on New Stalin rubles and Far London pounds, since they were the largest denominations, took two huge handfuls, and raced to the airlift. Once she reached the third level she donned her robe and shoes and walked out onto the building's roof.

The guard would be out cold for at least five more hours. More to the point, he'd stink of booze, and no one on this or any other would believe his story about a gorgeous naked woman entering the building and turning a shocker on him. It sounded too much like a drunken fantasy—and the remains of the drink were there to prove it.

She went to the bag that was suspended from her window, the one where she'd found the whiskey, and put the money into it. Then she tested the line that held it to make sure it was secure. It was, and a moment later she scrambled up the wall, feet on the slick metal exterior, hands on the line, until she reached her window.

She climbed back into her dressing room, raised the line high enough so that in the unlikely event someone else were to walk on the brokerage house's roof, they wouldn't be able to reach the bag, then removed her shoes and robe, put them in a closet, and began climbing back into her costume.

"Four minutes, 20 seconds . . ."

She felt proud of herself. She didn't believe in repeating her methods—that was the quickest way to give the police and the bounty hunters a line on you—and she thought tonight's job was one of her most creative to date. She'd stolen the equivalent of two million credits in currency that would be almost impossible to trace, and the only witness an old man stinking of alcohol and raving about a naked lady. It was beautiful.

"Two minutes, 30 seconds . . ."

She took the receiver out of her ear, deactivated it, and placed it in a jar of face cream, covering it so no one could see it—not that anyone had a reason to look for it, but she hadn't made it this far by not being thorough.

Then, nineteen minutes after she left the stage, she walked out again and stood in the wings, waiting to be introduced, her take suspended from a window where no one could see it, and another perfect crime to her credit. If she was a little flushed from her efforts, well, that could be written off to excitement at appearing on stage, or satisfaction at the wild applause she generated.

She waited for the emcee to run through her intro, then stepped out and faced the audience, smiling and bowing before beginning to dance again.

Yes, he was still there: Dimitrios of the Three Burners. I pulled it off right under your nose, bounty killer, and it's almost a pity that I did it so well you'll never know what happened. That's the only part of this business I don't enjoy; I can never let anyone know how good I am at what I do.

She was on such an adrenaline high that she not only gave them a five-minute dance, but a four-minute encore, and then another four minutes in which she and the band improvised wildly but in perfect harmony. When it was finally over, she bowed again, gave Dimitrios a great big smile, and returned to her dressing room—and found a small, slightly-built man sitting there on her chair.

"Hi," he said. "My name's Dante Alighieri. We have to talk."

"Who let you in here?" she demanded.

"I let myself in. It's one of the things I do really well."

"Well, you can let yourself right out!"

"Look," he said, "I'm not a bounty hunter, I'm not a security guard, I don't work for the Democracy or any police agency. I don't give a damn that you robbed the office next door."

Her eyes widened. "How . . . ?" She forced herself to stop in mid-thought.

"Because robbery is another of the things I do really well. I have nothing but professional admiration for you." Suddenly he smiled. "I wonder if Dimitrios knows how close he is to a real outlaw?"

"Probably not," she said, still eyeing him suspiciously.

"Where are my manners?" said Dante, suddenly getting to his feet. "This is your chair."

"I'd prefer to stand."

"All right," he said. "But hear me out before you start hitting and kicking. That's not one of the things I do well—though I'm learning."

"Just what the hell is it that you want?"

"I told you—I want to talk to you."

"If you think I'm going to pay you to keep quiet about tonight, you can forget it. They can question that old man all they want, his story will never hold up."

"I don't care about him or about what you stole."

"Then what do you want to talk about?"

"Santiago."

9.

He was a cop on the make, a cop on the take,

As corrupt as a cop gets to be.

The very same men that he saved from the pen

Are now owned by Simon Legree.

His name was Simon Legree, and he'd been after Matilda for a long, long time. She was the One Who Got Away, and it was a point of honor with him that he bring her to the bar of justice—or at least threaten to do so.

For Legree had his own profitable little business, not totally dissimilar from Wait-a-bit Bennett's. It was trickier, because he didn't have the advantage of a price on his prey's head—but when it worked, it was far more lucrative.

Oh, he took bribes, and he always managed to stuff a few packets of alphanella seeds in his pocket for future resale when there was a major drug bust—but what Simon Legree lived for was to catch a criminal in the act of committing a crime. Then it was a choice between jail and turning over a third of their earnings for the rest of their lives—and Legree had enough working capital to hire agents to make sure his new partners fulfilled their obligations.

He made millions from Billy the Whip, and millions more from the New Bronte Sisters, and he had almost fifty other partners out there earning money for him—but the one he wanted the most, the one he was sure had amassed the greatest fortune, Waltzin' Matilda, had thus far eluded him. Oh, he knew where she worked and where she lived, and whenever she changed planets—which she did on an almost weekly basis—his network of informants always let him know where she came to rest. But she was so damned creative in her lawlessness that he had yet to catch her in a compromising position, and she remained his Holy Grail.

He knew she was on Prateep IV. He knew she was dancing at the Diamond Emporium. He knew that she had signed a six-day contract, and had already been there five days. He knew that this was the night she figured to strike. He knew that by morning someone would be short hundreds of thousands, maybe even millions, of credits, and that her alibi would be airtight.

He tried to think like her, to predict what she might do, but he had nothing to go on, no past performance, no motus operandi. The damned woman never operated in the same way twice, and trying to predict and out-think her was driving him to distraction.

He sat in the audience, aware that Dimitrios of the Three Burners was there too, and wondered if Dimitrios had come for Matilda. He had no desire to go up against Dimitrios—no one in his right mind did—but he wasn't going to give Matilda up without a fight.

So Simon Legree sat there, silent, motionless, going over endless scenarios and permutations in his mind, and wondering how long it would be before Matilda emerged from her dressing room and returned to her hotel.

But Matilda had more important things on her mind—or confronting her from a few feet away. She stared curiously at the young man who knew she had just plundered the brokerage house but wanted only to talk about Santiago.

"He's been dead for more than a century," she said at last. "What makes you think I know anything about him?"

"Tyrannosaur Bailey seems to think you know more about him than anyone else alive," answered Dante.

"Probably I do," she agreed. "So what? He's still been dead for over a century."

Dante met her stare. "All of them have been," he said.

She looked her surprise. "I thought I was the only one who knew!"

"You were, until a few weeks ago."

"What happened a few weeks ago?"

"I found Black Orpheus' manuscript."

"The whole thing?"

Dante nodded. "Including a bunch of verses no one's ever seen or heard."

"Okay, so you know there was more than one Santiago," said Matilda. "So what? That was his secret, not mine."

"Tell me about them," said Dante. "And tell me why you're the expert."

"I'm the only living descendant of Santiago."

"Which Santiago?"

"What difference does it make?"

"It would help me to believe you."

"I don't give a damn if you believe me or not."

"Look, I have no reason not to believe you, and I want very much to. It's in both of our best interests."

"Why?" she insisted. "Who the hell are you, anyway?"

"My name is Dante Alighieri. The name I plan to be remembered by is The Rhymer."

"So you're the new Black Orpheus."

"You're very quick, Miss . . . ah . . ."

"Matilda." She frowned. "Okay, you're Orpheus. That's doesn't change anything. Santiago still died more than a century ago."

Dante stared at her for a long minute. "I think it's time for him to live again," he said at last.

Her eyes widened, and a smile slowly crossed her face. "Now that's an interesting idea."

"I'm glad you think so."

"Just a minute!" she said. "I hope to hell you're not thinking of me!"

"I'm not thinking of anyone in particular," said Dante. "But if we can talk, if you have any memorabilia, anything at all, I might get a better idea of what I'm looking for. As far as I can tell, of them all only Sebastian Cain could be considered truly skilled with his weapons, so they obviously had other qualities."

"They did."

"Qualities such as you exhibited tonight."

"I told you—I'm not a candidate for the job!" she snapped. "I'd like a Santiago, if only to take some of the pressure off me and give the law and the bounty hunters an even bigger target—so why in the world would I volunteer?"

"All right," he said. "I won't bring it up again." He paused. "Do you have any records or other memorabilia—letters, holographs, anything at all?"

"My family has lived like kings for three generations on what he chose to leave us—probably about two percent of what he was worth—but whatever we started with, it was converted into cash over a century ago. I've never seen any documents or anything like that."

"Did they ever speak of him?"

"How else would I know I was his great-great-granddaughter?"

"What did they say?"

"When people were around, the usual—that he was the greatest bandit in the galaxy, that he was a terrible man, that he might not have even been a man at all."

"And when people weren't around?"

She studied his face again, then shrugged. "What the hell. Who cares after this long?" She leaned back against a wall. "They told me that he was a secret revolutionary, that he was trying, not to overthrow the Democracy, but to hold it in check, to stop it from plundering the human colonies on the Frontier when there were so many alien worlds to plunder." She paused. "Does that agree with what Orpheus said?"

"No," replied Dante. "But Orpheus didn't know. It agrees with what I pieced together after reading the manuscript. Orpheus was too close to things. He studied all the people, but he never stepped back and really looked at the picture." He looked at her. "What else did they tell you?"

"That he had to do some morally questionable things, that he killed a lot of men because he felt his cause was just. Since it was essential that the Democracy think of Santiago as an outlaw rather than a revolutionary, almost everyone who worked for him was a criminal. Some looted and murdered on their own and let him to take the blame—and some did terrible things on his orders." He paused. "They all served his cause, one way or another."

"Sounds about right. He came into existence because we needed him. I think we need him again."

"And if you and I select him and train him and control him, there's no reason why we shouldn't get a little piece of the action," she agreed.

"I don't want it," said Orpheus. "I just want him."

She looked at him like he was crazy. "Why?"

Dante shrugged. "It's difficult to explain. But he helps define me: there can't be an Orpheus without a Santiago. And God knows the need still exists. I've seen more brutality practiced in the name of the Democracy than I've ever seen practiced against it. Nothing's changed. They still don't seem to remember that they're in business to protect us, not plunder us."

"They would say they're doing just that."

"They're doing that if you're a citizen in good standing," replied Dante. "But out here, on the Frontier, they prevent alien races from running roughshod over us only so they can do it themselves. It's time to remind them just what the hell the Navy is supposed to be doing out here."

"What makes you think one man can stand up to them?" asked Matilda.

"Your great-great-grandfather did."

"They didn't know that, or they'd have used the whole Navy to hunt him down," she replied. "I know he robbed a lot of Navy convoys, and I know he ran the Democracy ragged trying to hunt him down—but what good did it do? All the Santiagos are dead, and the Democracy's still here."

"They stopped it from being worse," said Dante. "They built hospitals, they misdirected the Navy, they saved some alien worlds from total destruction. That's something, damn it."

"And who knows it besides you and me?" said Matilda. "Everyone he fought for thought he was a criminal out for their property."

"You know who knows it?" shot back Dante. "The Democracy knows it. They were scared to death of him—of them—for more than half a century . . . and if Santiago comes back, they'll be scared again."

She grimaced. "You know why there are no more Santiagos?"

"Why?"

"Because the Democracy blew Safe Harbor to smithereens when they got word that an alien force was hiding there. They never knew it was Santiago's headquarters, or that they'd killed him and his chosen successors. We live out here on the Frontier, so we think of him as King of the Outlaws—but if you're the Democracy, he's no more than a bothersome insect that's hardly worth swatting."

"You're wrong," said Dante. "I've studied it. The Democracy had eleven different agencies charged with finding and terminating him. Even today there's still one agency whose job is to find out who he was, how he got to be so powerful, and to stop history from ever repeating itself."

"Really?" she asked, interested.

He nodded. "Really." He paused. "So are you in or out?"

"Like I told you, I could use a Santiago to take the heat off me. Hell, I could use a couple of dozen. I'm in. Now what do I do?"

"Now we pool our knowledge and try to find the next Santiago."

"We could do a lot worse than the Tyrannosaur," she suggested.

"He's out. Doesn't want any part of it—and he's not what we need anyway."

"Why not? He's well-named."

