The Return of Santiago

Part 3: THE ONE-ARMED BANDIT'S BOOK

15.

From out of nowhere the One-Armed Bandit

Built his legend, honed and fanned it.

In the Book of Fate he burned it—

Watched it spread til all had learned it.

"I've heard about the One-Armed Bandit," remarked Virgil Soaring Hawk as their vehicle sped toward the city.

"So you've said," answered Dante Alighieri. "Why do you seem so unhappy about it?"

"What I've heard doesn't jibe with Matilda's description of him."

"Well, we'll meet him in a few hours and make up our own minds," replied Dante. "In the meantime, I've scribbled down a tentative verse about him."

"Let's hear it."

Dante read it to him.

"What's the Book of Fate?" asked Virgil.

"Poetic license."

"Read the first two lines again."

"From out of nowhere the One-Armed Bandit built his legend, honed and fanned it."

Virgil frowned. "The meter's wrong. You got too many syllables in that opening line."

"Orpheus never worried about meter when it interfered with truth."

"That was Orpheus," said the Injun. "And besides, you don't know what the truth is."

"Well, if it's anything remotely like what Matilda thinks it is, I'll polish the verse and maybe fix the meter." He looked out at the bleak landscape. "Considering that she didn't call me to check out Dimitrios of the Three Burners or the Rough Rider, this guy must be something very special."

"The Rough Rider?" repeated Virgil, surprised. "Is he still alive?"

"After a fashion."

"Damn! I'm sorry I missed him."

"One of your childhood heroes?" asked Dante.

"After a fashion." Suddenly Virgil grinned. "I always wondered how he'd be in bed."

"If he doesn't share your unique sense of adventure, I imagine he'd be quite deadly."

"Yeah, probably. Still, it would have been fun to find out for sure."

A couple of rocks bounced off the vehicle.

"Stop!" commanded Dante.

The vehicle stopped.

"Open the doors!"

"My programming will not allow me to open the doors when doing so might put you at risk," answered the mechanical chauffeur.

"We're all at risk right now!" snapped Dante. "If someone's going to try to kill me, I want to be able to shoot back."

"Correction, sir," said the chauffeur. "This vehicle is impregnable to any weapon currently in the possession of the Unicorns. You are not at risk, and will not be unless you step outside."

Dante alternated his glare between the chauffeur and the shadows on the nearby hills.

"May I proceed, sir?"

"Yeah, go ahead," muttered Dante. "No sense staying here."

"What would you have done if it had let you out?" asked Virgil. "There could be a hundred of them up in those hills."

"And there could be two."

"Even so, do you think you're capable of taking even two of them?"

"Maybe not," admitted Dante. "But you are."

"I've got nothing against the Unicorns," said Virgil. "Besides, I'm a lover, not a fighter."

"Is that so?" responded Dante irritably. "You've kill four people since you hooked up with me."

"But I've been to bed with eleven of various genders and species," answered Virgil, as if that ended the argument.

Dante stared at him for a long moment, couldn't think of a reply, and realized with a wry smile that the argument was indeed over.

The rest of the journey to town was unremarkable. The landscape appeared dull, but from the comfort of their vehicle they could only guess what it felt like to walk through that heat and gravity while breathing the thin oxygen.

"I wonder what the hell he's doing here," remarked Dante.

"The place is supposed to be lousy with diamonds," said Virgil. "What better reason is there?"

"You know, I could get awfully tired of you and your worldview."

"You just don't like the fact that it's so defensible," answered the Injun.

"Maybe I'll change my name back to Danny. Then I won't need a Virgil at all."

"But your Santiago, when you anoint him, is going to need a Virgil, a Dante, a Matilda . . . all the help he can get."

"It's not up to me to anoint him," said Dante.

"Sure it is," replied Virgil. "If you write him up in your poem, he's Santiago, and if you don't, he isn't."

"It's not that simple."

"It's precisely that simple."

Dante was about to argue, realized that he didn't really give a damn what Virgil thought, and fell silent. They reached the city in another minute, and were soon climbing out of the vehicle in the Tamerlaine's basement.

"Well, let's go get our rooms," said Virgil, walking to the airlift as the vehicle raced turned and sped the garage doors and began racing back to the spaceport.

"Not just yet," said Dante as they floated up to the hotel's lobby.

"Why not?"

"Matilda sounds more than impressed with the One-Armed Bandit," said Dante. "She sounds half in love. It may be coloring her judgment, so I want you to nose around and see what other people have to say about him. And find out where he's staying, if you can, just in case I want to speak to him alone."

"You might have told me before the fucking vehicle left," muttered Virgil.

"Yeah," agreed Dante. "But then you'd be so fresh and full of energy that you wouldn't do what I asked until you'd bedded half a dozen men and women and probably tried to make it with the robot chauffeur as well."

Virgil frowned. "I think I liked you better when you were an innocent."

"I was never an innocent," the poet corrected him. "I just didn't know you as well as I do now."

"Comes to the same thing," grumbled Virgil, walking through the airlock as Dante went up to the desk to register.

"Mr. Alighieri, right," said the clerk. "Two rooms?"

"That's correct." He paused. "Do you have any rules about visitors in your rooms?"

"No."

Dante tossed a 20-credit cube on the desk. "Tell my friend you do."

"Yes, sir, Mr. Alighieri," said the clerk, pocketing the cube. "Will there be anything else?"

"You're got a guest named Matilda. I'd like to know what room she's in."

"That's against the regulations, sir."

Dante tossed another 20-credit cube on the desk. "She's expecting me."

"What is her last name?" asked the clerk, pocketing the cube.

Dante frowned. "I'll be damned if I know," he admitted.

"I don't know how I can help you, then, Mr. Alighieri."

"Check your guest list for a single name: Matilda. If she didn't give her last name to me, she sure as hell wouldn't give it to you."

The clerk checked his computer, then looked up, surprised. "She's in 307."

"Let her know I'm on my way up," said Dante, walking to the airlift. He got off at the third floor, followed the glowing numbers that seemed to float a few inches in front of each door, and stopped when he came to 307. He was about to knock when it slid away from him.

"Come in," said Matilda, sitting on a chair by the window.

"Thanks."

"Did you have a good trip?"

"That depends."

"On what?"

"On whether you've found our Santiago."

"I think I have," she replied.

"I've heard of him here and there," said Dante. "I thought he was an outlaw."

"His name," she said, nodding.

"So you're saying he's not a bandit?"

"He's been an outlaw," she answered. "He's not one right now."

"What's he doing on Heliopolis II?"

"Providing protection to the miners."

"If these mines are so damned valuable, why doesn't the Democracy protect them?"

"Because he's better at it."

"Than a whole regiment?"

"Probably. And he's very reasonable." She smiled. "He charges them one diamond per Unicorn."

"Let me get this straight," said Dante. "He kills Unicorns and gets a diamond apiece?"

"Yes."

"That's very much like murder, isn't it?"

"He only kills those who attack or harass miners or other humans," she said.

"From what I understand, that could be a lifetime's work," remarked Dante. "What makes you think he'd quit to become Santiago?"

"Have you been outside yet?" asked Matilda.

"No."

She smiled. "Go outside for half an hour and then ask me that question."

"Point taken," he conceded.

"He's a wonderful man," said Matilda. "Just the kind of man Santiago should be."

"So when do I get to meet him?"

"Well, I was hoping we could have a drink right now—I knew you were due in early afternoon—but the Unicorns killed a miner this morning, and he's out there making sure they think twice before they do it again." She paused. "I don't know how he puts up with the conditions. I can barely walk a block. He goes for miles, and fights at the end of it."

"He's a formidable man."

"And at the same time he's the gentlest, best-mannered man I've come across on the Frontier," she enthused. "It's hard to believe those manners can go with those accomplishments."

Dante stared at her, trying to assess just how much her emotions had influenced her. She stared back, and it was as if she could read his mind.

"It has nothing to do with my feelings for him," she assured him.

"I didn't say that."

"But you were thinking it."

"I was wondering how detached your judgment was. There's a difference."

"He should be back before dark," said Matilda. "We'll meet him for dinner and you can make up your own mind."

"Fair enough." He walked to the door. "I might as well take a nap until then."

"Where's Virgil?" she asked. "Didn't he come with you?"

"He's out enjoying the climate."

"Good God, why?"

"There were a couple of things I wanted him to do." He grimaced. "I just hope he does them before he makes a pass at a Unicorn."

"You told me how you hooked up with him," said Matilda. "But for the life of me, I can't understand why you let him stay with you. You may have needed him the first few days you were on the Frontier, but surely you don't need him any longer."

"That's true."

"Well, then?"

"When we find our Santiago, he's going to need all the help he can get. Including Virgil."

"What makes you think he'll obey Santiago's orders?"

"He obeys me, and I'm no Santiago," answered Dante. "He needs an authority figure."

"He needs to be castrated and lobotomized!" said Matilda passionately.

"Well, that too," agreed Dante with a smile.

"He makes my skin crawl."

"He'll leave you alone."

"What makes you think so?"

"I told him to."

"And that will make him leave me alone?" she said dubiously.

"I told you: he obeys me."

"Why?" persisted Matilda.

Dante shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe he's really hung up on this Virgil/Dante thing. Or maybe he just wants a couple of more verses in my poem."

"Wait'll you meet the Bandit!" she said, her enthusiasm returning. "You'll give him a dozen verses!"

"I already wrote one," said Dante.

"May I see it?"

"Not until I've met him. I wrote it based on your messages. I may want to change it."