"Santiago wasn't just a physical force, or even primarily one," answered Dante. "He was a moral force. Men who never gave allegiance to anyone laid down their lives for him." He paused. "Do you see anyone giving up their lives because Bailey tells them to?"

"If that's your criterion, we'll never find a Santiago," she complained.

"We'll find him, all right," said Dante firmly. "The times will bring him forth."

"They haven't brought him yet."

"He's out there somewhere," said Dante. "But he doesn't know he's Santiago. It was easier for most of the others, all of them except the first one; they were recruited by the man they succeeded. Our Santiago doesn't know that the Santiago business still exists."

"All right, we'll proceed on that assumption," said Matilda. "I'll see what I can remember from my childhood." She paused. "I'm leaving Prateep tomorrow, for New Kenya. What should I be looking for?"

"I don't know. They were all different. Reading between the lines, I figure the original collected animals for zoos, and he was followed by a chess master, a farmer, a bounty hunter, and a bank robber. You'll just have to use your judgment, look for the kind of qualities you think he should have."

"That's not much to go on."

"We're planning to take the Frontier back from the Democracy. We can't put too many restrictions on the man who will lead us."

"All right," she said. "Where will you be? How can I contact you?"

"I'll contact you." She stared at him curiously. "I'm a little hotter than you are right now," he explained. "I've got to keep moving."

"What did you do?"

"Nothing," he said wryly. "That's one of the things I have against the Democracy."

"I saw Dimitrios in the audience," she said. "Is he looking for you?"

"I doubt it," answered Dante. "If he was, I'm sure he'd have found me by now."

"He's one hell of a bounty hunter," Matilda noted. "You don't seem very worried about it."

"I'm not without my resources."

"They must be formidable."

"They're okay." He got to his feet. "I think I'd better be going now. I'll contact you again before you leave New Kenya."

"I don't know where I'll be staying yet."

"I'll find you."

He turned toward the door, which opened before he could reach it—and Simon Legree, dressed in his trademark navy blue, entered the dressing room, a burner in one hand, a screecher in the other.

"What have we here?" he said. "A carnival of thieves?"

"Go away," said Matilda contemptuously. "You don't have anything on me."

"I will soon, Tilly," he said.

"The name's Matilda, and you can tell me about it when you have it. Now get out of my dressing room."

"When I'm ready," he said with a smile. "As it happens, I didn't come for you." He turned to Dante. "Hello, Danny Briggs, alias Dante Alighieri, alias The Rhymer."

"All three of us bid you welcome," said Dante with no show of fear or alarm.

"Got a nice price on your head, Danny Briggs," continued Legree. "I could blow you away right now and take what's left to the nearest bounty office for the reward."

"The nearest office is halfway across the Frontier," said Dante. "I'd spoil."

"That wouldn't do either of us any good," said Legree. "Perhaps we should consider alternatives."

"I'm always happy to consider alternatives."

"What do you do for a living, Danny Briggs?"

"My name's Dante, and I'm a poet."

Legree made a face. "Poets don't make any money, Danny. You're going to havbe to learn another skill if you want to live." He paused. "Do you rob or kill?"

"I write poems about colorful characters like you before history has a chance to forget them."

"Damn it, I'm trying to give you a chance to buy your way out of this!" snapped Legree. "Usually I take thirty percent of your earnings for life—but what the hell does a poet earn?"

"I'm rich in satisfaction," replied Dante. "I love my work and I have loyal friends. What more does a man need?"

Legree shook his head. "No good, Danny. If you know a short prayer, you've just got time to say it."

Danny look him in the eye. "I pray that you die quickly and painlessly," he said.

And before the words were out of Dante's mouth, Simon Legree blinked and frowned, as if he couldn't quite understand what had just happened. His weapons fell from his hands. He cleared his throat and opened his mouth to speak; nothing came out except a stream of blood.

"I told you I have loyal friends," said Dante, just before Legree fell to the floor with a knife protruding from his back, and Virgil Soaring Hawk entered the room, stepping over the lawman's corpse.

"Ma'am," said Virgil, staring at her with unconcealed lust, "you are unquestionably the most gorgeous creature to grace this forsaken world since the Maker Of All Things set it spinning in orbit."

"Matilda, this is Virgil Soaring Hawk," said Dante.

"Dante's Virgil at your service." The Injun bent low in a stately bow. "Or the Scarlet Infidel, if you prefer."

"The Scarlet Infidel?" she repeated.

"It's a long story, ma'am," said Virgil. Suddenly he smiled. "But it's an interesting story, if you've got time to hear it over a couple of drinks."

"Leave her alone," Dante said. "She's one of us."

"What better reason to initiate her?" said Virgil.

"Don't," said Dante, and something in his voice made the Injun back off. The poet jerked his head toward Legree. "Get him out of here before someone sees him."

Virgil smiled apologetically at Matilda. "If you'll excuse me, ma'am, I'll just pick up this poor gentleman's body and put it somewhere where it won't bother anyone." He lifted Legree's corpse to his shoulder. "If you need anything, ma'am, now or anytime I'm around, just holler."

Dante stared at him for a moment, then turned back to Matilda. "If he lays a hand on you, tell me."

"I'm not the complaining type," she said. "Anything either of you try to do with me, you do at your own risk."

"Fair enough," said Dante.

Virgil vanished into the hallway.

"He seems to work for you."

Dante shrugged. "He attached himself to me the moment he heard my name. He insists that Dante needs a Virgil to get through the hell of the Inner Frontier." He smiled wryly. "So far he's been right."

"Does he do anything you ask, or is it limited to killing and disposing of bodies?"

"I don't know. I suppose I'll find out someday."

An uneasy silence followed, broken at last by Matilda.

"I'm sure you have things to do," she said. "You'd better be going."

"I will be. We can cover twice as much territory and consider twice as many candidates if we split up. I'll be in touch every week or two until we've finally found our Santiago." He paused. "I'm just giving the Injun a couple of minutes to get the body safely away. Don't let me keep you from doing whatever it is you have to do."

"You're not."

"Of course not." He smiled, walked over to the window, opened it, and pulled up the bag containing the currency. Matilda surreptitiously picked up a nail file from her vanity and held it behind her back as she watched the poet. He hefted the bag without opening it, then tossed it on her dressing table. "You can drop the knife," he said. "We're partners now—and partners don't rob each other."

She placed the file back on the vanity, opened the bag, pulled out the money, checked to see that it was all there, then turned to him.

"How did you . . . ?" she began—but Dante Alighieri was already gone.

10.

He has no future, he has no past,

His eye is sharp, his gun is fast,

He lives for the moment, he lives for the kill,

He's Dimitrios, and he's angry still.

Men aren't all cut from the same mold. Many bounty hunters started out as lawmen, and when they decided they were good enough, they went out to Rim or one of the Frontiers to ply their trade for far more money than a lawman makes.

Some were outlaws, who decided that killing other outlaws was far more profitable than killing the agents of the law who pursued them.

And then there were men like Dimitrios of the Three Burners. No one knew his last name. No one knew where he came from. Some said he grew up on a small world in the Spiral Arm, others say he spent his youth on the Outer Frontier. There was one point where the speculation ended, and that was the day Johnny the Wolf shot his wife and infant daughter. He wasn't aiming for them. In fact, he probably never even knew they were there. He had just finished robbing the bank of Marcellus III, and they blundered between him and the law.

Dimitrios had never fired a hand weapon in his life, but he bought a matched set that afternoon, and spent the next hundred days working from sunrise to sunset at becoming proficient with them. When he felt he was ready, he went out hunting for the Wolf, and finally caught up with him in a casino on Banjo, an obscure little world in the Albion Cluster.

That fight was the stuff of legends. Dimitrios walked right up to Johnny the Wolf as he sat at a table playing cards, placed the muzzle of his burner in Johnny's ear, and fired. Johnny never knew what hit him—but six of his hired killers did, and Dimitrios shot four of them down before one of his burners shorted out and the other was blown out of his hand. He began throwing whiskey bottles, chairs, spittoons, anything he could get his hands on. The two men were no cowards. They fought back gamely, but they were no match for the vengeful Dimitrios, and within a few minutes of Dimitrios entering the casino the Wolf and all six of his men were dead.

Most men would have considered themselves lucky to have survived and returned to their normal lives, but Dimitrios had nothing to return to. He also had the feeling that for the first time in his life, something he'd done had made a difference, that given the geometrical permutations involved, he may have saved as many as a hundred lives by killing those seven murderers, and he decided then and there to go into the bounty hunting business. The first thing he did was buy an extra burner to stuff in his boot, just in case one of the two he wore in holsters should ever short out again, and since he never offered his last name to anyone, before long he was known simply as Dimitrios of the Three Burners.

He didn't talk much, socialized even less, rarely drank, never drugged. If he ever felt like hanging it up and going back to his former life, he just forced himself to remember how it felt when he learned his wife and child had been killed, and he re-dedicated himself to preventing others from sharing that terrible, aching emptiness, that undirected hatred at the universe.

He wasn't interested in bringing anyone back alive. If the rewards didn't specify Dead or Alive, he ignored them. He was even particular about the types of killers he went after. He much preferred to go after those who had killed unarmed women and defenseless children, and he frequently passed up closer, easier, and far more lucrative prey to go after the ones who fit his criteria.

He lived very simply. His clothes were commonplace, even his weapons were not of the best manufacture. His ship was old and unimpressive. Most people felt he was hoarding his rewards. They would have been surprised to know that he kept only enough to live and travel on, and sent the rest to hand-picked charities that gave help and comfort to women who had survived violent attacks and children whose parents had been murdered.

He was on Prateep because he'd been given a tip that Hootowl Jacobs was there, but he hadn't seen any sign on him. He'd heard about this new character called the Rhymer, but when he looked into it, he found it far more likely that the Democracy had killed the Duchess than that the young poet had.

He knew all about Matilda, too, but he had no interest in bringing her down. In fact, he admired her. He liked the way she drove the Democracy and the Frontier's authorities crazy. He knew that she plundered every world she visited; what impressed him the most was that everyone else knew it too, and no one had been able to prove a thing. He'd stopped by the Diamond Emporium to watch her dance—he'd seen her before, and was intrigued by her combination of grace and athleticism—and to see if there was anyone in the crowd who might point him in the direction of Hootowl Jacobs. As usual, he didn't socialize; there was no one there that he either trusted or respected—there were mighty few of either in the galaxy—and so he simply relaxed and enjoyed his drink.

When the show was over, he got to his feet. He'd seen the Rhymer sneak into Matilda's dressing room, but that was no concern of his. He walked two blocks to his hotel, stopped at the bar for a nightcap, and went up to his room.

A few minutes later he heard a single knock at the door. He was still dressed, but his weapons, all three of them, were on the dresser. He quickly walked over, grabbed one, and trained it on the door.

"Come in," he said, uttering the code words that unlocked it.

"Thank you," said Matilda, entering the room. "I think it's time we met."

He shrugged. "I know who you are—and I know what you're supposed to have done. Makes no difference to me. As far as I'm concerned, you're free to keep on doing it."

She smiled. "That's very comforting."

"Is that what you came to find out?" asked Dimitrios.

"No."

"Then have a seat. Can I get you something to drink?"

"No, thanks."

"I don't do drugs, and I don't let anyone around me do them," he said.

"That's all right. I don't drug."

"You're a cheap date," he said, finally lowering the burner and stuffing it in a boot.

"I believe in making every credit count."

"Really? I've heard that you've got money you haven't even counted yet."

"Oh, no—I always count it. How else would I know that I'm not being ripped off?"

"I like you, Waltzin' Matilda," said Dimitrios. "I like the way you dance. I like the fact that you drive the Democracy crazy. And now I find that I like your wit." He paused. "But I still don't know what the hell you're doing here."

"I want to get to know you."

"That's a line I usually hear from some floozy the hotel manager sends up to make sure I don't shoot up the place," he said.

"I'm sure it is," she replied. "But I really do want to get to know you."

"Why?"

"Because from everything I hear you're an honorable man, and they're pretty rare."

"All right, I'm an honorable man. Now what?"

"Now I want you to tell me about the other honorable men you know: who they are, what they do, what they believe in?"

"You want to talk to a minister, not a bounty hunter."

"I know what I want to talk to," said Matilda. She sighed. "Okay, forget honorable. Who's the most formidable man on the Inner Frontier?"

"I am," he said, and when she made no comment, he continued: "I know it sounds egomaniacal, but if I didn't think so, if I didn't truly believe it, then I'd never be willing to go up against some of the men I have to face."

"Who else?"

"There are a lot of formidable men out here," answered Dimitrios. "Hootowl Jacobs, for one. I've heard about a character called Silvermane, out in the Quinellus Cluster. There's the Plymouth Rocker, there's Mongaso Taylor, there's the Black Death, there's a woman they call the Terminal Bitch who's supposed to be as deadly as any of them." He lit a thin smokeless cigar. "And there are some mighty formidable aliens too. From what I hear, there's a pair named Tweedledee and Tweedledum that might be deadlier than any of them."

"Well, that's a start," said Matilda. "How many of them are honorable?"

"Maybe one, maybe none, who knows? Mind if I ask you a question?"

"Go ahead."

"Why is the most accomplished thief on the Inner Frontier looking for an honorable man? That's kind of like mixing oil and water, isn't it?"

She laughed. "I don't think you'd believe me if I told you."

"Probably not, but why don't you tell me and I'll decide for myself."

"Fair enough. I'm looking for an honorable man to train and finance."

"What will you train him to be?"

"A dishonorable man."

He stared at her for a long minute. "That's an interesting notion. What are you looking for—a bodyguard or a partner?"

"Something much more than that," said Matilda. "I'm looking for a leader."

"Leaders are in short supply these days," replied Dimitrios.

"That's why we need one so badly."

"We?" he repeated. "As in you and me?"

"As in the whole Inner Frontier."

"We've never had one."

"Yes we have," said Matilda.

He stared at her curiously. "You're getting at something. I wish you'd come right out and say it."

"It's time for Santiago to return."

He chuckled. "You wouldn't like it much. He's been a rotting corpse for over a century."

"Maybe not," she said.

"Oh?"

"Maybe I'm looking at him right now."

"You've got me all wrong, Waltzin' Matilda," said Dimitrios. "Santiago was the King of the Outlaws. That's just the kind of person that I'm in business to hunt down and kill."

"What if I told you he wasn't what you think?"

"I'd ask what special insight you had into him."

"I'm his granddaughter."

He stared at her, then shook his head. "The numbers are wrong."

"All right," she said with a shrug. "His great-great- granddaughter."

"And you want me to go out and pillage and steal and kill for you?"

"No, I want you to do it for us."

"You and me?"

"The entire Inner Frontier."

"You keep saying that, but it doesn't make any sense."

"Have you got any coffee?" she asked. "Because what I have to tell you is going to take awhile."

He ordered the kitchenette to prepare it, then handed her a cup and finally sat down on a chair that hovered a few inches above the ground, and changed its shape to accommodate his long, lean body.

"All right," he said. "I'm listening."

She proceeded to tell him about Santiago—everything she knew about him, everything her family had said when no one was around to overhear, everything Dante Alighieri had found hidden in the pages of Black Orpheus' poem. It took her close to two hours. When she was done she stared at him, waiting for a reaction.

"I believe you," he said at last.

"Good. That means I haven't wasted either of our time."

"Let me finish," he said. "I believe what you said. I believe Santiago was a secret revolutionary. I'm even willing to believe there was more than one Santiago." He paused, considering his words. "I believe that the time is right for another Santiago. But I'm not your man."

"Why not?"

"I'll help you look for him," continued Dimitrios. "I'll work for him and I'l fight for him." He stared unblinking into her eyes. "But I won't become him."

"Think of the difference you could make."

"Someone else can make it. Not me."

"But why?" she insisted.

"Because I'm not willing to do the things Santiago has to do if he's to be Santiago. I won't give orders to kill innocent men and women. I won't be the one who sends out men to kill young soldiers who are only trying to protect the Navy's payrolls or weapons. I understand why it has to be done, but it's contrary to everything I believe in, everything I am. I'll help you as far as I can, I'll protect you while you and the Rhymer are searching for the next Santiago, I'll never betray you—but I won't be Santiago, not now, not ever."

"You're sure?"

He smiled again. "Santiago is capable of lying. I'm not."

"But you will help us?"

"I said I would."

"Have you any suggestions where we should go next?"

"It'll take some thought," answered Dimitrios. "Santiago has to be able to lie, as I said. He has to send men to their deaths. He has to commit enough crimes to convince the Democracy that he's a criminal and not a revolutionary, and he has to be brutal and efficient enough to discourage any criminals on the Frontier from trying to take over his operation." He shook his head and added wryly, "He could be every scumbag I've ever hunted down."

"But he's not," she pointed out. "With him, it's a facade."

"I know. But they're not traits you're likely to find in a minister."

"That's why we decided to start with lawmen or bounty hunters," said Matilda.

"Maybe," said Dimitrios dubiously. "The question is who you trust more: a man who's been an outlaw all his life, or a man who's willing to become an outlaw on five minutes' notice."

"I see your point."

"Tell me about the one they call the Rhymer," he said. "I know he spent some time in your dressing room on Prateep. What's his interest in all this?"

"He's the one who sought me out in the first place."

"Why?"

She shrugged. "He wants to write poems about Santiago."

Dimitrios considered her answer for a moment, then nodded his head. "I suppose Orpheus needs a Santiago as much as Santiago needs an Orpheus."

"And what do you need?"

"I need men who deserve to die for what they've done. Right now I need one named Hootowl Jacobs. I heard a rumor tonight that he might have gone to Innesfree II. That's where I'll be heading tomorrow."

"If he's the one we're looking for, you won't kill him, right?"

"If he's the one you're looking for, I'll have to reevaluate my pledge to you," said Dimitrios.

"What has he done?"

"You don't want to know."

"Whatever it was, he did it to a woman," she said. "I know that much about you. That's why I was willing to come alone to your room."

"I saw you take that drunk out with a spinning kick," said Dimitrios. "You handle yourself just fine."

She got to her feet. "Tell me where your ship is and I'll meet you there in the morning."

"You're coming along?" he said. "Don't you have any professional engagements?"

"I'll cancel them and pick up work wherever you're going."

"We might to better going in three directions—you, me, and the poet."

"I'm coming with you," she said adamantly.

He shrugged. "Suit yourself."

"So where's your ship?"

"There's only one spaceport. Be there an hour after sunrise."

She got to her feet and walked to the door, then turned back to him. "I can't help thinking it should be you. You're such a goddamned moral man."

"You don't want such a goddamned moral man," he assured her. "You want a man who understands his purpose and will do whatever he has to do to succeed. I'm not that man."

"Well, you might at least look a little sad about it."

"Why?" he said. "Whoever he is, he is—or soon will be—the most important man on the Inner Frontier. We both know he's out there somewhere. What could be more challenging that finding him?"

"Convincing him that he's Santiago?" she suggested.

"When we find him, he'll know," said Dimitrios with certainty. "Hell, he's probably busy being Santiago right now. All we have to do is find him and tell him what his true name is."

"You really believe that, don't you?"

"If he's Santiago, the one thing he's not is a fool. If he's got the abilities we're looking for, he's been honing them, getting ready to meet his destiny. Our job is to point it out to him and convince him we're right."

"Do you really think we will?" asked Matilda.

"As sure as my name is Dimitrios of the Three Burners."

11.

Hootowl Jacobs loves his life.

Hootowl Jacobs takes to wife

A woman here, a woman there—

A bigamist, but one with flair.

Dante wrote that verse about Hootowl Jacobs, but he was still new at the job, and he made a major mistake, one Black Orpheus never made: he relied upon other people's descriptions and recollections. He never met Hootowl Jacobs himself, and that was the real reason the verse was so flawed.

Hootowl Jacobs loved his life, all right, and he certainly was a bigamist from time to time, but therein lay the rub: Hootowl tended to fall in love only with ladies of property, and since he was aware that he wouldn't be awarded that property in a typical divorce proceeding, he "divorced" his wives in his own unique way: with a serrated hunting knife across their windpipes.

No one knew how many wives he had taken, though there were doubtless records of it somewhere. No one knew how many he had dispatched either, but he came to the attention of Dimitrios of the Three Burners when the total reached double digits.

Dimitrios was nothing if not thorough—it was the best way to keep alive in his line of work—so he began checking up on Jacobs. The man had killed women on Sirius V and Spica VI in the Democracy, on Silverblue out on the Rim, and on Binder X, Roosevelt III, Greenveldt, and at least four other worlds of the Inner Frontier.

His method was always the same. He'd show up on a world, a well-to-do widower (as indeed he was), and because of his economic and social station he tended to meet more than his share of well- to-do widows. He wasn't all that much to look at, and his manners weren't the type that would sweep a woman off her feet . . . but he would stress what they had in common, which was money and loneliness, and it wasn't long before wedding bells would be ringing and Hootowl Jacobs (who, after the deaths of his first three wives, never used his own name again) was a husband again.

He never rushed into his "divorces". The fastest was five months, the slowest almost three years. But sooner or later it was inevitable. A distraught, hysterical Jacobs would seek out the authorities, claiming some passing stranger had killed his wife. She was always missing some jewelry, so the motive was apparent. The legalities were usually concluded in two or three weeks—a new John Doe warrant, and a quick property settlement in favor of the grieving widower.

Hootowl Jacobs was not just the kind of man that Dimitrios longed to catch, he was the kind that the bounty hunter wanted to kill slowly and painfully with his bare hands. He knew that he was unlikely to get the opportunity, but he could hope.

It took two days for Dimitrios and Matilda to get to Innisfree II. She had wanted to question him further about potential Santiagos, but he had his own priorities and preferred to go into Deepsleep, which would eventually extend his life by two days provided he beat the odds and lived to an old age. And as he explained, "If I didn't plan to live my full span of years, I wouldn't be in this business to begin with."

To which she thought, the hell you wouldn't—but had enough tact to keep her mouth shut, and after reading the opening chapters of an exceptionally unthrilling thriller she climbed into her own Deepsleep pod, awakening when the ship went into orbit around Innisfree II.

"Get up," said Dimitrios, who was already awake and alert.

"I'm starving!" said Matilda.

"Of course you are. You haven't eaten in two days. We'll eat when we land."

She climbed out of the pod, amazed at how stiff her joints could become in just two days.

"Any messages for me?" she asked.

"Yeah. The ballet doesn't need a prima ballerina, stripping is outlawed on Innisfree, but if you can dance the Flamenco, whatever that is, there's a joint that can give you four days' work." He paused. "Four days is plenty. If Jacobs is here, I'll find him in less time than that."

"Okay, I'll take it."

"Don't tell me," said Dimitrios. "Send a message to them."

"I will," she said. "Give me a minute to wake up."

"All right," he said. "I've booked two rooms for us at a hotel in the center of what seems to pass for the planet's only city."

"Fine. I hope they have a restaurant."

"I hope Hootowl Jacobs is staying there."

"You act like it's a personal vendetta," said Matilda. "Have you ever met him?"

"No. He deserves to die; that's all I need to know."

"How many women has he killed?"

"Too many."

"You know," she said, "I could represent myself as a wealthy widow, or an heiress . . ."

"Forget it. There's a price on his head. We don't need to set him up."

"I thought it might draw him out."

"If he can find a wealthy widow on Innesfree before I find him, then it's time for me to retire."

"Do you even know what he looks like?" asked Matilda.

"Computer, show me Hootowl Jacobs," ordered Dimitrios.

Instantly a life-sized holographic image appeared. It was a man with bulging blue eyes, a widow's peak of brown hair, an aquiline nose, medium height, medium weight, dressed expensively.

"That's him," said Dimitrios.

"He's certainly distinctive," she said.

"If you mean easy to spot, yes, he is."

"I gather he's inherited a number of fortunes," said Matilda. "What the hell is a man with that kind of money doing on a little backwater world like Innesfree II?"

He shrugged. "Who cares? It's enough that he's here—if he is."

"If I were you, I'd care. He might have hired a small army."

"What for? He's never killed anyone but middle-aged women."