"You won't," she said with absolute certainty.

"I hope you're right," he said, walking to the door, then turned back to face her.

"But?" said Matilda. "There's an unspoken 'But' there."

"But I can't believe finding Santiago will be this easy."

He walked to the airlift, went up to the fifth floor, found his room, notified the desk that the robot bellhop had mixed his luggage up with Virgil's, waited a few moments until the problem was sorted out, and then lay back on the bed. It seemed that he had just closed his eyes when the desk clerk called him to tell him that Matilda was waiting for him in the lobby.

He got to his feet, walked to the sink, muttered "cold", and rinsed his face off. He considered changing clothes, but he didn't have anything better than he was wearing, so he left the room and took the airlift down to the lobby.

"Is he here?" asked Dante he approached Matilda.

"We're meeting him at the Golden Bough," answered Matilda. "It's a restaurant three blocks from here."

"From everything I've heard about this world, it ought to be the Diamond Bough." He stopped by the desk. "Has my friend checked in yet?"

"Virgil Soaring Hawk?" responded the clerk. "No, Mr. Alighieri."

"Thank you." Dante escorted Matilda to the airlock. "Well, either he's dead or he's shacking up with a Unicorn. We'll find out which tomorrow."

They emerged from the hotel, and he noticed that the gravity had become much heavier.

"I hadn't realized just how much the Tamerlaine had spent to approximate Standard gravity," he remarked. "Why don't we ride instead of walking?"

"The Democracy gets 50% of the take from the vehicles that go to and from the spaceport," she explained. "They want the same from city transportation, and so far no one's been willing to give it to them. A couple of men set up a taxi business a couple of years ago; the Democracy came in and turned their vehicles to rubble. I think they killed one of the men, too. Anyway, since then, we walk. It's reached the point where the miners are proud of being able to cope with the climate and the gravity."

"Every goddamned Frontier world I've been to has a story like that," said Dante. "I hope to hell you've found our man." He grimaced. "Damn! It feels like each foot weighs 50 pounds."

"I don't mind the gravity as much as the thin air," she said.

"I don't think I'm especially enamored of the temperature, either," he added.

"It's much better now. Before sundown it's a lot hotter."

"And the Bandit fights Unicorns out here?"

"That's right."

"Well, he's Santiago or he's crazy," said Dante. "I vote for the latter."

"The conditions don't seem to bother him," said Matilda. "He's not like us."

"I'll vouch for that. Let's step it up a little and get out of this goddamned heat and gravity."

She locked her arm in his and gently restrained him. "You don't want to exert yourself in this thin air. You could black out before we reach the restaurant."

Dante slowed down and didn't admit that he was just a bit dizzy. "And he chases Unicorns up and down those hills! Amazing!"

"Don't keep talking," she instructed him. "Save your strength until we're inside the restaurant."

His limbs felt heavier with each step, and he fell silent and walked at her pace. The blocks seemed longer than they were on most Frontier worlds, but that could simply have been because he wanted them to be shorter.

Finally they came to the Golden Bough, and he gratefully entered the airlock with her. His lungs filled with oxygen, and the temperature dropped until it was comfortable if not cool—but his arms and legs still felt like the floor was tugging at them.

"There's no artificial gravity in here," Matilda noted. "I suppose it must cost too much for anything smaller than a hotel."

"Remind me not to order a souffle," he replied wryly.

They were escorted to an empty table by the robotic headwaiter.

"So where's the Bandit?" asked Dante as they sat down.

"He'll be here."

"Yeah, I don't suppose you can kill Unicorns by the clock." He touched a small screen and summoned a waiter.

"How may I help you, sir?" asked the robot in a grating monotone.

"I'd like a beer. A very cold one." He turned to Matilda. "How about you?"

"Make it two," she told the robot.

"Would you care to order?" asked the waiter.

"No, we're waiting for a friend to join us."

The waiter walked to the bar, returning a moment later with their beers.

"You could work up one hell of a thirst walking around this town," commented Dante. He took a long swallow, closed his eyes, and sighed. "God, that's good! I don't think I ever appreciated beer before this evening."

"You'll find you need twice as many fluids as usual if you're going to spend any time outside," said Matilda.

Dante suddenly became aware of the fact that they were no longer alone. A tall man with wavy black hair, his clothes covered by red dust, stood next to their table. Matilda smiled as she saw him.

"Dante Alighieri," she said, "I'd like you to meet the man who saved my life—the One-Armed Bandit."

Dante stood up and shook the man's massive hand. "I've heard a lot about you," he said.

"Ditto," said the Bandit. "Matilda's told me all about you, Mr. Alighieri."

"Won't you sit down?"

"Thank you," said the Bandit. He signaled to the waiter. "Iced water, please—in the tallest glass you've got."

"How did it go today?" asked Matilda, lowering her voice enough so none of the other diners could overhear her.

"It went all right."

"That's all you've got to say?" she demanded.

"I wouldn't want Mr. Alighieri to think I was a braggart, ma'am."

"I won't," Dante assured him. "And I'd also like to hear what happened."

"There's really not much to tell," said the Bandit. "I took a land vehicle out to the mine, and when I didn't see any Unicorns there, I just went farther and farther into the desert until a few of them started throwing rocks at me the way they do. I waited until one of them charged, and before he could reach me I took out the hill where his friends were hiding so there was nothing left of either—the hill or the Unicorns. Then I melted the sand between the one surviving Unicorn and me, so he couldn't walk across it, and I told him that what I'd done was retribution for their killing that miner this morning. Twelve of them for one of us. I told him next time it'd be thirty for one, and then I let him go to spread the word." He paused uncomfortably. "I'm sorry I'm late, but the Democracy won't take my word for how many I killed, so I had to load them onto a couple of airsleds and attach them to the back of my land vehicle."

"And you did that in this gravity and heat!" said Dante admiringly.

"The trick is to not let them see that it bothers you, Mr. Alighieri," said the Bandit.

"Please, call me Dante."

"All right."

"And you killed twelve of them?"

"That's right, Mr. Alighieri."

"Dante."

"I apologize," said the Bandit. "That's the way my mother brought me up, and those early lessons stay with you even out here on the Frontier."

Dante seemed amused. "You don't have to apologize for being polite."

"Thank you," said the Bandit. "I'd call Matilda Miss something-or-other, but she won't tell me what her last name is."

"Welcome to the club," said Dante wryly.

"Dante has become the new Black Orpheus," said Matilda.

"So you told me, ma'am."

"Maybe if you'll tell him about some of your more exciting exploits he'll put them in his poem."

"Oh, I don't think any of 'em are worth putting in a poem," said the Bandit. "Certainly not the kind Orpheus used to write. Those verses were about important people."

"You're important," said Matilda.

"Thank you for saying so, ma'am, but I'm really not."

"You could be," said Dante meaningfully.

"I don't think I follow you, Mr. Alighieri," said the Bandit.

"I'm here on Heliopolis II for a few days," said Dante. "We'll talk about it before I leave. Tonight let's just get to know each other."

"Whatever you say, Mr. Alighieri."

"Dante."

"I'm sorry," said the Bandit. "Sooner or later I'll get it right."

The robot waiter trundled up and took their orders.

"Matilda's told me all about that arm of yours," said Dante as the waiter glided away. "It's quite a weapon. What made you decide to create it?"

"My father was a successful banker back on Spica II," said the Bandit. "He died just about the same time that I lost my arm in the Sett War. I suppose I could have just packed it in and lived on the interest from my inheritance, but I wasn't ready to retire from living yet. The war had kind of aroused my interest in seeing new worlds, so I took every last credit my father left me and found a team that could create this arm for me. I field-tested it in the Canphor VII rebellion, and then came out to the Inner Frontier."

"Why did you leave the Democracy?" asked Dante.

"I felt . . . I don't know . . . constricted. Too many rules and regulations, and I didn't like the way the Democracy enforced them, so I decided to come to where there weren't any rules at all."

"And now you enforce them," said Matilda. "That really does belong in Dante's poem."

"I never looked at it that way, ma'am," admitted the Bandit. "Still, I think Mr. Alighieri should stick to the important people, the ones who make and shape the Frontier."

Dante stared at him. Can you be for real, or is this all just an act?

Their dinner arrived, and they spent the next few minutes eating, while Matilda tried to make small talk.

When the meal was done, Dante lit a smokeless cigar and offered one to the Bandit, who refused.

"What are you doing tomorrow?" asked the poet.

"I won't know until tomorrow happens," said the Bandit. "I don't have any definite route or anything like that. If the Unicorns don't bother anyone, I'll stay in my hotel most of the day."

"If you're available, I'd like to have a serious talk with you."

"Sure."

"Aren't you curious?"

"You'll tell me when you're ready to," said the Bandit.

"Where are you staying?"

"Over at the Royal Khan."

"Fine. I'll be there about noon."

They got up to leave. As they walked past the bar, they came to a man whose face was swathed in bandages.

"Hello, Mr. Durastanti," said the Bandit. "Welcome back."

"They let me out this afternoon," said the man, his voice muffled by the bandages. "Lost an eye, and they're going to have to build me a new nose."

The Bandit reached into his pocket and pulled out twelve perfect diamonds. He took hold of the man's hand and carefully placed the diamonds in it.

"What's this?" demanded the man.

"Just in case the Democracy doesn't cover all your medical expenses, Mr. Durastanti," said the Bandit.

"You don't have to—"

"It's an honor to, Mr. Durastanti," said the Bandit, gently closing the man's hand on the diamonds and then guiding it to his pocket. "Don't drink too much tonight, and take those to the assay office in the morning. I'm sure there are identifying marks on them, but I'll stop by first thing and let them know I gave them to you . . . that you didn't steal them."

"As if I could!" said the man with a dry, croaking, humorless laugh.

"Take care, now," said the Bandit, accompanying Dante and Matilda out into the hot, uncomfortable night.

"What was that all about?" asked Dante.

"That's Mr. Durastanti," explained the Bandit. "He's a miner. The Unicorns killed his partner and laid a false trail for me to follow. By the time I realized it and doubled back, they'd already ripped half his face off."

"That's hardly your fault."

"I was supposed to protect him, and I failed." He paused, then continued with genuine regret. "I spoke to the doctors. He inhaled a lot of dust and he lost a lot of his face. They don't think he'll ever work again."

"Were those the diamonds you picked up for the Unicorns you killed today?"

"Yes."

"That's a lot of diamonds to give away."

The Bandit shrugged. "He needed them more than I did."

By God, thought Dante, we did find Santiago after all!

16.

He counts other people's money,

He mouths other people's words,

The Grand Finale hates his life,

And envies the free-flying birds.

Dante had been so fascinated by the One-Armed Bandit that he completely lost track of Virgil Soaring Hawk. That lasted until the middle of the night, when Virgil lurched into his room and poked him in the ribs.

"What the hell is it?" demanded Dante, sitting up.

"It's me," slurred the Injun. "I'm a he, not an it."

"Go away," said Dante, laying back down. "You're drunk."

"What's that got to do with anything?" retorted Virgil. "I've got a recruit."

"Who are we at war with?" muttered Dante, covering his head with a pillow.

"The Democracy."

"Go recruit eighty billion more and maybe you'll stand a chance," said the poet. "Now go away and leave me alone."

Virgil poked him in the ribs again.

"What the hell is the matter with you?" snapped Dante.

"I told you: I've got a recruit."

"All right, you've got a recruit," said Dante, now thoroughly and grumpily awake. "So what?"

"So I think you should talk to him."

"In the morning?"

"Now. He's downstairs in the hotel bar. And he wants to meet you."

Dante got up and started getting dressed. "This recruit of yours—does he have a name?"

"Probably. Hell, he's probably got a bunch of them. These days he calls himself the Grand Finale."

"Sounds like an actor with an inflated ego," said Dante disgustedly.

"He's waiting."

"I know. You told me." Dante slipped into his shoes and ran a comb through his hair.

"He's a gray-haired guy. Smaller than you. Kinda skinny. White mustache. You can probably find some of his dinner in it."

"Why are you telling me this?" said Dante. "We'll see him in just a minute."

The Injun lay down on the poet's bed. "I thought now that you know what he looks like, I'd take a little nap."

He was snoring by the time Dante reached the door.

Dante went down to the lobby, then turned to his left and entered the small bar. There was only one customer, and he looked exactly as Virgil had described him.

Dante walked over the stood in front of him. "You're the one who calls himself the Grand Finale?"

The old man looked him over critically. "So you're the new Orpheus?"

"So to speak. I gather you want to meet me?"

"Not as much as you want to meet me," said the old man. "Have a seat, Rhymer."

Dante sat down and ordered a beer.

"I'll have another," said the Grand Finale to the mechanical waiter. He turned to Dante. "I'm charging my drinks to your room. I hope you don't mind."

"I'll let you know after you tell me why I want to meet you."

"Because even Santiago can't function without a man like me," said the Finale.

"You don't look that formidable to me," remarked Dante.

"That's because you're thinking along the wrong lines, Rhymer," said the old man. "You don't need another soldier half as much as you need someone to pay for the bullets."

"Keep talking."

"I used to be a banker. A very exotic one: I arranged financing for terraforming worlds. I helped the Democracy bring recalcitrant worlds to their economic knees and helped rebuild them once they'd fallen into line. And I was good, Rhymer—there wasn't a trick I didn't know, a law I couldn't circumvent." He paused. "I was too good to stay in a legitimate business. It wasn't too long before the Kalimort bought me off."

"The Kalimort?" repeated Dante.

"They were a planetary criminal organization on Pretorius III that was about to expand to half a dozen other worlds. They needed financing, and they needed to know how to double their money while they were preparing to move."

"And you showed them how?"

"For a few years. Then they were absorbed by Barioke, one of the major warlords on the Rim, and I went to work for him. Over the years I've worked for half a dozen organizations that needed to hide and, at the same time, maximize their resources." He smiled. "The one you dubbed the Scarlet Infidel tells me you may be putting together another one."

"It's possible," said Dante. "Who are you working for now?"

"I'm between jobs," said the Grand Finale, looking uncomfortable for the first time.

"They caught you with your hand in the till," said Dante. It was not a question.

"Why should you think so?"

"Because we're as far from the Rim as it's possible to get. There's the Rim, then the Outer Frontier and the Spiral Arms, then the Democracy, and then the Inner Frontier and the Core. Why else would you be a couple of hundred thousand light-years from your warlord? How much did you run off with?"

"Not enough," admitted the Finale, unable to hide his bitterness. "I thought I'd never have to work again. I forgot how much it costs to live when you're in hiding."

"Yeah, it gets expensive," agreed Dante. "How long have you been the Grand Finale?"

"A few months." He grinned guiltily. "I saw a bakery on Ribot IV called the Grand Finale."

"Silly name."

"Well, I'm hardly likely to call myself the Banker or the Accountant when I'm trying to hide my identity."

"True enough," said Dante. "What's your real name?"

"Wilbur Connaught."

"If we decided to invite you to join us, Wilbur, what is it going to cost us?"

"It varies."

"Explain."

"I don't work for a salary. I'll take some living expenses as a draw against what I earn, but you'll pay me three percent of the profit I make with the money you give me to work with."

"Three percent doesn't seem like very much for a man with your credentials," said Dante. "What's the catch?"

"No catch. After a couple of years, you'll find yourself resenting how much you pay me."

"Give me an example of what you do."

"Let's say you give me a million credits, to name a nice round number," said Wilbur. "And let's say you don't need it for a year."

"Okay, let's say so."

"I'll use my sources to find those planets that are suffering from hyperinflation. They can't be just any planets; their economies have to be backed by the Democracy." He paused. "With more than 50,000 words to choose from, it won't be too hard to find three worlds that are returning 100% per annum on deposits, again using a nice round number."

"Okay, so you can double the money."

Wilbur snorted contemptuously. "Any fool can double the money. Just for the sake of argument, let's say each world has a 24-hour day. I'll set up a computer program that transfers the money to each of the three worlds every eight Standard hours. Figuring simplistically, this will quadruple your money in a year, but actually, given compounded interest, it'll come much closer to quintupling. There's no stock market in the galaxy that can guarantee you an annualized 500% return, and we'll do this with the full faith and backing of the Democracy. If any of those banks fail, the Democracy will step in and make good their debts."

"Very interesting," said Dante. "I'm impressed."

"That's kindergarten stuff," said Wilbur. "I just used it for a simple-to-understand example. There are investments and machinations that can give you a tenfold return in half the time. You'll need to pay an army, to supply them with weapons and ship, to keep lines of communication open. It all costs money. You need me, Rhymer."

"I'm sold," said Dante. "But it could take awhile before we're ready for you, before we have anything for you to invest."

"I'm not going anywhere," said Wilbur. "I hate Heliopolis, but I'm probably safer hiding out in this hellhole than anywhere else." He sighed. "Almost makes me wish I'd stayed a banker."

"And we won't have an army, not in the normal sense of one."

"Neither did the Kalimort—but they sure killed a lot of people."

"That doesn't bother you?"

"My job is making money. I'm not responsible for what you do with it."

"That's a refreshing attitude," commented Dante.

"But if you use it against the Democracy, I won't be unhappy."

"Why should that be?"

"There's been a price on my head ever since I worked for the Kalimort," said Wilbur. "I've got two grandchildren in the Deluros system that I'll never see. That's reason enough."

"How will I get in touch with you?"

"I'm at the Royal Khan." The old man looked at him. "Have you found your Santiago yet?"

"I'm interviewing a very promising candidate tomorrow," said Dante.

"I didn't know they could apply for the job."

"They can't."

"But you just said—"

"He doesn't know what I want to talk to him about," said Dante.

"Well, if you're here for anyone, it's got to be the One- Armed Bandit," said Wilbur.

"What's your opinion of him?"

"You could do worse."

"That's all you've got to say?"

"My job is making money," said Wilbur. "Your job seems to be deciding who I make it for. I wouldn't let you tell me how to go about my business; I don't propose to tell you how to go about yours."

"You're going to be a pleasure to work with, old man."

"If you really think so, Rhymer, you might put me in a verse or two next time you're working on your poem."

"I might, at that."

The Grand Finale got to his feet. "I'm going back to my room now. No sense waiting til the sun starts coming out. It's hot enough as it is."

"We'll talk again soon," promised Dante.

"Not necessary," replied Wilbur. "I've told you what I can do and you've agreed to hire me. Contact me again when you're ready for me."

He walked out of the bar, crossed through the lobby, and went out the airlock while Dante sipped his beer and watched him bend over as the force of gravity hit him.

The poet considered going back to sleep, but decided that he didn't feel like wrestling the Injun for his bed, so he activated the bar's holo set and watched news and sports results from back in the Democracy until the first rays of the huge sun began lighting the streets.

He checked his timepiece, decided it was still a couple of hours too early to visit the Bandit, and walked out to the lobby.

"May I help you, sir?" said the night clerk.