"Aren't you even curious?"

He shook his head. "Not a bit."

Santiago would be curious, she thought. And cautious. He'd want to know what business Hootowl Jacobs had on this world. You're so intent on killing him that you're not even interested in what makes him tick, and yet that knowledge could be the advantage you need. I know, I know, all he kills are his wives, but you still should look for any edge you can get. This is life and death, after all.

She began to appreciate the problem of finding Santiago. He was one tiny needle in the haystack of the Inner Frontier, and he probably had no idea of who and what he was to become. Just finding him could take a few lifetimes; convincing him to fulfill his destiny could take almost as long.

She was still considering her problems when the ship touched down. Shortly thereafter they passed through Customs—they had to purchase one-month visas for fifty credits apiece—and Dimitrios rented an aircar, which skimmed a foot above the ground and got them from the spaceport to the city in a matter of a few minutes.

"Here we are," said Dimitrios, deactivating the aircar. "The Shaka Zulu Hotel."

"Who or what was Shaka Zulu?" asked Matilda.

"Who knows? Probably some politician or poet." He paused. "Let's check it out before we unload our luggage."

The doors faded into nothingness as they approached the entrance, and a moment later a small, rotund purple alien was escorting them to their rooms. He stopped when he reached the end of the corridor. For a moment Matilda thought he had forgotten where to take them, but then Dimitrios flipped him a coin, which he caught in his mouth, and he toddled away.

"I'd have asked him if Jacobs was here, but I don't think he speaks Terran," said the bounty hunter.

"Why not ask at the front desk?"

"Clerks don't keep their jobs long if they reveal their guest lists to bounty hunters." He smiled. "Some of them don't live long, either."

She turned to the doors. "Which is mine?"

"Whichever you want. Just let it read your handprint and retina once, and it'll be programmed for you for the next four days."

"I don't know which one I want until I see them both."

"They're identical."

"Okay, this one is fine then," said Matilda, letting the security system scan her readings. The door dilated a moment later and she passed through it. "Not bad," she said. "Larger than I expected."

"Space isn't at a premium on Innesfree," remarked Dimitrios.

She walked back out into the corridor. "It'll do. Now I have to pop over to El Gran Senor and see about a job."

"I'll come with you," he said.

"Why don't you just stay here and relax? I'll be back in a few minutes."

"I didn't come here to rest."

They walked back to the front of the hotel, where Dimitrios brought their luggage in from the aircar and tossed another coin into another blue alien's mouth after telling him their room numbers.

"I hope he understood," she said as the walked out onto the street.

"They wouldn't let an alien hang around the lobby and collect tips if he couldn't."

They walked two blocks north to El Gran Senor. It was closed for the afternoon, but a doorman let them in. The interior was starkly decorated, with a bar in one corner, a number of tables with uncomfortable-looking chairs, and a small stage. A second, even smaller stage, held a single stool, obviously for the guitarist.

"Good afternoon," said a balding, pudgy man with a reddish face. "My name's Manolete. You must be my new dancer."

"Matilda," she said, extending her hand.

"Got a last name?" he asked as he took her hand and shook it.

"Not lately," said Matilda with a smile.

"No problem. Just need something for our records."

"Pay me in cash and use any last name you like."

"Done." He turned to Dimitrios. "You're sure as hell no dancer," he said, starting at the bounty hunter's weaponry.

"Just looking for a friend," said Dimitrios.

"Well, I'm as friendly as they come," said Manolete. "What can I do for you?"

"You're not the friend I'm looking for," said Dimitrios. "I hear that Hootowl Jacobs is on Innesfree."

"Could be," said Manolete. "What do you want with him?"

"I'm his attorney, here to deliver an inheritance."

"I hear tell he's had his share of them."

Dimitrios nodded. "Poor fellow does seem unlucky," he agreed.

"Not as bad as his luck is now, Dimitrios of the Three Burners," said Manolete with a grin. "I've heard about you. They say you're one of the best."

"So is he on Innesfree?"

"He is."

Dimitrios stared coldly at Manolete. "You wouldn't be so silly as to warn him?"

"Me?" laughed Manolete. "Hell, no! I want you to take him out right here in El Gran Senor! We can use the publicity. Maybe I'll even catch it on my holo cameras." He outlined the entertainment with his hands. "Last show each night. For an extra 200 credits, watch the fabled Dimitrios of the Three Burners take out that notorious ladykiller Hootowl Jacobs! Now, why the hell would I warn him away?"

Dimitrios was silent for a long moment. Finally he spoke: "Draw up a contract."

"A contract?" repeated Manolete. "What for?"

"If Hootowl Jacobs shows up here, and if I kill him, and if you capture it on your holo cameras, and if you start charging customers to watch it, then I want 50% of the gross to go to these two charities." He wrote the names down on a counter, then looked up. "Is it a deal?"

Manolete sighed. "Okay, I'll have a contract ready tonight."

"If I should ever find out that you were cheating my charities," said Dimitrios, "I would be seriously displeased with you. Do we understand each other?"

Manolete nodded, and Dimitrios turned and walked back out into the street. The club owner turned to Matilda.

"Nice company you keep."

"We get along."

"I hope Jacobs kills him!" said Manolete passionately. "Hootowl would never charge me half just for showing holos of it." He paused. "Where does he get off, charging me for showing holos of what happens in my own club?"

"It hasn't happened yet."

"It will."

"Probably," agreed Matilda. "Killing's his job. Mine is dancing. Where's my costume?"

"In your dressing room," said Manolete, getting to his feet. "Come on, I'll show you." He escorted her backstage. "We haven't got time to teach you a number. I hope you can improvise."

"I usually do."

"We've got a Borillian playing the guitar," continued Manolete.

"A Borillian?" she repeated. "Why?"

"It's a 14-string guitar, and he's got seven fingers on each hand. You won't believe the music he can make."

"As long as it's Flamenco, we won't have a problem."

"Here we are," he said as they reached a small dressing room. "Usually we have two or three women backing up the lead male, but that asshole went and got himself shot last week."

"And the other women?"

He shrugged. "You know how women are."

"No," said Matilda. "How are we?"

"Easy come, easy go."

"Right," she said. "We're so flighty we don't hold still long enough to get shot like your male dancers."

He glared at her, but made no reply. She looked around the room, checked out the costumes to make sure they'd fit her, examined the vanity, and finally nodded. "All right, I've seen it. When do you need me?"

"We're pretty informal here. Show up after you've digested your dinner. You'll do three shows, maybe four." He paused. "Don't you want to try on the shoes?"

"I'll wear my own."

"They won't match."

"But they'll fit."

"You know," said Manolete, "you're as disagreeable as he is."

"I'm not here to be agreeable," said Matilda. "You wanted a dancer. You've got one."

"As long as you're hired, I'd better tell you the rules."

"There's only one rule," said Matilda. "No one enters my dressing room when I'm in it."

"There's no drinking, no drugging, no—"

"You'll get your money's worth," she said, walking to the exit. "I'll see you later."

Before he could say a word, she'd shut the door in his face and headed out to the street. Once she was outside she looked around for Dimitrios, couldn't spot him, and walked back to the hotel. She checked the bar before going to her room, and saw him sitting there, the only customer in the place in midafternoon, a tall cold drink on the table in front of him.

"Don't drink too many of those," she said, sitting down opposite him. "I've got a feeling Jacobs will show up tonight."

"There's no alcohol in it," he replied. "I don't indulge when I'm working. You want one?"

"Sure. What is it?"

"I don't know what it's called. It's a mixture of three or four citrus fruits native to Innesfree. Nice tang to it."

She signaled the bartender, yet another rotund blue alien. "I'll have one of those," she said, pointing to Dimitrios' glass.

"Yes, Missy," growled the alien.

"Are those creatures the original inhabitants of Innesfree?" she asked. "They seem to be omnipresent."

"Only in the hotel," answered Dimitrios. "They're native to Halcyon II. The ones you see are indentured servants, working off their debts."

"How do you know that?"

"I've been to Halcyon II, and I know the policy of the corporation that owns this chain of hotels."

"And you put up with it?"

"It's not up to me," said Dimitrios. "They sign the papers, they work off their debts. It's the law."

"Didn't you ever want to break a bad law?"

"Lady, I represent the law out here. If you don't break it, you'll never have a problem with me."

"And good or bad law, it makes no difference to you?" she persisted.

"You're looking for Santiago," he said. "I've got my own priorities."

"I know," said Matilda. The alien arrived with her drink, set it down, and scuttled away. "Strange little beasts, aren't they?"

"Not to a lady Halcyoni," said Dimitrios.

"Point taken." She sipped the drink. "It's very good."

"Most fruit drinks are," he said. "I don't know why, but the human body seems to metabolize alien fruits and vegetables easier than alien protein."

"Are you saying you're a vegetarian?"

"No, I like meat. But I try not to eat it on days that I'm likely to work. Wouldn't want to get stomach cramps or worse at the wrong time."

"You keep saying it so impersonally: 'Days that you're going to work.'"

"You can't humanize these bastards," answered Dimitrios. "You can't ever do anything that'll make you pause, or hesitate, or listen to a plea or an explanation or an excuse. They killed the innocent and the helpless; they have to die."

"Do you ever have second thoughts, or regrets?"

He shook his head. "I might have, about a man who killed another man in a fair fight. Or a man who robbed a bank and killed a guard who was trying to kill him. Or about you. But not about the men I go after."

"So you never feel remorse, or regret?"

"Only satisfaction." He paused. "Why do you care?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. I'm trying to make a list of traits I need to find in Santiago."

He laughed softly.

"What's so funny?" she asked.

"If you get close enough to ask 'em, he's probably not Santiago."

They spent the rest of the afternoon in the bar, sipping fruit drinks and waiting for night to fall. When it had been dark for more than an hour, she got up and made her way back to El Gran Senor.

"You're early," said Manolete. "I like that in a performer."

"Not much to do in this town," she replied.

"And I like that in a town," he said. "This is the only excitement there is." He paused. "We should be full all night long. Everyone knows Dimitrios of the Three Burners plans to kill Hootowl Jacobs here tonight."

"Just how many people did you tell?"

"Enough."

"If word reaches Jacobs, you'll be in for a disappointing evening."

"You don't know the Hootowl," said Manolete. "He doesn't back down from anything."

"I thought all he didn't back down from were middle-aged wives who trusted him."

"That's because you've been listening to Dimitrios."

She considered sending a warning to Dimitrios, then changed her mind. His rejection of her offer hadn't discouraged her, but failure to take Hootowl Jacobs would decide it once and for all: if he couldn't kill Jacobs, then he could never be Santiago.

She changed into her costume, put on her make-up, then sent for the Borillian guitarist. His name could not be pronounced by any human, so she decided to call him Jose. He seemed friendly enough, and spoke in tinkling chimes, which his t-pack translated into a dull monotone. After learning the extent of his repertoire, she felt confident that she could improvise to anything he chose to play.

She had some time to kill, so she left her dressing room and began wandering around the building, trying to acquaint herself with it. She found the staff's bathroom and kitchen, and a small room with a card table, then went out front. A few men and women were already sitting at tables, drinks in front of them, and a holograph of a quartet of guitarists was projected on the stage, with the music coming from everywhere, or so it seemed.

"You look good," said Manolete, approaching her.

"Thanks."

"I mean really good."

"I mean really thanks," she said.

"You know, maybe we could work a little something out here," he continued.

"I doubt it."

"It would mean more money for you."

"It'd mean a quick kick in the balls for you," said Matilda. "Are you sure you want to pay me extra for that?"

He glared at her. "Maybe I'll just turn you over to Hootowl."

"First, I'm not rich enough for him, and second, his life expectancy is probably about an hour."

"We'll see," said Manolete, walking off.

She walked over to the bar, introduced herself to the two bartenders, and sat on a stool for awhile listening to the recorded music.

A few moments later a man with bulging blue eyes and a distinctive widow's peak entered and took a table in the farthest corner, his back to a wall, and she knew Jacobs had arrived. Before long the room was full and she went back to her dressing room, awaiting her signal to perform.