"Yeah. Where do I go for breakfast around here?"

"We have our own restaurant."

"I know. But it doesn't open for another hour, and I'm hungry now."

"It's against our policy to recommend any other restaurants, so I am not permitted to tell you that The Deviled Egg is an excellent establishment and is located 60 yards to your right as you leave the Tamerlaine," said the clerk with a smile. "I hope you will forgive my reticence, sir."

Dante flipped him a coin. "All is forgiven and forgotten," he said, walking to the airlock.

The heat hit him the second he stepped outside. So did the gravity. He had a feeling he was adjusting to the thin air, because he walked the block to the restaurant without panting.

He walked through the near-empty Deviled Egg, found a table in the corner where he could look out through the front window and observe the few people who were out on the street, and ate a leisurely breakfast.

He sipped his coffee, checked his timepiece again, and decided that it was almost time to leave for the Royal Khan. He wondered if he should have Matilda come with him, but decided against it. He couldn't help feeling that she was a little bit in love with the One-Armed Bandit, and while he had no problem with that, he felt he'd rather present the proposal alone, with no emotional undercurrents distracting the Bandit.

He paid his bill, got up, and walked back into the hot, humid, thin Heliopolis air. The Royal Khan was half a block away, and he headed toward it.

A young woman was walking in his direction. As they passed each other she veered slightly and brushed against him. He thought nothing of it until he reached the lobby of the Royal Khan. A human waiter seemed to be charged with the task of bringing every person who entered the lobby a cold drink, and Dante reached into his pocket to grab a coin and tip him. Instead, he found a folded piece of paper which the woman had obvious placed there. He unfolded it and read it:

I know why you are here. The Scarlet Infidel thinks you will be raising an army, but that's not the way Santiago fought in the past, and it's not the way to fight now.

"That goddamned Injun's got a big mouth," muttered Dante. He continued reading.

I have no love for the Democracy. If you would like to discuss matters of mutual interest, fold this up and put it back in your pocket, and I will contact you after you speak to the man you came to Heliopolis II to see.

Virgil hadn't known he'd be seeing the Bandit this morning. Which meant she'd figured it out herself. It didn't make her a genius, but it made her bright enough to talk to. Dante carefully folded the note and replaced it in his pocket.

He looked around to see who was watching him. The lobby was empty and there was no one in the street outside, but somehow he knew that his action had registered with someone.

He tipped the waiter, who had waited impatiently while he'd read the note, and then went to the airlift. He was going to the Bandit's room as the successor to Black Orpheus; he had every hope that he would leave as the creator of Santiago.

17.

A blossom, a petal, an odor so nice,

The Flower of Samarkand's sugar and spice.

She eschews the moral and practices vice,

With a passion that's hot, and a heart cold as ice.

The door slid open and Dante entered the room. It was a little larger than his room at the Tamerlaine, but the air conditioning didn't seem to be working as well. Then he found himself gasping for breath, and he realized that the window was half-open.

"You sure you want the bring the outdoors in?" he asked, pointing to the window.

The One-Armed Bandit, who was floating a few inches above the ground on an easy-chair that constantly remolded itself to his body's movements, glanced at the window.

"You can shut it if you like, Mr. Alighieri."

Dante walked over and commanded the window to close. It sealed itself shut an instant later.

"Don't you find the heat uncomfortable?" asked Dante curiously.

"Of course I do."

"Then why—?"

"Because then I find the outdoors a little less uncomfortable, and that's where I do most of my work."

"Makes sense," said Dante. He looked around and saw an empty chair by the desk. "Do you mind if I sit down?"

"You're my guest, Mr. Alighieri," said the Bandit. "You can have this chair if you like."

"The desk chair will be fine," said Dante, as he walked over and sat down. "I take it you're free for the day?"

"My services aren't needed." The Bandit paused. "So far, anyway."

"I think you're wrong," said Dante. "I think your services are needed more than you can imagine."

"Have the Unicorns—?"

"This has nothing to do with the Unicorns," said the poet. "Shall I continue?"

The Bandit nodded.

"What do you know about Santiago?"

"Not very much," admitted the Bandit. "They say that he was King of the Outlaws, and that he died more than a century ago. Why?"

"He was an outlaw, all right," said Dante. "But what if I told you that it was just a cover?"

"A cover?" said the Bandit, frowning. "For what?"

"That's what we're going to talk about," said Dante. "You want a cold drink? This is going to take some time."

"Later."

"Good. Now let's talk about what Santiago really was, and why he lasted so long."

Dante spent the next two hours giving the Bandit the full history of Santiago as he understood it. He explained in detail how Santiago made war against the excesses of the Democracy, but always hid it behind a cloak of criminality, because while the Democracy was content to send bounty hunters after the King of the Outlaws, they would have spared no expense hunting him down had they know he was actually a revolutionary. He explained that the first Santiago had trained his successor, and the next three had done the same, that the various Santiagos had included a farmer, a bounty hunter, a thief, even a chess master. Finally, he told the Bandit how the last Santiago and his infrastructure had been wiped out by the Democracy, which didn't even know he was on the planet of Safe Harbor when they turned it to dust.

"All that happened more than a century ago," said the Bandit. "It's interesting, Mr. Alighieri, but what does it have to do with me?"

"More than you think," said Dante. "The Democracy's abuses have grown since Santiago vanished. They confiscate property, they illegally detain and kill men and women, they destroy planets that pose no threat to them."

"I know all that," said the Bandit. "That's why I'm here on the Inner Frontier."

"But the Democracy's forces are here on the Inner Frontier, too."

"True."

"Well?"

"What do you expect me to do about it?"

Dante smiled. "I thought you'd never ask."

The Bandit stared at him. "Me?" he said at last.

"Why not you?" Dante shot back. "You're as decent a man as I've met out here. You're absolutely deadly when you feel you must be, yet you're not bloodthirsty or you'd have wiped out the Unicorns. You disapprove of the Democracy. You're generous to a fault; I saw an example of that last night. I have a feeling that you've never met anything that frightens you."

"That's not so," admitted the Bandit uncomfortably. "Failure frightens me."

"So much the better," said Dante. "I consider that a virtue."

"But—"

"We've been waiting 106 years for Santiago to reappear. Are you going to make us wait even longer?"

"I wouldn't know how to go about being Santiago."

"That's what you'll have me and Matilda for, at least until you're comfortable with it."

"Just the three of us against the Democracy?" asked the Bandit, looking at him as if he was crazy.

"There's more. I found us a financial wizard last night."

"Why?"

"Money is the mother's milk of revolution. We'll need this man to set up and fund a network throughout the Frontier. Dimitrios of the Three Burners will work for the cause. So will Virgil Soaring Hawk."

"I've heard of Dimitrios."

"Virgil's in the poem as the Scarlet Infidel."

"Well, if you thought enough of him to write him up . . ." said the Bandit.

"There are more. And that's without any of them knowing we have our Santiago."

The Bandit was silent for a long moment, then another. Finally he looked up at Dante, his face filled with self-doubt. "What if they won't follow me?"

Dante smiled. "Why wouldn't they?"

"I'm just . . . just me," said the Bandit. "I'm nothing special, that men should die for my cause."

"It's the cause that's special, not its leader," said Dante. "Though he's special too," the poet amended quickly. "He has to be a man of his word, a resourceful man—and he has to be a man who won't back off from doing what's necessary. He has to know that if his cause is just, it doesn't matter that every citizen of the Democracy thinks he's an outlaw or worse; in fact he has to strive for that to protect his operation and his agents." Dante paused. "I think you're such a man."

"I think you're wrong."

"Santiago must also be a modest man, even a humble one—a man who thinks he's nothing special, when it's apparent to everyone else that he's very special indeed."

"I'll have to think about it, Mr. Alighieri."

"Think hard," said Dante. "Think of the difference you could make, the things you could do." He paused. "I can't rush you. There are no other candidates for the job. You're the man we want. But the sooner you agree, the sooner we can put everything in motion."

"I understand, Mr. Alighieri."

"Dante."

"I appreciate your confidence in me," said the Bandit. "I'll give you my answer tonight."

"When and where?"

"There's a restaurant called The Brave Bull. Meet me there for dinner, an hour after sundown."

"I'll see you then," said Dante. He walked to the door, then turned back. "Do you want me to open the window again?"

"No," said the Bandit. "I'm going down to the lobby to have some coffee."

"I'll join you."

"I'd rather you didn't. I've got a lot to consider, and I do my best thinking when I'm alone."

"Whatever you say," replied Dante. He turned and walked out the door, then took the airlift down to the main floor.

A very pretty woman was smiling at him. It took him a moment to place her; then he realized that she was the same woman who had bumped into him and placed the note in his pocket.

He walked over and stood in front of her. "Good morning," he said. "My name is—"

"I know who you are, and I know why you're here."

"Of course you do," he said. "But I don't know who you are or why you're here. Perhaps you'd care to enlighten me?"

"First things first. Did he agree?"

"I think he will."

"Good. Let's go back to your hotel."

"Why?"

"So we don't distract him," said the woman. "I've been studying him for weeks. Whenever he needs to think out a problem, he comes down here and drinks coffee."

"All right, let's go," said Dante, leading her to the airlock. He took two steps outside and felt like melting. "My God, it's even worse than yesterday."

"If you plan to stay here for any length of time, you really should go to a doctor for help or acclimatization—adrenaline, blood oxygenating, muscle stimulants, the whole works."

"I have high hopes of leaving Heliopolis II in a day or two and never seeing it again," Dante assured her as they began the seemingly-endless two-block walk to the Tamerlaine. "And now, who are you?"

"My name is Blossom."

"Very pretty name," said Dante. "Where are you from?"

"Samarkand."

"Where the hell is Samarkand?"

"It was a city back on old Earth, or so they tell me," she replied. "In my case, it's a planet in the Quinellus Cluster."

"Okay, Blossom," he said, and found himself gasping for breath again. "I'll wait until we're at the hotel to talk to you. I think I'm going to need all my oxygen just to get there."

"I could give you a pill."

"Don't bother," he rasped. "We'd be at the hotel before it had a chance to take effect."

They trudged down the block in silence. Dante stopped at a corner, leaned against a building until his head stopped spinning, and then walked the rest of the way to Tamerlaine without any further incident.

"The Bandit must keep some doctor in business, considering how much time he spends outside," said Dante when they'd passed through the hotel's airlock and were back in comfortable gravity and temperature.

"He doesn't take any medication," answered Blossom. "He doesn't believe in it."

"He doesn't believe it works?"

"Oh, he knows it works. He doesn't believe in putting any foreign substances in his body."

"Better and better," muttered Dante, taking her to one of the lounges and collapsing in a chair. She sat down opposite him. "All right, Blossom—suppose you tell me why you sought me out and what this is all about?"

"I had a long talk with Virgil Soaring Hawk last night," she began.

"I didn't know he talked to women," interrupted Dante. "I thought he just pounced on them."

"He tried." She showed off a steel-toed boot. "He'll be walking bow-legged for the next few days."

Dante smiled his approval. "Good for you."

"Anyway, he told me that you found Black Orpheus' manuscript, and were taking his place."

"I'm continuing his work," Dante corrected her. "That's not quite the same thing."

"Close enough," said Blossom. "Anyway, he mentioned that you were looking for a new Santiago to write about."

"I'm looking for a new Santiago because the Inner Frontier is in desperate need of him," said Dante, idly wondering if he was telling the truth, and then wondering if all writers had that particular problem. "My being able to write about him is very unimportant compared to that."

She stared at him for a moment, making no effort to hide her disbelief, and finally shrugged. "Your motivation is no concern of mine," she said at last. "I just want to know when you've found him."

"Why?"

"Because I want to offer him my services."

"And just what are your services?" asked Dante.

"Whatever the job requires."

"We're not dealing with nice people."

"I know that," said Blossom.

"The job could require you to sleep with some men you can't stand the sight of, or perhaps even kill them."

"As long as it hurts the Democracy, I'm in."

"Just what do you have against the Democracy?"

"My parents were missionaries. The Democracy had a chance to evacuate them before they pacified Kyoto II. They didn't. The first attack killed them." She lowered her voice, but continued talking. "My husband's mother was a diplomat; he grew up on Lodin XI. His closest friend was a Lodinite. They were like brothers. During the Lodin insurrection, the Democracy killed my husband's friend for unspecified crimes, none of which he had committed, and then they executed my husband for being a collaborator." She paused, her jaw set, her face grim. "You just tell me what I have to do, and if any member of the Democracy suffers because of it, I'll do it."

"It's not up to me to tell you anything," replied Dante. "I'm just a poet. Santiago will decide what needs to be done, and by whom."

"You'll tell him about me?"

"Of course."

"Do you think he'll let me join him?"

"We're just starting out. He'll need all the help he can get." He sighed. "Hell, he'll need all the help he can get 50 years and a hundred victories from now. This is the Democracy we're going up against, even if they're not allowed to know it." He pulled out his pocket computer. "Where can I get hold of you, Blossom?"

"As long as you've assured me that Santiago will be giving me my orders, I'll reserve that information for him."

"But—"

"Don't worry," said Blossom. "Neither you nor he will leave Heliopolis before I speak to him—but there's no sense doing that until he makes it official, is there?"

"It might help him decide."

"If I'm what it takes to make him decide, then you picked the wrong man for the job." She got to her feet. "I'll be watching, Rhymer."

"It shouldn't be long," said Dante.

She turned and left, and he watched her make her way through the lobby and the airlock. It seemed difficult to believe that such a gorgeous woman could have suffered so much—and then he realized that he was thinking in stereotypes. Santiago would know that it was the suffering that mattered, not the appearance of the sufferer.

Hurry up and make up your mind, Bandit. The Frontier is filled with Flowers of Samarkand. Someone has to step forward and make sure that the Democracy doesn't make any more of them suffer as this one has.

18.

He's the King of the Outlaws, the creme de la creme,

He's clever, he's deadly, he's knavery's gem.

He sups with the devil, he revels in pain.

He kills and he plunders—humanity's bane.

Dante wrote that verse just before he went to visit the One-Armed Bandit and learn his decision. Black Orpheus had never mentioned Santiago by name; he simply assumed that no one else could possibly fit the verses he wrote about the King of the Outlaws and that his readers would know that.

Dante followed suit for a number of reasons, not the lead of which was that he wasn't at all sure that the Bandit would agree to become Santiago. He was so moral, so out-and-out decent, that there was some doubt in Dante's mind that he could do all the unpleasant things that were required of him.

Dante tried to visualize the Bandit ordering his men to wipe out a Navy convoy filled with brave young men whose only crime was that they had been drafted to serve the Democracy. He tried to imagine the Bandit ordering Blossom to sleep with a degenerate man who had information Santiago's organization needed. He knew that Santiago would have to commit some actual crimes, some robberies and murders, if only to leave a false trail and convince the Democracy that he was an outlaw and not a revolutionary. All the previous Santiagos had blended in, had been able to hide out in the middle of a crowd—but none of them had the Bandit's reputation, or his easily-recognizable prosthetic arm. So do I want him to say yes or don't I?

Yes, he realized, of course he wanted the Bandit to say yes. There would be problems—but that was precisely why there was a need for Santiago. I need you, yes, thought Dante, but the Frontier, maybe even the galaxy, needs you even more. I could look for a couple of lifetimes and not find a better candidate than you, so please, please say yes.

He checked his timepiece, decided it was time to get his answer, and walked out into the crushing gravity and hot, thin, dusty air.

The first thing we do when we get the Democracy off our backs is get some public transportation here.

He stopped halfway to the Royal Khan to buy a cold drink, then forced himself back outside to complete the journey. Once inside the Bandit's hotel he found that his shirt was drenched with perspiration, and he stopped by a public bathroom to dry himself off. He looked at his face in a mirror, marveled at how tanned he'd become from the very days in which he'd been exposed to the blazing red sun, and finally, feeling a little more comfortable, went to the airlift and rode it up to the Bandit's floor.

As usual the door slid open before he could knock. This time, instead of using the floating, form-fitting easy chair, the Bandit was sitting on a window ledge, his shoulder pressed against it, glancing out to the street every now and then.

"Good morning, Mr. Alighieri."

"Dante."

"I'll get it right sooner or later."

"And who am I saying good morning to?" asked Dante.

"Me."

"And who are you—Santiago or the One-Armed Bandit?"

"We'll talk a bit, and then I'll tell you."

"Do you mind if I sit down?"

"Suit yourself," said the Bandit.

Dante walked over to the easy chair. As he sat down, it seemed to wrap around his body and begin rocking him gently. The rocking became a swaying as the chair rose and hovered a few inches above the ground.

Dante felt a grin of pleasure cross his face. "I've wanted to sit in this thing from the first minute I saw it."

"You look comfortable," observed the Bandit.

"I may never get out of it again," said Dante, still grinning. "Okay, I'm ready to listen if you're ready to talk."

"I have a few questions for you," said the Bandit.

"Shoot."

"You tell me there were five Santiagos."

"Right. The last one died when the Navy destroyed Safe Harbor."

"Did all five die violently?"

"I won't lie to you," said Dante, the grin gone. "Yes, they did."

"What was their average age?"

"I don't know as much about the first two as I should. I really couldn't say."

"It's not important anyway. The real question is: what was their average tenure as Santiago?"

"Maybe ten or twelve years. Less for the last one."

"And these were the best men the prior Santiagos could find, and they each inherited a massive organization." It was a statement, not a question.

"Except for the first," noted Dante. "He had to create it—and the legend, and the misdirection—from scratch."

"And even with those organizations, none of them lasted fifteen years, not even a man as accomplished as Sebastian Cain."

"That's right."

The Bandit frowned and fell silent. After a moment he turned and looked out at the street again.

"You're not afraid of dying in ten or twelve years, not with the odds you face almost every day," said Dante. "What's the real reason you're being so hesitant?"

The Bandit turned and faced him. "I don't know if I can accomplish enough before they kill me," he said. "You might be better off with some criminal kingpin or even a disgruntled military commander, someone who's already got an organization in place."

"Is that what this is all about?" asked Dante, suddenly relieved.

"I don't want to be the Santiago that failed," said the Bandit. "Is that so hard to understand?"

"I'm sure every Santiago had his doubts."

"Do you really think so?"

"I'm certain of it," answered Dante. "If you say yes to our offer, you'll become not only the most feared man in the galaxy, but the most hated as well. And you won't be hated just by the Democracy. You'll be hated by every decent, law-abiding, God- fearing colonist that you're trying to protect. You'll be hated and envied by the men and women who work for you, and most of them will be the scum of the galaxy. You'll only be able to leave your headquarters—I won't use the word 'hideout', but that's what it'll be—if you're heavily disguised. You'll send decent men and women to their deaths. The Democracy will put a huge price on your head, and it'll get higher ever month. You won't even be mourned when an underling or a bounty hunter finally kills you, because we can't let anyone know that Santiago is dead." Dante paused. "Don't you think the other Santiagos had their doubts?"