It came after another half hour, and shortly thereafter she was dancing to the music of Jose, her fourteen-fingered Borillian guitarist. He took it easy on her, building his speed and rhythm slowly until he saw that she could keep up with him.

She spun around as Jose reached the final few bars of his song, then stopped and bowed to mild applause. As she looked up, she saw that Dimitrios had entered the room and was walking calmly toward Hootowl Jacobs. She began stamping her feet and whirling around again, with no accompaniment, hoping to attract Jacobs' attention, to keep him looking toward the stage.

She dared a look in his direction, and saw that he was indeed looking at her. Then Dimitrios was next to him, placed a burner in his ear, and fired.

There was a shrill scream from a nearby table as Hootowl Jacobs pitched forward on the table, blood pouring out of his ear.

"There's no cause for alarm," said Dimitrios in a loud, clear voice. He held up a small titanium card. "I am a licensed bounty hunter. This man was wanted for a minimum of ten murders. I'm sorry to have disrupted your evening. I'll have him out of here as soon as possible."

A man at a nearby table stood up.

"You didn't even give him a chance!"

"This is a business, not a sporting event," answered Dimitrios.

"But you just walked up to him and shot him!"

"He was wanted dead or alive. Given the crimes he had committed, I prefer dead."

"I wonder how good you are against someone who knows you're there and can fight back." The man pulled his jacket back, revealing a matched pair of screechers in his gunbelt.

"Well, friend," said Dimitrios, "I'm about to show you. Keep your hands away from those pistols."

Dimitrios whirled and fired three blasts into the upper corners of the room, and three holographic cameras melted.

"Do you still want to see how good I am against someone who knows I'm here?" asked Dimitrios.

The man held his hands out where everyone could see them and then sat down.

"Hey!" yelled Manolete, approaching the bounty hunter. "You destroyed three very expensive cameras."

"You didn't prepare the contract we discussed," said Dimitrios. "I told you I wouldn't let you make those holos if you didn't turn half over to the charities I named."

"You said I couldn't show them."

"Well, now you can't."

"I'm going to remember this!" promised Manolete.

"I hope so," said Dimitrios. "And the next time you promise a contract to someone, you'd better deliver it."

Some of the customers began leaving, giving Dimitrios a wide berth.

"Look at this!" growled Manolete. "Now all my clients are leaving! Get that body out of here!"

"You didn't mind that body when you thought you could rerun his death every night," said Dimitrios.

"Just get him out of here and don't come back!" yelled Manolete. He turned to Matilda. "You get out of here too! You're fired!"

Matilda climbed down from the stage and approached Manolete. "Why are you firing me?" she asked.

"You're connected with him!" he said, jerking a thumb toward Dimitrios. "That's reason enough."

"Well," she said, "as it happens, I would have quit tonight anyway. He's going on to another world, and I'm going with him, so I don't mind being fired. But I mind your reason for it, and I mind your attitude."

"What are you going to do about it?" demanded Manolete pugnaciously.

"I'm going to give you a present."

He frowned in confusion. "What present?"

"Remember the trade we talked about earlier?" she said. Before he could react, she kicked him hard in the groin. He groaned and dropped to his knees. "You don't even have to pay me extra for that."

She turned her back on him and walked to the door, then waited for Dimitrios to sling the corpse over his shoulder and join her.

He summoned a robot car, loaded Jacobs into the back, and ordered it to take them to the spaceport.

"You know," she said, "that's just the way I think Santiago would dispatch an enemy."

He shook his head. "What I did was legal and moral. You've watched too many bad holodramas. I don't know how good Jacobs was with his weapons, so why give him a chance to prove he's better than me?" He paused. "Or take that man who got up and half- threatened me. It's easier to frighten him off with a display of marksmanship than kill him to prove a point."

"Yeah, I suppose so," she said.

"Don't look so depressed," he said. "I told you I'm not a candidate for the job. You ought to be pleased that I'm good at what I do, and that I'm willing to join your army."

"I am," she said. "But . . ."

"But what?"

She signed deeply. "But I still need to find a general."

"Finding him won't be so hard," replied Dimitrios. "Recruiting him will be the difficult part."

Which was as wrong a pair of predictions as he'd ever made.

12.

He used to be a lawman, a master of his tools;

His name was The Rough Rider, his game was killing fools.

He used to be a hero, backing up his boasts—

But now he lives a private life, hiding from his ghosts.

His real name was Wilson Tchanga, and there was a time when he was the most feared lawman on the Inner Frontier.

They tell the story of the day he followed eight members of the notorious Colabara Gang into a small warehouse on Talos II, and less than a minute later he was the only living soul in the building.

They talk about the evening he saved an entire Tradertown from Pedro the Giant, a nine-foot mutant who had gone on a rampage with a laser pistol and was in the process of burning the place down when Tchanga showed up to stop him.

It was when he rode an alien steed halfway across Galapagos V to hunt down an escaping killer that he picked up the sobriquet of the Rough Rider, for the terrain was positively brutal. Men envied him, women loved him, children worshipped him, and criminals all across the Frontier feared him.

He never did become a bounty hunter, because he wasn't in the game for the money. He believed that when you saw Evil you stood up to it, and for twenty years he never flinched, never backed down, never once worried about the odds before he marched into battle, burners blazing, screechers screaming.

And then one day Varese Sarabande, who was only 26 at the time, called him out, just like a cowboy in the Old West, and because he was the Rough Rider he stepped out into the street like Doc Holliday or Johnny Ringo might have done a few millennia earlier. They went for their guns together, but Varese Sarabande was faster, and a moment later Tchanga lay writhing in the street, blood spurting from an artery in his neck.

They saved him—barely—but as he lay in the hospital recuperating, he finally came to the realization that he was mortal, and that whatever guardian angel had been protecting him over the years had taken up residence on some other lawman's shoulder. He was 43 years old, and he had painful proof that he couldn't outgun a 26-year-old outlaw like Sarabande. And he knew in his gut that he couldn't beat a strong young man—or woman—in any kind of a fair fight, with weapons or without.

His body, which had resisted age for so many years, suddenly felt decades older as he lay there. He was just a day from being released when a gang of three men burst into the hospital, shot two security guards, and began robbing the pharmacy of its narcotics. A young nurse suddenly entered his room, tossed him a burner, and told him what was happening.

He refused to leave his bed.

They almost had to pry him loose from the hospital the next morning. He resigned his job before noon, withdrew his savings—he didn't transfer them to another world, because he didn't want anyone to know where he was going—and left before the day was over.

He set up housekeeping under a new name on Bedrock II, but the Spartan Kid found out he was there and went gunning for him to pay him back for killing his father and two brothers.

He ran.

He wound up on Gingergreen II. No one knew who he was, no one bothered him, and he lived in total obscurity for three years. Then a thief tried to sneak into his house under cover of night, and he killed him. Shot him dead as he stood there, then shot him 30 or 40 more times. And since he was using a burner, he inadvertently set the house on fire.

They saw the blaze and found him still firing into the charred, unrecognizable corpse. He went berserk when they tried to take his weapon away, threatened to kill them all, and finally collapsed as he was about to turn the burner upon himself.

He spent a year in an asylum, and when he came out he was 50 pounds lighter and his eyes were still haunted by visions that no one else could see. This time they knew who he was, but even the young toughs who wanted to make a reputation knew that they couldn't make one by killing this emaciated, fear-ridden old man, and so he was left to live out his years in a kind of peace.

The Rhymer heard about him and was touched by his story, and even though they never met, no one who knew Tchanga ever argued with the truth of the poem.

"So what makes this Rough Rider so special?" asked Matilda as Dimitrios directed their ship to Gingergreen II after dropping Jacobs off at the nearest bounty station. "The word I get is that he's lost his nerve."

"He was my hero when I was a kid."

"That was a long time ago."

"The qualities that made him a hero haven't changed," said Dimitrios.

"But other things have changed him," she said. "So why, of all the people you might have suggested, are we seeing the Rough Rider?"

"To give him a chance to save his soul."

"We're not in the salvation business," said Matilda.

"Really?" said Dimitrios wryly. "I thought Santiago was going to be the salvation of the Inner Frontier."

"You know what I mean."

"Yeah, I know."

"Then why him?"

"When I was a kid, I wanted to grow up to be the Rough Rider," said Dimitrios. "A man who couldn't be bought off or scared off. A man who knew that the humanists are wrong, that there is good and there is evil, and both are abroad in the galaxy, and that someone had to confront evil and destroy it. You slept better knowing there were men like Wilson Tchanga."

She got to her feet and walked to the small galley. "I'm getting hungry. Do you want anything before we land?"

"Yeah, might as well," he said, joining her.

"I hope this Tchanga is everything you think he is."

"He was once."

"That's not much of a recommendation," said Matilda. She sighed. "I've never recruited a Santiago before. I don't know if I'm doing it right." She ordered beer and sandwiches for both of them. "I hope you've got the right man, but somehow I can't believe it's this easy."

"We'll know soon enough," said Dimitrios. "And don't forget, all but the first Santiago had an advantage ours won't have—a ready-made organization. Maybe they had to take it over, convince it, mold it to their needs, but it was there. Our man will have you, me and the poet. That's not much of an army to stand against the Democracy."

"Then we'll get more."

"Where?"

She shrugged. "Where we got you."

"Bounty hunters?" he replied. "There aren't that many of us, and most bounty hunters don't have any reason to be unhappy with the Democracy."

"No, not bounty hunters," answered Matilda. "Just men and woman who know the time has come for Santiago to walk among us again."

"When you describe him like that, he sounds bigger than life," noted Dimitrios.

"He is."

"That's a lot to ask of one man."

"Maybe that's why it's been a century since he last manifested himself."

"You make him sound like he's still alive."

"He is," said Matilda. "He's an idea—and it's harder to kill an idea than a man."

Dimitrios took a bite of his sandwich, then tossed the rest of it into the atomizer. "Next big one I bring in, I'm using the money to buy a ship with a better galley," he announced.

She stared at her sandwich. "It's not spoiled."

"No. It's just not good enough. Like most of your candidates for Santiago. They won't be evil, and they won't be stupid. They just won't be good enough."

"Well, I like it," she said, taking another bite.

"I hope you're choosier when it comes to Santiago."

"You worry about your Rough Rider; I'll worry about my decision."

"Fair enough."

They finished their beer and returned to the control cabin just as the ship went into an elliptical orbit around Gingergreen II. A moment later they received their landing coordinates from the sole spaceport, and shortly thereafter they were on the ground.

"So where do we find the Rough Rider?" asked Matilda when they had cleared Customs.

"I've got directions to his place," answered Dimitrios. "It's out in the country."

She looked around. "Except for maybe a square mile, the whole damned planet's out in the country."

"It's an agricultural world," said Dimitrios. "They grow food for seven nearby mining worlds."

"They don't need a whole world for that. Most of the mining's done by machine."

"Then they sell what's left to the Navy at rock bottom prices . . . or maybe they just give it to them in exchange for being ignored."

"Ignored?" she repeated.

"At tax and conscription time."

"Were you ever in the Navy?"

"The Army."

"For how long?"

"53 days."

"And then what?" she persisted.

"And then I wasn't in the Army any more," said Dimitrios, and for the first time since she'd known him, she felt a trace of fear.

She followed him in silence to a ground vehicle, and a moment later they were speeding out of the planet's only town, skimming a few inches above a dirt road that took them through blue-tinted fields of mutated corn. Finally, after about 20 miles, Dimitrios instructed the vehicle to take the shortest route to a location that consisted only of numbers, no words.

It turned onto a smaller, narrower road, bore right through two forks, and finally came to a halt before a small one-story home. Dimitrios and Matilda got out of the vehicle and approached the front porch.

"That's far enough!" said a voice from within the house. "Who are you?"

"I'm Dimitrios of the Three Burners," said the bounty hunter, holding his hands out where they could be seen. "This is Waltzin' Matilda, a dancer."

"What's your business here?"

"We want to talk to you."

"What about?"

"Why don't you invite us in and give us something to drink and we'll be happy to tell you," said Matilda.

"The man drops his burners where you stand," said the voice.

Dimitrios unfastened his holster and let it fall to the ground.

"And the one in your boot."