The Bandit sighed heavily. "When you put it that way, I guess they must have."

"Of course they did," said Dante. "And each of them thought the cause was worth it." He stared at the Bandit, studying his face. "You do a lot of good, and you're a hero." The Bandit was about to interrupt, but Dante held up a hand. "No, don't deny it. You're an authentic, bonafide hero. What we're asking is for you to do ten times, a hundred times as much good—and be thought of as a villain for the rest of your life. In the end, that's what it boils down to. Which is more important to you—being a hero or doing good?"

"You don't pull your punches, do you, Mr. Alighieri?" said the Bandit wryly.

"I'm asking you to become the most feared and hated man in the galaxy," replied the poet. "I don't know how to make it sound like anything other than that." He paused. "And there's something else."

"What?"

"If I had to couch it in diplomatic terms, then you're not the man we're looking for."

"Oh, I'm the man, all right," said the Bandit with another deep sigh. "I just wanted to make sure I knew what I was getting into, because there's no turning back."

"You're right about that. Once you're in, you're in for keeps." Dante paused thoughtfully. "Have you got any family?"

"Not much. A brother somewhere. I haven't kept in touch. Maybe a distant cousin or two. My parents are dead, and my sister died in the same battle where I lost my arm."

"No wife, no kids, no romantic attachments?"

The Bandit shook his head. "I never found the time for it. I always planned to someday."

"Forget about it. To you they'd be a wife and kids; to millions of men and women, they'd be targets."

The Bandit nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, I can see that."

"How about your arm?" continued Dante. "Does it need servicing?"

"Never has yet. Why?"

"We couldn't let your doctors know, or even guess, that they were working on Santiago."

The Bandit frowned. "You'd kill them?"

"Not me," said Dante. "I'm just a poet."

The meaning of Dante's statement was reflected in the Bandit's face. "I see."

"Could you order it done?"

The Bandit stared at him, unblinking. "I'd have to."

"That's right—you'd have to."

"I don't imagine decisions like that get any easier to make over the years."

"Not if you're the man we hope you are," agreed Dante.

"Okay, I've asked my questions," said the Bandit. "What do we do now?"

"Now we meet the members of your organization that are currently on Heliopolis II, and we start making plans."

"There's really an organization?"

"The start of one."

"Are they down in the lobby?"

"No," said Dante. "I told them I'd contact them if and when you committed."

The poet pulled out a communicator, and a moment later had made contact with the four people he sought.

"This is Dante," he said. "We have plans to make. I expect to see you all in"—he paused, then smiled—"in Santiago's room at the Royal Khan in half an hour."

"Santiago's room," repeated the Bandit. "I like the sound of that."

"That's who you are. The One-Armed Bandit ceased to exist three minutes ago."

Dante spent the next few minutes telling him tales of the previous Santiagos, tales he hadn't told the day before. The Bandit was most interested in how they died.

"Violently," answered Dante.

"I know. But how?"

"The first was killed during a raid on a Navy convoy," said Dante. "The second one died from injuries he received in prison. The third—"

"They had Santiago in prison?" interrupted the Bandit.

"Yes," answered Dante, "but they didn't know who he was. Many men were tortured to death without telling them." He paused. "The third was killed by a bounty hunter named the Angel. The fourth, who I'm convinced was Sebastian Cain, was assassinated by another bounty hunter, either Peacemaker MacDougal or Johnny One- Note. The last of them, a former thief known as Esteban Cordoba, died when the Navy vaporized his world." Dante paused, almost overwhelmed by the litany of violent deaths. "None of them died in bed."

"Except maybe for the second one."

"It's not a death you'd want. I gather they mutilated him pretty badly."

"There are so many worlds on the Frontier, literally millions of them. I'm surprised none of my predecessors could stay in hiding for as much as 15 years."

"Probably they could have."

"Then why—"

"Because each of them seems to have reached a point where he decided not to run again." Dante shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe being Santiago affects your judgment after a decade or so. Maybe because you've held off the best killers the Democracy could throw against you, you start feeling that you can't be killed, that you're somehow immortal."

"The first might have felt that way," said the Bandit. "The others had to know better."

"Then you'll have to tell me someday. I sure as hell don't have any better explanation."

"I didn't mean any offense, Mr.—"

"Stop!" said Dante harshly.

"What's the matter?" asked the Bandit, surprised.

"Two things," said Dante. "Santiago doesn't call anyone Mister, and he never apologizes."

"I'll try to remember."

"See that you do," said Dante. "I'm serious about this. Any sign of deference or regret will be viewed as weakness not only by your enemies, but, worse still, by the men who work for you. Santiago bows to no one, he apologizes to no one, he defers to no one. Never forget that, or you'll be long buried when I want to ask you that question a decade from now."

"I'll remember," amended the Bandit.

Dante stared at him for a long moment.

"What's wrong?" asked the Bandit.

"Ordinarily I'd suggest cosmetic surgery, a whole new face, maybe prosthetic eyes that can see into the infra-red and ultra- violet and retinas that aren't on record anywhere, but . . ." He let his voice trail off.

"But what?"

"But there's no way to hide or disguise your arm. I don't know that we'd want to, anyway. Once people know what it can do, just threatening to use it may win us a couple of bloodless battles." He got to his feet and started pacing back and forth. "I suppose what we'll have to do is find a sector of the Frontier where you've never been, where no one knows you, and build our organization from there. We'll have to fake the One-Armed Bandit's death, and make it spectacular, so everyone knows about it."

"Why?" asked the Bandit. "Sooner or later they're going to figure out who I am."

"You're Santiago."

"You know what I mean."

"Santiago can't be anyone except Santiago. That's why everyone has to know that the One-Armed Bandit's dead. Perhaps he was Santiago's friend. Maybe he even saved Santiago's life, and Santiago had his real arm removed and this prosthetic weapon installed in its place as a tribute to the Bandit, or because its power and efficiency impressed him. But the thing you can never forget is that Santiago is more than a man. He's an idea, a concept, a myth. He can't be bigger than life if everyone knows who he used to be."

"It sounds like you've considered all this pretty thoroughly," remarked the Bandit.

"I'm as close to a biographer as you're ever going to have," said Dante, "so I have to know everything there is to know about Santiago."

There was a knock at the door.

"Open," said the Bandit.

The door slid back and Matilda, Virgil, Blossom and Wilbur Connaught entered the room.

"I know you," said the Bandit to Matilda. He turned to Blossom. "I've seen you." He gestured to Virgil and Wilbur. "These two I don't recognize at all."

"They work for you," said Dante. "Time for the introductions." He laid a hand on each of their shoulders in turn. "This is Matilda. This is Virgil. This young lady is Blossom. And this gentleman is Wilbur."

"No last names?" asked the Bandit.

"You'll learn them soon enough," said Dante. He walked over to the Bandit and turned to face the four of them. "And this is Santiago. He has no past, no history. He is a spirit of the Frontier made flesh. That's all you have to know about him, and all you will ever tell anyone else. The One-Armed Bandit is no more, and will never be referred to again until we are free to talk about his untimely and very public death. Is that clear to everyone?"

The four agreed.

Dante turned back to the Bandit. "Dimitrios of the Three Burners has committed to our cause. We'll get word to him that we're ready to have him join us."

"Let him continue to do what he does best," said the Bandit. "When I have an assignment for him, that'll be time enough to meet him."

Dante stared at the Bandit. You look larger, somehow. Can you possibly be growing into the part right in front of my eyes?

"Well, let's get down to work," said Dante. "As money comes in, we'll turn it over to Wilbur. He'll have to open his books to me or to Matilda if we request it, but only Santiago can fire him."

"How much are we paying you?" asked the Bandit.

"Three percent of everything I make."

"That seems fair. Wait here a moment." He walked into the bedroom, then returned a moment later with a small cloth bag. "Here," he said, handing the bag to Wilbur. "There are 63 diamonds in it. Get what you can for them—probably you'll have to go into the Democracy for the best price—and put the money to work for us. There's no sense having you wait around until we start generating cash. And Wilbur?"

"Yes."

"Those diamonds belong to every under-privileged, abused colonist on the Inner Frontier. If you or they should disappear, I will personally hunt you down and make you wish you'd never been born."

"You didn't have to say that, Santiago," said Wilbur in hurt tones.

"The One-Armed Bandit didn't have to say it," replied the Bandit. "Santiago did."

By God, you're really him! thought Dante. Aloud he said, "I think our first duty is going to be to find a headquarters world, someplace parsecs away from anyone who's ever seen you in action."

"It makes no difference to me what world we choose," said the Bandit. "Any suggestions?"

Dante turned to Matilda. "You're far more familiar with the Inner Frontier than I am. What do you think?"

"Let me think about it for a day," she replied. "Probably someplace in the Albion Cluster. You haven't been there, have you, Santiago?"

"Just once, ma'am, a long time ago—before I lost my arm."

"I think that's probably long enough," said Dante.

"Besides, his arm's his most distinctive feature," added Blossom. "It's what people remember."

"Okay, check out the Albion Cluster and come up with a safe haven by tomorrow." Suddenly Dante smiled. "Well, now I know how Safe Haven got its name."

"What can I do?" asked Blossom.

"Come to the Cluster with us," said the Bandit. "When I decide where I want to strike first, I'll send you ahead to be my eyes and ears until I arrive."

"Now, once we've got a headquarters world, we'll start building an organization from the ground up," said Dante. "We'll recruit whoever we need, and we'll come up with some kind of battle plan." He paused. "Correction: Santiago will come up with a battle plan." He looked around the room. "Has anyone got any questions, or anything else to say?"

No one spoke up.

"Then I guess that's it," said Dante. "We'll meet again tomorrow when Matilda has come up with some worlds for our consideration—though again, we can only suggest and advise. It's Santiago's choice."

They began walking to the door, and then the Bandit spoke: "Before you leave, I want to say something."

They stopped and turned to him.

"You've given me an honor I don't deserve, and at the same time you've given me a challenge I can't refuse. From this moment on, I am Santiago, and the only thing that matters to me is protecting the colonists of the Inner Frontier from the Democracy. I realize that we will never overthrow it, and we wouldn't want to if we could—it serves its purpose in a galaxy where we're outnumbered hundreds to one—but we will devote our lives to reminding it with whatever degree of force is required that we of the Inner Frontier are Men, too, and that we are not the enemy." He looked at each of them in turn. "I pledge to you that I will never give you any reason to be ashamed of me."

There was a moment of silence, and then Dante began applauding, and soon all the others had joined in. Finally they walked out to the airlift and descended to the lobby. Matilda, Blossom and Wilbur all left to go about their business, but Virgil made a beeline to the bar, and Dante joined him a moment later, sitting down next to him.

"You didn't say a word up there," noted the poet. "Not a single word."

"I didn't have anything to say."

"And do you now?"

"Not really."

"No comment on Santiago at all?"

"None," said the Indian. "What do you think of him?"

"He's humble, he's decent, he's polite, he's the deadliest man I've met but he only kills when he has to, and he seems to be adjusting to the role he's going to play."

"He only kills when he has to?" repeated Virgil.

"That's why he hasn't wiped out the Unicorns. He could, you know."

"Well, I'll tell you something," said Virgil. "While you were busy indoctrinating him, I went out and got some facts and did a little math."

"And?" said Dante.

"You know how many people our Santiago has killed?"

"I haven't the faintest idea."

"37 men and an unspecified number of aliens, thought to exceed the thousand mark," Virgil paused and looked at the poet. "Do you think they all needed killing?"

"If he killed them, yes," said Dante sincerely. "Hell, he'd be justified in killing ten thousand Unicorns, the way they attack humans at every opportunity."

"If you say so."

"Listen to him, Virgil," persisted the poet. "This guy is the hero every kid wishes he could be. He's well-mannered. He's humble. He's moral. He's almost too good to be true."

"That's the gist of it," agreed Virgil.

"I don't follow you."

"It's been my experience," said the Injun, "that when you come across something that seems to be too good to be true, it usually is too good to be true."

19.

Gloria Mundi, born on Monday,

Gloria Mundi, died on Sunday,

Gloria Mundi, rose on Tuesday,

Which qualified as a bad news day.

No one ever knew her real name. The betting is that she herself had long since forgotten it. It didn't make any difference. What really matters is not who she was, but rather what she was.

Gloria Mundi had been a beggar woman, living out her life in squalor in the slums on Roosevelt III—until the day (and yes, it was a Sunday) that she was struck by lightning. It killed her, but because of the thousands of deaths and casualties caused by the Sett War, which had reached the Roosevelt system two weeks earlier, they didn't have time to perform a post mortem or prepare the body for a funeral. They were working around the clock, saving the wounded and trying to identify the dead, so Gloria's body was shunted aside until they finally had time to work on it.

And, miraculously, two days later she woke up, found herself in a room with dozens of corpses, and began screaming. She kept the screaming up for a very long time, until they finally found and sedated her.

When she awoke from the sedative, she claimed to remember what she had experienced while dead. A number of the medics felt she had merely been in a deep coma, that no one comes back from the dead after 36 hours . . . but when they checked the records of the medical computers and sensors that had examined her, they had to admit that yes, she really had been dead for a day and a half.

The moment that fact was made public, a number of news organizations offered her millions in exchange for her exclusive story. But before she could choose among them, or even adjust to the fact that she no longer had to worry about where her next meal was coming from, suddenly there were more people out to kill her than ever went after Santiago. And if the would-be killers weren't fanatical priests, ayatollahs, ministers, rabbis, and shamans themselves, then they were in the employ of such men. Publicly they all believed that their religion was the only true one, and that Gloria Mundi would confirm it . . . and privately their first thought was to make sure she didn't reveal any experience she may have had or knowledge she may have gained that would confirm the truth of a rival religion.

As for Gloria herself, she never spoke about what she experienced. Somehow she eluded her assassins until they finally decided she had died of old age or at the hands of another killer, or their employers gradually lost interest in her.

And so, at age 86, Gloria Mundi found herself on Heliopolis II, temporarily (and, for all she knew, permanently) safe from the men who had tried to hunt her down. Her health was gone—she had just about every disease of the aged except senility, and her brain hadn't functioned all that well since she had revived—but she kept to herself, didn't bother anyone, and seemed likely to live out her few remaining months or years in some semblance of peace.

She was far from everyone's thoughts when they met at the Bandit's rooms the next morning. Matilda had come up with Beta Cordero II, a world in the Albion Cluster, and she was extolling its virtues to the group.

"Standard oxygen, temperate climate, 94% Standard gravity. No indigenous sentient races."

"None?" said Dante.

"Well, there were two—one humanoid, one not—but the Navy went a little overboard pacifying them about six hundred years ago. There are a few remnants on other planets who claim ownership of the world, but none of them have returned."

"Why not?" asked the Bandit.

"It only became safe for habitation a couple of years ago," answered Matilda. "Prior to that there was too much radioactivity. The water just passed inspection five weeks ago, so this is a perfect time to establish a presence there."

"What are the nearest major worlds?"

"The biggest trading world in the sector is Diomedes. There's a military outpost on Jamison V, but it's pretty small. A few nearby farming worlds that supply about 60 mining worlds within, oh, perhaps 500 light-years."

"It sounds promising," said Dante. "Has the Democracy staked any legal claim to it?"

"No," answered Matilda. "I'm sure they'd claim it was within their sphere of influence, but there are no ownership claims."

"When was the last time the Democracy or its representatives set down on it?"

"They sent a drone ship 32 days ago to test the radioactivity level. As far as I can tell, no member of the Democracy has actually set foot on Beta Cordero II in more than 600 years."

"Sounds good to me," announced the Bandit. "We'll set up shop there as soon as we can."

"Fine," said Dante. "Now we'll need a name for it."

"It has a name," replied the Bandit. "Beta Cordero II."

"That name's on every star map created during the past millennia, maybe longer," explained Dante. "We need a name to give to our agents, a name that if overheard won't tell the Democracy where we are."

"That makes sense," agreed the Bandit. He lowered his head in thought for a moment, then looked it. "We'll call it Valhalla."

"Valhalla it is," said Matilda.

"When shall we leave?" asked Blossom, speaking up for the first time.

"Not much sense going there until we've got some shelter," said Dante. "We'll have to send some people ahead to build us whatever we need—once Wilbur can raise some money. In the meantime, I guess we'll stay here."

"That's unacceptable," said the Bandit. "It's time to start making a difference."

"Well, I suppose there are still some buildings standing, but after six centuries, I don't know . . ."

"We're not going to use ancient buildings that are probably ready to collapse the first time someone sets foot in them, if indeed they're still standing," said the Bandit firmly. "And we're not going to wait for Wilbur to work his magic with the diamonds I gave him yesterday."

Good, thought Dante. You're showing us what Santiago is supposed to do and be.

"I don't see what you're getting at," said Blossom.

"Santiago is the King of the Outlaws, isn't he?" replied the Bandit. "And this is a mining world, run by the Democracy. What better place for us to announce that Santiago is back?"

"You're going to rob the assay office?"

He shook his head. "I'd just get a few diamonds they hadn't transferred to the bank yet, and then we'd still have to wait for Wilbur to convert them into cash." He paused. "Santiago is going to rob the Helopolis branch of the Bank of Deluros. We'll pick up a few million credits in half a dozen currencies, money we can use immediately." He turned to Matilda. "Valhalla hasn't been worked in more than half a millennia. I think rather than posing as a farmer, perhaps I should be a reclusive sportsman, or maybe a trapper."

"I'll check and see if any animals are left on the planet."

"If there are, maybe they've mutated into something worth hunting," said Dante.

"No one has a problem with this?" asked the Bandit.

There were no responses.

"You," he continued, indicating Virgil. "You never speak. Why not?"

"I've got nothing to say," answered the Injun.

"There have been times when you couldn't shut him up," added Dante.

"If your silence is disapproval," said the Bandit, "now's the time to cut and run. I won't hold it against you. But once Santiago makes his presence known, I won't tolerate disloyalty."

"I'll stick around," said Virgil.

"You approve of Santiago, then?"

"I couldn't care less about Santiago," said the Injun. "My fate is tied to the poet's."

"In what way?"

"He's Dante, I'm Virgil," said the Injun, as if that explained everything.

"I don't understand."

"Neither do I, really," admitted Virgil, "but I know that it's my destiny to lead Dante through the nine circles of Hell to the promised land."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"What difference does it make? I serve the poet and he serves you, so therefore I serve you."

The Bandit considered his answer for a moment, then nodded his approval. "Okay," he said at last. "I can accept that."

"When are you going to hit the bank?" asked Wilbur.

"We need the money, so I might as well do it right now."

"I don't know," said Dante.

"What's your problem?" asked Matilda.