"Good eyes for an old man," said Dimitrios with a smile. He removed the third burner and placed it atop the other two.

"You got any weapons?"

"I just took them off," said Dimitrios.

"Not you. The lady."

"None," said Matilda.

"You'd better be telling the truth. You'll be scanned when you walk through the door, and I'll have the punisher set on near- lethal."

"Well, let me check and make sure," said Matilda. In quick order she found two knives and a miniature screecher and left them next to Dimitrios' pile of weapons. "I must have forgotten about them," she said with an uneasy smile.

"Can we come in now?" asked Dimitrios.

"Yes—and keep your hands where I can see them."

They obeyed his instructions, got past the scanner without incident, and found themselves in a small, modestly-furnished living room. Standing against the far wall was a tall black man, his face ravaged by illness and inner demons, his body emaciated, a pulse gun in his right hand.

"Sit down," said Wilson Tchanga.

They sat on a couch, and he seated himself on a chair about fifteen feet away.

"Why don't you come a little closer?" suggested Matilda. "We're not here to harm you."

"I'll be the judge of that," said Tchanga. "Now talk."

"Do we call you Wilson, or Mr. Tchanga, or Rough Rider?" asked Dimitrios.

"You know who I am?" said Tchanga.

"Why else would we be on your doorstep?" said Dimitrios. "Before we begin, let me tell you that you've been my hero since I was old enough to have a hero. Meeting the Rough Rider is quite an honor, sir."

"I haven't been the Rough Rider in a long, long time."

"You're my hero just the same."

Tchanga stared at him, his face expressionless, for a long moment. "What did you say your name was?" he said at last.

"Dimitrios of the Three Burners."

"Lawman?"

"Bounty hunter."

"I suppose you have your reasons."

Dimitrios nodded his head. "Valid ones."

Tchanga turned to Matilda. "And you are?"

"Matilda."

"Got a last name?"

"Got a couple of dozen of them," she said.

He smiled. "You're no lawman or bounty hunter."

"No, sir, I'm not."

"All right, now we know who we are," said Tchanga. "Why have you sought me out?"

"I want to see if you're the man I'm looking for," said Matilda.

"If you're looking for Wilson Tchanga, I'm him." He smiled grimly. "If you're looking for the Rough Rider, I used to be him."

She shook her head. "I'm looking for Santiago."

He stared at her curiously. "Santiago's been dead for a century or more—if he ever really existed in the first place."

"He was my great-great-grandfather," said Matilda.

"I know I've aged," said Tchanga, "but do I look like anyone's great-great-grandfather?"

"No," interjected Dimitrios. "But you might look like Santiago."

Tchanga frowned. "I think I'm missing something here."

"Santiago is more than a name or a person," continued Dimitrios. "It's an idea, a concept, maybe even a job description. And the job has been open for a century. We're looking for someone to fill it."

"He was the King of the Outlaws," said Tchanga. "I was an honest lawman. I may not be much these days, but I'm still honest."

"We wouldn't be speaking to you if you weren't," said Dimitrios.

"Then I'm still missing something."

"You're missing a lot," said Matilda. "Sit back, relax, and make yourself comfortable, because I'm going to spend an hour or more filling you in."

Dimitrios studied Tchanga intently as Matilda explained who and what Santiago really was, what he had done, how he had hidden his true purpose from the Democracy, and why the string of Santiagos had ended the day the Navy "pacified" Safe Harbor.

"It's time to call him forth again," concluded Matilda. "The time is ripe for him to return. The Democracy is abusing and plundering the Inner Frontier again, colonists have almost no rights, aliens have even less. The Navy goes where it wants and takes what it wants. It protects us from a hostile galaxy, but there's no one to protect us from it."

There was a long silence. Finally Tchanga spoke.

"I'm more honored than you can imagine that you came to me. But I'm an used-up old man whose time is past. I'm no hero, no leader of men. I'm still holding a pulse gun, but if either of you made a sudden motion, I'd be more likely to duck than to fire it." He paused. "There was a time when I might have been the man you seek, but that time is long gone."

"You don't have to be a hero," said Dimitrios. "There's no holograph or video of Santiago anywhere in the Democracy's records. He didn't go out on raids, or face Democracy soldiers himself. He ordered his men to do those things."

Tchanga shook his head. "That may be so, but he might have gone with them from time to time. He could have. I can't. And I can't order men to do things I myself won't do."

"Generals don't fight in the front lines," said Dimitrios.

"They also don't run and hide when the shooting starts," replied Tchanga. "You need a Santiago who commands respect, and I am no longer that man. I wonder if I ever was."

"You were," said Dimitrios with certainty. "And you can be again. You can redeem your life and your reputation through the single act of becoming Santiago."

"I appreciate your words," said Tchanga, "but Santiago is too big. He blots out the stars. The ground trembles when he walks. He does not exist for me to redeem myself. You belittle him by suggesting that."

Dimitrios turned to Matilda. "Aren't you going to say anything?"

"What is there to say?" she replied. "I agree with him."

"Perhaps Santiago isn't a man at all," suggested Tchanga. "Perhaps Santiago is a woman."

"It's possible," she agreed. "But not this woman. I'm just someone who needs a little more protection from the Democracy than I've been getting."

"I hope you find your Santiago and get your protection," said Tchanga. He got to his feet and walked to the door. "You'd better be going. If he's as hard to find as I think he'll be, you haven't any time to waste."

They arose and walked out the door.

Dimitrios pointed to the pulse gun. "Is that thing even charged?"

Tchanga looked out across the vast field of mutated corn. "You see that scarecrow?"

Dimitrios squinted into the distance. "That one about 500 yards off to the left?"

Tchanga nodded. "That's the one." In a single motion the old man spun, aimed his pulse gun, and fired. The scarecrow burst into a ball of flame.

"My God!" exclaimed Dimitrios. "That was more than a quarter mile away! I couldn't do that on the best day I ever had!" He turned to the old man. "Can you hit it every time?"

"Just about," said Tchanga. He paused, and a look of infinite sadness crossed his face. "Unless I thought it might fire back at me."

"Jesus!" said Dimitrios as he and Matilda walked toward their vehicle. "What he must have been as a young man!"

"He still is."

Dimitrios shook his head. "No. Like he said, he's all used up."

"Don't look so sad for him," she said. "He'll be all right."

"I was feeling sad for me, not for him," Dimitrios corrected her.

"For you? Why?"

"Because that's my fate, probably the fate or every bounty hunter, if we live long enough." He paused. "I hope I don't."

"Don't what?"

"Live long enough."

They reached their vehicle, and neither of them saw the tear that rolled down the Rough Rider's withered face as he tried unsuccessfully to remember what it felt like to face an armed man with no more fear than he felt when facing a scarecrow.

13.

Alien face and alien ways,

Alien thoughts and tribal lays.

Alien appetites, strange and cold,

Blue Peter's sins are manifold.

The Rhymer actually met Blue Peter before Matilda did.

He was on Bowman 17, which was actually the third planet circling its star but the 17th opened up by a member of the Pioneer Corps named Nate Bowman, who exercised his Pioneer's privilege of naming it after himself. It was an outpost world, with a single Tradertown consisting of a bar, a brothel, a weapon shop, an assay office, and a jail. That last was unusual for any Frontier world, especially one as underpopulated as Bowman 17.

Dante Alighieri was sitting in the bar, relaxing with a drink, when Virgil Soaring Hawk approached him and asked for a loan.

"What for?" replied Dante. "There's nothing to spend it on."

"I have to make a friend's bail."

"You've got a friend locked up on Bowman 17?"

"Yes."

"Who is it?"

"He's more of a what than a who," answered Virgil.

"Worth a verse?" queried Dante, suddenly interested.

"Maybe two or three."

"Santiago material?"

Virgil chuckled. "Not unless the job description has changed in the last couple of minutes."

"All right," said Dante. "Tell me about him."

"You ever hear of Blue Peter?"

"No."

"He an alien," said Virgil. "I have no idea where his home world is. He's the only member of his race I've ever met."

"He's blue?"

"Skin, hair, eyes, teeth, probably even his tongue."

"How did you meet him?"

"It'll just embarrass you," said Virgil.

"Jesus!" muttered Dante. "Is there anyone on the Frontier that you haven't slept with?"

"You."

"Thank heaven for small favors." Dante finished his drink and lit up a smokeless cigar. "What's your friend in jail for?"

"Unspecified crimes against Nature," answered Virgil.

"What does he do when he's not assaulting Nature?"

"You mean for a living?"

"He's got to pay to feed himself, and to get from one world to another. How does he make his money?"

"He does whatever anyone pays him to do."

"Outside of being a rather twisted gigolo, what does that entail?"

"Robbery. Extortion. Murder. Things like that."

"Sounds to me like he's right where he belongs," said Dante.

"You won't loan me the money?"

Dante shook his head. "We have no use for him."

"I do."

"I don't want to hear about the use you'll put him to."

"You really mean it?"

"I really mean it."

Suddenly Virgil smiled and picked up a chair. "Well, if you can't bring Mohammed to the mountain . . ."

He hurled the chair through a window, then threw two more out into the street before the Tradertown's solitary lawman came over from the jail, trained a screecher on him, and escorted him to the jail. Dante had seen Virgil in action before, and never doubted for an instant that the Injun could disarm the lawman any time he wanted—but of course he didn't want to.

Dante made a very happy Virgil's bail the next morning, spent a few minutes visiting with Blue Peter, and left the jail feeling uncomfortable that something like Blue Peter would soon be free. He wrote the poem that afternoon, and never saw Blue Peter again.

But Matilda did.

It was on Gandhi III, which wasn't as peaceable a world as its name implied. Dimitrios was there on business—another ladykiller with a price on his head—and Matilda had accompanied him. She had no reason to be there . . . but then, she had no reason to be anywhere in particular. She was looking for a perhaps- nonexistent man who embodied a complex concept, and there was no more reason to search for him anywhere else than here, and at least here she was under the protection of Dimitrios of the Three Burners.

Dimitrios spent the day gathering information about Mikhail Mikva, the man he was after, while Matilda stayed in her room watching the holo and catching up on the galaxy's news. The Democracy had opened up nineteen new worlds. The Navy had been forced to pacify the native population of Wajima II, which had been renamed Grundheidt II after the commander of the 6th Fleet. Contact had been made with four new species of sentient life; three had joined the Democracy, and the fourth was learning just how effective an quadrant-wide economic embargo could be. The Democracy had moved the planetary populations of Kubalic IV and V and their attendant flora and fauna to new worlds before the star Kubalic went nova. Lodin XI had voted to withdraw from the Democracy, but its resignation had not been accepted and the 15th Fleet was on its way to Lodin to "peacefully discuss our differences". Five new cross-species diseases had been discovered; medical science announced that they would have vaccines and antidotes for all five within one hundred days.

She deactivated the holo at twilight, wondering why she ever bothered with the news. All it did was reinforce her decision never to visit the Democracy again.

The door opened and Dimitrios entered.

"Any luck?" she asked.

"If he's here, he's well-disguised. No one's seen him."

"Could they be lying to you?"

He stared at her.

"No, of course not," she said. She got to her feet. "Shall we go out for dinner?"

"Yeah. I won't start searching the bars and drug dens for another couple of hours."

They left the hotel and went to one of the small city's half-dozen restaurants, one that advertised real meat rather than soya products (though it didn't say what kind of animals supplied the meat).

They sat down, ordered, and began chatting about the news from the Democracy when they became aware of a blue alien standing outside and staring at them through the window.

"You'd think he'd never seen a Man before," grumbled Dimitrios when the alien kept watching them.

"That can't be it," said Matilda. "There are thousands of Men on Gandhi."

"Then what's his problem?"

"I think he's about to tell you," replied Matilda as the alien suddenly walked to the door of the restaurant, entered, and began approaching their table.

The blue alien stopped a few feet from them.

"May I join you?" he asked.

"Do you know Mikhail Mikva's whereabouts?" asked Dimitrios.

"No."

"Then no, you may not join us."

"But you are Dimitrios of the Three Burners, are you not?"

Dimitrios stared at him. "What's it to you?"

"We are in the same poem."

"Do you know the Rhymer?" asked Matilda suddenly.

"I know Dante Alighieri, who calls himself the Rhymer. It is he who put me in his poem."

"Sit down," said Matilda, ignoring Dimitrios' obvious annoyance.

The alien pulled up a chair and sat on it.

"Who are you?" asked Matilda.

"My name when I walk among Men is Blue Peter. And who are you?"

"My name is Matilda."

Blue Peter stared at her. "Waltzin' Matilda?"

"Sometimes."

"How very interesting that three of us from what is, after all, an obscure little poem so new almost no one has encountered it, should find ourselves on the same planet."

"Dimitrios is here on business. May I ask why you are here?"

"I was requested to leave Bowman 17, and since most of your spaceliners will not carry non-Men, I booked passage on a cargo ship. This was as far as my money took me."

"So you're stuck here?" asked Matilda.

"Until I obtain more money."

"How will you do that?"

"There are ways," said Blue Peter. He turned to Dimitrios. "I am pleased to make your acquaintance."

Dimitrios stared at the alien with an expression of distaste, then got to his feet. He turned to Matilda. "I'm going back to the hotel for a couple of hours before I make my rounds."

He walked out of the restaurant.

"He does not like me," said Blue Peter.

"He doesn't like most aliens."

"He has much in common with the rest of your race."

There was a momentary silence.

"I hope you're not waiting for me to apologize for him," said Matilda at last.

"No. I am wondering why you are here, since none of the establishments has advertised the presence of a dancer."

She looked at him, then shrugged. "What the hell, why not tell you? I'm looking for someone."

"You have become a bounty hunter too?"

She shook her head. "No."

"Who do you seek?"

"I don't know."

Blue Peter stared at her expressionlessly, his deep blue alien eyes unblinking. "That does make it harder," he said.

"You've seen many men on the Frontier," she began.

"That is true."

"Which of them is the most dangerous?"

"I am not sure I understand," said Blue Peter.

"The most deadly. The one man you would fear to fight more than any other."

"I fear to fight all men," said Blue Peter with an obvious lack of sincerity. "I fear Dimitrios. I fear Tyrannosaur Bailey. I fear Trader Hawke. I fear Mongasso Taylor. I fear Jimmy the Nail."

She sighed deeply. "Forget it. I'm sorry I asked."

"I fear the Plymouth Rocker. I fear Deuteronomy Pierce."

"You can stop now," said Matilda.

"But above all others," continued Blue Peter, "I fear the One-Armed Bandit."

"Oh?"

"Yes. He is the most terrifying of all Men."

"Why do you think so?"

"Because he is the deadliest."

"Tell me about him."

"I just did," said Blue Peter.

"Do you know where he is?"

"I know where he is when he is not elsewhere."

She frowned. "You mean his headquarters—his home planet?"

"His headquarters," agreed Blue Peter. "I do not think anyone except the One-Armed Bandit himself knows his home planet."

"And of all the men and women you've seen on the Inner Frontier, you consider him the most dangerous?"

"Yes."

"Even more dangerous than Dimitrios?"

"There is no comparison. If Dimitrios is your friend, pray that he never has to face the One-Armed Bandit in combat."

"He sounds interesting," said Matilda.

"He is deadly."

"The man I'm looking for must be deadly."

"You are already traveling with a deadly man," noted Blue Peter.

"Still, I'd like to meet this One-Armed Bandit."

"I will give you the location of his headquarters," said the alien. "I will not accompany you there. He has promised to kill me the next time he sees me."

"Why?"

"I did something to Galpos that he disapproved of."

"Galpos? Who's he?"

"Galpos is a world," said Blue Peter. "Or, rather, it was."

She stared at expressionless alien and decided she didn't want to know the details. "Where can I find him?"

"If he is not elsewhere, he will be on Heliopolis II."

"Thank you, Blue Peter. Can I buy you a drink?"

"My metabolism cannot cope with human intoxicants." He got to his feet. "There is a tavern that caters to non-Men. I was on my way there when I recognized Dimitrios of the Three Burners."

"I'm sorry you have to go alone," said Matilda.

"I will not be alone for long," Blue Peter assured her.

He stood up and walked to the door. Matilda was about to follow him out when she realized that she'd been left with the check. She placed her thumb on the table's computer, waited for it to okay her credit and transfer payment, and then returned to the hotel.

Dimitrios was sitting in the lobby when she arrived. She walked over and stood in front of him.

"What did the little blue bastard want?" asked the bounty hunter.

"He just wanted to meet us," she replied. "He's all alone here."

"Don't go feeling too sorry for him. He was kicked off Bowman 17, in case that got by you."

"I know." She paused.

"And he had two, maybe three, screechers hidden under that baggy outfit he was wearing."

"I know. I spotted them all."

"Five'll get you ten there's a price on his head."

"Probably," agreed Matilda. She paused. "What if you don't find Mikva tonight?"

He shrugged. "There are four more cities on Gandhi III. I'll check them out, one by one."

"That could take awhile."

"I've got plenty of time."

"I don't."

Dimitrios looked up at her curiously. "What are you getting at."

"I'm leaving here first thing in the morning," answered Matilda.

"Where to?"

"Heliopolis II."

"That's a couple of hundred light-years away—and you came here in my ship," he noted. "Just how do you plan to get to the Heliopolis system?"

"I'll get as close as a spaceliner will take me, which is probably the mining colony on Gregson VI."

"And then?"

"Then I'll rent or charter a small ship," said Matilda.

"You think you've found a candidate?"

"I've found one worth looking at."

"Care to tell me who it is?"

"The One-Armed Bandit."

"Yeah, I figured you'd go out after him sooner or later," said Dimitrios.

"Do you care to tell me anything about him?"

"I never met him. But they say he's formidable."

"So I hear."

"Well, as soon as I find Mikva, I'll hook up with you again."

"I'll look forward to it," she said, knowing full well that even if he found the man he was hunting for, some new ladykiller would take precedence over his joining her on Heliopolis.

Still, it didn't really matter. The Frontier needed a Santiago more than she needed a traveling companion. Maybe this would be the one.

14.

Heliopolis is its name;

Death and mayhem is its fame.

Death of hope and death of dreams,

Death of men and all their schemes.

That verse was true a thousand years before the first man set foot on Heliopolis II. It was true when Matilda arrived there. It was true when Dante Alighieri visited the place. It would be true a thousand years after both were dead. That's the kind of world it was.

To begin with, it was hot. The daytime temperature often reached 135 degrees Farenheit. At night it cooled done to a bone- melting 100.

It was heavy. At 1.18 Galactic Standard gravity, it meant you felt like you were carrying an extra 18 pounds for every 100 pounds of actual body weight.

It was thin. The oxygen content was 87% of Galactic Standard. Even strong fit men often found themselves gasping for breath, especially after exerting themselves in the Heliopolis II gravity.

It was dusty. The wind whipped across the barren surface of the planet, causing dust devils to rise hundreds of feet high as they swept through human and alien cities alike.

It was dry. Oh, there was some water, but hardly enough for the planetary populace. The natives made do with what was there; a water ship landed twice a week to make sure that the Men didn't run out of the precious stuff.

It was hostile. The native inhabitants, a humanoid race known as the Unicorns, doubtless due to the single rudimentary horn that grew out of each forehead, didn't like each other very much, and they liked Men even less. Almost everything Men did seemed to give offense, and no matter how often they lost their battles against the humans, they never tired of regrouping and fighting again.

So why did Men risk their lives and sacrifice their comfort to stay on Heliopolis II?

Simple. It possessed two of the most productive diamond pipes in the galaxy. The diamonds couldn't be mined with water, of course, not on Heliopolis II, but they could be separated from the rocks in which they were embedded by carefully-focused bursts of ultrasound. It was a delicate operation: not enough strength in the bursts and nothing was accomplished, too much and even the diamonds could be shattered.

It never occurred to the miners that the ultrasound, which was beyond human hearing, might be what was driving the Unicorns to such violent states of aggravation—and, in truth, it probably wasn't, since they were a violent sort even before Men began mining. Probably the ultrasound merely served to remind them that Men were still working on the planet, and that knowledge was more than enough to work them into a killing frenzy every few weeks.

Matilda hadn't spent as much as five minutes' researching Heliopolis II before she decided to rent a ship. It was more expensive than chartering one, but at least she would have the comforting knowledge that the ship was there if she needed to leave in a hurry.

As she approached the planet, she wondered why the One-Armed Bandit was there. Was he there to rob the mines? Well, if he was, she had no serious problem with that. The Democracy owned the mines, which meant he'd be robbing the Democracy, just as Santiago had done so many times more than a century ago.

Of course, if he was there to rob the mines, he'd probably accomplished his mission already and gone on to some other world. After all, her information wasn't current; all she knew is that he was on Heliopolis II six days ago.

On the other hand, the mines could be so well-guarded that he was still casing the job, still studying the opposition. If that was the case, she'd have a chance to see how he performed against overwhelming odds.

She was still considering all the possibilities when her ship touched down and she approached the robot Customs officer.

"Name?" asked the machine.

"Matilda."

"Last name?"

"No."

"Matilda No, may I please scan your passport?"

She held her titanium passport disk up to its single glowing eye.

"Your passport is in proper order, but your name is not Matilda No. Please step forward so that I may scan your retina."

She stepped forward and looked into its eye.

"Thank you," said the robot. A sword-like finger shot out, and its needle-thin extremity touched her passport. There was a brief buzzing sound. "I have given you a five-day visa. If you plan to stay longer, you will have to go to the Democracy consulate and have it renewed."

"Thank you," said Matilda, starting to step forward. The robot moved to its left, blocking her way.

"I am not finished," it said, and she could have sworn she detected a touch of petulance in its mechanical voice. "The world of Heliopolis II accepts Democracy credits, Far London pounds, New Punjab rupees, and Maria Theresa dollars. There is a currency exchange just behind me that can convert 83 different currencies into credits."

"I have credits and Maria Theresa dollars," replied Matilda.

"You will almost certainly be using personal credit for your larger expenses," ," continued the robot. "The machines at all the commercial ventures on Heliopolis II are tied in to the Bank of Deluros VIII, the Bank of Spica, the Roosevelt III Trust, and the Far London Federated Savings Bank. If you have not established credit with one of these banks through their thousands of planetary branches, you will be required to spend actual currency. Should you try to leave Heliopolis II without settling all your bills, your ship will be impounded and you will be detained by the military police until a satisfactory settlement has been arranged."

"Is that all?" asked Matilda.

"No," said the machine. "Will you require adrenaline injections while you are here?"

"No," she said. "At least, I don't think so."

"Do you wish to have your blood oxygenated?"

"No."

"Will you require intravenous injection of fluids?"

"No."

"Should you change your mind, all of these services are available, for a nominal fee, at the military infirmary. I am required to warn you that Heliopolis II, while habitable, is considered inhospitable to the race of Man."

She waited for the robot to continue, but it fell silent and moved back to its original position.

"Is there anything else?" she asked after a minute had passed.

"I am finished."

"What do I do now?"

"Pass through the disease scanner just beyond my booth, and then arrange for your accommodation."

"I'd rather go into the city first and see what's there."

"You will not want to walk from one hostelry to another. You can examine 360-degree holographs of all of them right here in the spaceport. Then you will hire a vehicle, enter it, instruct the governing computer where to take you, and emerge only after the vehicle is inside the climate-controlled hostelry. After that you are free to do whatever you wish, but I am programmed to warn you not to go outside unless it is essential."

"Thanks."

She walked to the disease scanner, passed through it without incident, checked the holographs of the human city's seven hotels and choose one called the Tamerlaine, then walked to a row of vehicles. The first in line opened its doors as she approached. Once she was seated it slid the doors shut, asked her if she was the woman who had booked her room at the Tamerlaine, and then raced forward. Just as she was sure it was going to crash into a wall the entrance irised just long enough to let her through, then snapped shut behind her.

They sped across the dry, dusty, reddish, featureless countryside. As they circled a small hill a heavy rock, obviously thrown, probably by an irate native, crashed down on the windshield and bounced off without leaving a mark. She suspected that nothing short of a pulse gun could put a dent in the vehicle, and relaxed during the rest of the ten-minute trip. The vehicle approached the Tamerlaine, and just as at the airport, the wall spread apart at the last instant to let it enter, then shut tightly behind it.

She emerged into the cool, dry air of the Tamerlaine's garage, instructed a liveried robot to carry her luggage to the front desk, then fell into step behind it. She found the gravity oppressive, but manageable.

The reception clerk was ready for her. He'd already run a credit check through the spaceport, and had assigned her a room overlooking the garden behind the hotel.

"Have my bags put in my room," said Matilda. "I'm going to take a look around first."

"Outside?" said the clerk. "I wouldn't advise it."

"I won't be long," she assured him.

She walked to the elegantly-designed airlock that passed for the front entrance, and found she couldn't get the outer door to open until the door behind her had sealed itself shut.

Two steps outside the door she knew why. The heat was oppressive, the air almost unbreathable. Her dancing had kept her in excellent shape, but she found herself panting before she'd walked thirty paces. The air was as thin as mountain air at three thousand meters, the heat was like an oven, and the gravity pulled fiercely at her.

Still, while Heliopolis II was horribly uncomfortable, it wasn't deadly. After all, she told herself, men worked here every day. (Between the conditions and the Unicorns, she hoped they were getting hazard pay.)

She decided to continue her tour of the small city while she was still relatively fresh, turned a corner—and found out what a Unicorn looked like close up.

There were eight of the creatures walking in her direction. Each stood about seven feet tall, though they were so stocky and muscular that they looked shorter. Their arms were jointed in odd places, but bulged with muscles. Their thighs were massive, as they would have to be on beings that had evolved in this gravity. Their heads were not quite humanoid, not quite equine, ellipsoid in shape, each with a rudimentary horn growing out of the forehead. They didn't wear much clothing, but they were loaded down with weapons: pistols, swords, daggers, a few that she'd never seen before but which looked quite formidable.

She stepped aside to let them pass. They paid her no attention—until one of them brushed against her shoulder as he walked by. He immediately halted and spoke harshly to her in his native tongue.

"I can't understand you," said Matilda.

He said something else, louder this time.

"I left my t-pack at my hotel," she replied. "Do any of you have a Terran t-pack?"

Suddenly the other Unicorns joined the one that was yelling at her. Three of them began talking at once.

She pointed to her ear, then shook her head, to show she couldn't understand what they were saying.

This seemed to anger them. One of them approached her ominously, growling something in his own tongue. When she made no response, he reached out and shoved her. She gave ground, barely keeping her balance in the unfamiliar gravity.

She looked up and down the street. There were no Men in sight.

Another alien pushed her. This is ridiculous. I'm going to die on this godforsaken world, not because I'm a thief with a price on her head, but because I left my t-pack in my room.

They formed a semi-circle around her and began approaching her again—

—and suddenly a man she hadn't realized was there stepped forward and stood in front of her, pushing her gently behind him.

"Stand still, ma'am," he said.

"It's all a misunderstanding," said Matilda. "I left my t-pack in my room, and they don't understand me."

"They understand every word you're saying," said the man. "Please step back a couple of feet. If they charge, I may not be able to hold my ground." He looked the Unicorns. "But I'll kill the first three or four of you who try."

Matilda noticed that the man was unarmed. Great! I'm being attacked by aliens and protected by a lunatic.

"You've had your fun," said the man. "Now get the hell out of here."

The Unicorns didn't move—but three other Unicorns, seeing the tense little scene, came over to join their brethren.

"What will you do now?" grated one of the Unicorns in a guttural Terran.

"We will kill both of you!" growled another.

"And when we are through, we will find more Men to kill."

"No you won't," said the man, never raising his voice. "You'll disperse right now, or the survivors will wish you had."

"Death to all Men!" screamed one of the new arrivals.

"Don't let them frighten you, ma'am," said the man softly. "If you're carrying a weapon, don't let them see it. It's better that they concentrate on me." I have no problem with that. But what am I going to do after they kill you?

"Move to the right, ma'am," he continued without ever taking his eyes off the Unicorns. "The one on the left looks the most aggressive. He'll be the first to charge."

And almost as the words left the man's mouth, the Unicorn on the far left, the one who had initially yelled at Matilda, launched himself at the man.

The man pointed a finger at the Unicorn—and suddenly the Unicorn literally melted in mid-charge. The other Unicorns began screaming, and two more charged. The man pointed again; this time energy pulses shot out of his hand, embedding themselves in the Unicorns' chests.

Then the man was striding among them. Two fell to sledgehammer blows, another to a karate kick. He simply pointed to all but one of the remainder and fried them instantly.

He walked up to the last Unicorn, planted his feet firmly, and looked into the creature's eyes.

"I'm letting you live," he announced. "Go tell your friends that this lady is under my protection. To offend or threaten her is to offend or threaten me, and you saw what happens when you offend or threaten me." He paused. "Nod if you understand."

The Unicorn nodded.

"Now go back to your people and give them my message."

The Unicorn literally ran down the street and disappeared around a corner, as the man turned back to Matilda.

"Are you all right, ma'am?" he asked solicitously.

"I'm fine," she said. "You were awesome!"

"All in a day's work, ma'am," he replied.

"My name's Matilda," she said, extending her hand. "I want to thank you for saving my life."

He took her hand and shook it. "I'm glad I was here to do it." He gestured to the restaurant behind her. "I saw them harassing you from in there. By the way, my name's—"

"I know who you are," she said. "The One-Armed Bandit."

He smiled. "You're well-informed, ma'am."

"What should I call you?"

"I've got more names than I can remember," he said. "Why not just call me Bandit and be done with it?"

"I'll be happy to." She stared at him. "That's some set of arms you have!"

He flexed his right arm. "This one's real." He tapped his left arm with the fingers of his right hand; it made a drumming sound. "This one's the fake. I lost the original arm in the war against the Sett."

"'Fake' is a feeble word for it," enthused Matilda. "It's the most impressive weapon I've seen! What can it do?"

"I don't like to talk about it," he said uncomfortably. "Most people think I'm some kind of freak."

"Not me," Matilda assured him. "And I do have a reason for asking."

He shrugged. "All right, ma'am," he said. "Depending on how I manipulate my wrist and fingers, it can be a burner, a pulse gun, a screecher, or—if I'm carrying the proper munitions—even a laser cannon."

"Amazing!" she said. "And you act as if the heat and gravity don't even affect you!"

"Oh, I feel 'em, ma'am," he said with a smile. "I just don't like to let them know it."

She looked at the bodies littering the street. "I'm surprised the law hasn't shown up yet."

"They don't have any reason to," said the Bandit. "Someone'll be along presently to do a body count and dispose of them."

"A body count?"

He nodded. "It's really quite oppressive out here, ma'am," he said. "You may not be aware of it, but I can see that you're gasping for air and having trouble swallowing. Let's go back into the restaurant and get you something cold to drink."

"Yes," said Matilda, suddenly dizzy. "I think that would be a good idea."

She turned to open the door and found herself falling. The Bandit caught her in his arms, set her back on her feet, and escorted her into the restaurant.

"Ah, that's much better!" she breathed as they sat at a table. Not only was the temperature comfortable, but she could tell that the oxygen content of the air had been increased.

"Your eyes look like they're focusing again," he noted.

"Yes, they are." A robot waiter brought two glasses of water to the table. She took one, soaked her napkin in it, dabbed her face and neck, and then took a sip of what was left. "Aren't you having any?"

"I'll get around to it," the Bandit assured her. "Right now I'm more concerned with you."

"I'll be fine."

"I don't know how long you plan to stay on Heliopolis II, ma'am," he said, "but if I were you I'd be very careful about going outside until I'd adjusted to the air and the heat."

"And the gravity," she added. "Am I that obvious a newcomer?"

He smiled. "I'd remember anyone as pretty as you."

She returned his smile, then took another sip of water. She could almost feel the precious liquid spread through her body. Finally, when she felt certain that she wasn't going to black out again, she looked across the table at the Bandit.

"You mentioned something about a body count?" she said.

He jerked a thumb out the window, where a pair of robots were picking up each Unicorn corpse and placing it carefully on a gravity sled. "They'll report it to the authorities."

"And then what?"

"And then I'll get paid."

"They pay you to kill the native inhabitants of Heliopolis II?" she asked, far more curious than shocked or outraged.

"A diamond for every Unicorn," said the Bandit.

She let out a low whistle. "You must have quite a pile of diamonds."

"A few."

"Why don't you just turn your laser cannon on their cities, or wherever it is that they live?"

"I don't believe in genocide," he answered. "I'll protect the men who work the mines, and I'll keep the streets safe, but I'm not going to wipe out an entire race, not even for diamonds."

All good answers so far. You have the greatest arsenal on the Frontier, you don't believe in genocide, you even protect damsels in distress. Maybe, just maybe, you could be Him.

"Why are you called the One-Armed Bandit?" she asked. "I understand the One-Armed, but why the Bandit?"

"It was a term for a type of gambling machine. A few people still use it."

"So are you a gambler?"

"No. I work too hard for my money to lose it at a gaming table."

"Then are you a bandit?"

"I won't lie, ma'am. I've been a bandit in the past. I may be one again in the future. But I've never robbed anyone who came by their money honestly. At least, I've tried not to." Better and better. You're willing to be an outlaw under the right circumstances.

"And," he continued, "sometimes it's just practical. I'd have no moral qualms about robbing the diamond mines here, given all the abuses the Democracy has committed."

"Then why don't you?" she interrupted.

He smiled guiltily. "I wouldn't know how to find a diamond in a mine, or how to extract one. And why should I want the Democracy after me when it's so easy to let them pay me for killing Unicorns?"

"Your logic is unassailable," agreed Matilda. She paused. "How long is your contract for?"

"Contract?"

"For, how shall I phrase it, policing the planet?"

"I can leave whenever I want," he answered. "As a matter of fact, I was thinking of leaving in the next week or two. A month in this hellhole is plenty." Suddenly he smiled at her. "But I'm willing to stay here as long as you need protection, ma'am—and on Heliopolis II, that translates to as long as you're on the planet."

"I appreciate that, Bandit," she said. "Where were you planning to go next?"

"I don't know. Wherever they might need someone like me."

"I might be able to help you out with that," said Matilda.

"Oh?"

"I have to speak to a friend first."

"Is he here?"

"No—but he can get here in a day or two."

"Well, I'll look forward to meeting him," said the Bandit. He pushed his chair back and got to his feet. "And now, if you'll excuse me, ma'am, I think it's time for me to go collect my commission." He paused awkwardly. "Perhaps you'd like to have dinner tonight?"

"I'd enjoy that very much," said Matilda. "I'm staying at the Tamerlaine."

"Fine. I'll call for you about an hour after dark. It'll still be oppressive, but it'll be a little more tolerable."

"I'll see you then," said Matilda.

He left the restaurant, and she ordered a very tall very cold drink, then another. Finally ready to face the planet again, she paid her tab and passed through the airlock that seemed omnipresent on all the human buildings on Heliopolis II, walked back to the Tamerlaine, and went right to the bar for another cold drink the moment she arrived.

Finally she went up to her room, filled the tub with cool water, got out of her sweaty clothes, and carried the subspace radio into the bathroom. She set it down on a stool right next to the tub, then climbed in and luxuriated as the water closed in around her body.

After a few minutes, feeling somewhat human again, she put through a call to Dante Alighieri. It took about ten minutes for him to answer, and there was static whenever he spoke, but she was able to converse with him.

"How are you doing?" she asked.

"All right, I guess. I've incorporated eight more men and women into the poem. How's Heliopolis?"

"It's enough to make you get religion and walk the straight and narrow," said Matilda. "Now that I've experienced Heliopolis II, I don't ever want to go to hell."

He chuckled. "So where are you and Dimitrios going next?"

"Dimitrios isn't with me, and I'm not going anywhere."

"Oh?"

"But you are," she continued. "You're coming to Heliopolis II as soon as you can."

"Why, if it's that horrible a world?"

"There's someone I want you to meet."

"And who is that?" asked Dante.

"Santiago."