"We can't stay on Heliopolis once he robs the bank, but nothing will be ready for us on Valhalla."

"So we'll make our way there in slow, easy steps, while I send a crew ahead to prepare our headquarters for us."

"The Democracy's not going to pursue us in slow, easy steps," said Dante.

"The Democracy will be looking for Santiago," said Matilda. "What do you think he looks like? What are his identifying marks? How big is his gang?"

"Point taken," said Dante.

"Can I help?" asked Blossom.

"Are you any good with a burner or a screecher?" asked Dante.

"No."

"Then you might as well stay here, where you'll be safe."

"If you want to come, you can come," interrupted the Bandit. "There will probably be enough loot that we'll need all the help we can get just to cart it away."

"How will you get carry from the bank back here without being seen?" asked Matilda.

"We won't," answered the Bandit. "We'll summon transportation to take us right from the bank to the spaceport."

I don't know how well thought out this is, thought Dante, but you're the boss. Let's see what happens, and if you're making a blunder, at least you're making it on a minor world and not on Binder X or Roosevelt III.

"I'll handle the fighting," said the Bandit. "Whoever's with me is just there to cart out the money. I don't want to have to keep on eye on you once the shooting starts, so stay well behind me. Are there any questions?"

"Back in the Democracy," said Dante, "it's standard operating procedure for one or more of the bank's employees to have an implant that reads their blood pressure and adrenaline and is tied in to the bank's computer."

"What if the clerk is just reacting to a pretty girl?" asked Virgil.

"If the reading goes more than ten percent above normal, the teller's computers will register it. Then he's got about ten seconds to disable it, which means it was a pretty girl, or an insect sting, or something like that. If he doesn't disable it in ten seconds, it sends a signal to the police station."

"I didn't know that," said the Bandit.

"You've never robbed a bank before," said Dante with a smile. "I have. There's no reason to believe the technology hasn't spread to the Frontier. We can still do the job, but we'll have to act fast."

Silence.

"All right, then," continued the Bandit. "I'll give you each an hour to collect whatever you plan to take along to Valhalla and load it into your ships or mine." He gave them the location, ID number, and computer code to his ship. "Mine is big enough to carry all of us, but if we split up we should be harder to spot, in case anyone gets a good description of us." He turned to the Grand Finale. "Wilbur, you might as well leave right now. If we come away with cash, we won't need you to convert it for us, and if you wait a day or two, security at the spaceport will be much tighter and they'll almost certainly find the diamonds I gave you." He paused. "Meet us on Valhalla. We'll probably get there first, so radio us before you land and we'll give you coordinates. If we come away with some diamonds as well as cash, we'll turn them over to you and send you back into the Democracy with them."

Wilbur nodded his agreement. "Good luck," he said, and left the room.

"Okay," said the Bandit. "I'll see you at the bank in exactly two hours."

He sat down and lit up a smokeless cigar.

"Aren't you taking anything out to your ship?" asked Blossom.

"Just me. Anything I take might be too easy to identify."

"That makes sense," said Dante. "If this holdup works, we can all afford to buy whatever we need. If not, it won't matter anyway."

He sat down next to the Bandit.

"Well, if everyone feels that way, we might as well get started," said Blossom.

"Sit," said the Bandit.

"Why?"

"We've got to give Wilbur time to collect the diamonds, get out to the spaceport, and take off."

"Shit!" she exclaimed. "I hadn't thought of that."

"It's not your job to think of that," said the Bandit.

"What if they alert the spaceport after we're on our way there?" asked Blossom.

"Then we'll improvise," said Dante.

"They won't alert the spaceport," said the Bandit with such conviction that no one challenged him.

The five of them waited in silence for almost two hours. Finally the Bandit got to his feet.

"It's time," he announced.

The others got up and followed him to the door. They took the airlift down to the main floor, then were about to walk out through the airlock when Dante stopped by the desk, spoke in low tones to the clerk, allowed the cashier to scan his retinagram, and then rejoined the party.

"What was that all about?" asked Matilda as they emerged into the hot, oppressive Heliopolis day.

"I paid for the Bandit's room for another month."

"That was stupid," said Virgil. "He's leaving today, and who cares who knows it?"

"If two Democracy soldiers hang around waiting for him to come back, that's two less that'll be on our trail once we leave Heliopolis," answered Dante. "As for the money, I'll take it out of what we steal from the bank, or I won't need it anyway."

"I approve," said the Bandit. "That's good thinking, Rhymer." He turned to Matilda. "Are you sure you want to be part of this, ma'am? You can wait in the ship if you prefer."

"If things get rough, she'll be more help to you than I will," Dante assured him.

The Bandit shrugged. "Your choice."

The bank was 200 yards away. The Bandit walked with an easy spring to his stride, as if he was walking down a thoroughfare on Deluros VIII or Earth itself. The others struggled to keep up with him.

"It might be best for you four to wait outside," he said when they finally arrived at their destination.

"Not unless you make it an order," said Matilda.

"It was just a suggestion. The only order is: stay behind me, and make sure none of you gets between me and anyone else."

They entered the bank, the Bandit first, then Dante and the two women, and Virgil bringing up the rear. It was a small building, tightly-bonded titanium beneath a wood veneer. There were a couple of coat closets, a huge water bubbler, a quartet of chairs carved from some alien hardwood, and holographs of the bank's founders on the walls. There were three tellers—two human, one robotic—behind a counter, and a well-dressed executive in a glassed-in office. Six customers were lined up at the windows, five miners and a small, wiry, 86-year-old woman—Gloria Mundi.

The Bandit waited until one of the teller's window was open, and then approached it.

"Yes, sir?" said the clerk, a middle-aged man. "What can I do for you?"

"You can start by emptying out the drawer in front of you," said the Bandit calmly.

"I beg your pardon?"

"This is a hold-up. Give me all the money you can reach without moving your feet. Then we'll go to work on the rest."

"I know who you are," said the clerk nervously. "You work for Men, not against us. This is some kind of joke, right?"

Disable him now, thought Dante. Your ten seconds are almost up!

"Give me your money," repeated the Bandit. "I won't ask again."

Suddenly lights started flashing and alarms began ringing. Metal bars appeared where open doors and windows had been. Two screechers suddenly appeared in the robot teller's hands. The clerk whose adrenaline readings had precipitated all this ducked down behind the counter, completely out of sight.

The Bandit whirled and sent a laser burst into the robot teller. It knocked the robot back against the wall, melting one of its arms, but didn't totally disable it. Another burst took the robot's head off its body, and it collapsed to the floor.

The Bandit then fired through the barrier where the clerk was hiding, and the man's body fell over with an audible thud. Next came two holo cameras and the third teller. A laser blast just missed him, and the Bandit turned and pointed a deadly finger at the executive.

"You'll never get away with—" yelled the executive, but the Bandit's lethal arm fired again and his sentence ended with a moist gurgle.

The Bandit looked at the carnage. No one was left alive except two customers, a man and a woman.

"Get in that corner," he ordered, indicating where he wanted them to go. Finally he turned to his confederates. "All right," he said. "Start collecting the money—fast! Concentrate on Far London pounds, Maria Theresa dollars, New Stalin ruples, and other Frontier currencies. Only take credits that haven't been bundled; there are too many ways for the bank to have marked the others."

Dante and the others quickly went to the tellers' windows, removing large wads of cash from them.

Two police officers burst into the bank. The Bandit fired at one, killing him instantly. Virgil straightened up and shot the other with a screecher, firing through the teller's window.

"Where the hell's the safe?" asked Matilda, staring at the blank wall behind the windows.

Dante looked around. "It's got to be in the office." He raced into the room and couldn't spot it.

"It's a bank—it has to have a vault!" said Matilda.

"Of course it does," sand Dante. "Let me think." He examined the office. "Something's wrong here. No one has two coat closets, not on Heliopolis II." He opened the first. Nothing but a fresh white shirt. Then he tried the second—and hit paydirt.

"Santiago!" he called out.

"What is it?" answered the Bandit.

"Got a helluva complex lock here," said Dante. "It'll take me the better part of twenty minutes to break the code."

"Step back," said the Bandit, entering the office.

Dante stepped away from the safe. The Bandit made a swift adjustment to his arm, and then he fired—and the door to the vault simply vanished amid a cloud of acrid smoke.

"Get to work!" said Dante, racing into the safe just ahead of Matilda and Blossom.

Dante found a pair of cloth bags and tossed them to the woman. Then he quickly rummaged through the office until he found a briefcase and began filling it with cash. After about two minutes they'd emptied the vault of all its cash.

"Where are the safety deposit boxes?" asked Matilda.

"Don't bother with them," said the Bandit.

"We need all the money we can get!" she objected.

"There's a Democracy garrison four miles east of town. It's almost certainly tied in to the alarm. They figure to be here any second. It's time to leave."

Matilda ceased her objections instantly, and raced to the door.

"No vehicle," she announced.

"I put in a call for one," said the Bandit.

"Let's hope it arrives ahead of the soldiers," said Matilda.

Dante took a quick look out the door. "No such luck."

"They're here already?" asked the Bandit, more surprised than alarmed. "They were faster than I thought."

"What are we going to do?" asked Blossom.

"Stay calm," said the Bandit. "I'll handle this."

He waited until the two military vehicles that were approaching the bank pulled to within 50 yards, then made another quick adjustment to his arm and pointed it at them—but just as he was about to fire, the male customer launched himself at the Bandit's legs, knocking him to the floor. The Bandit brought his real hand down on the back of the man's neck, a killing blow that resulted in a loud crack! Then he got to his feet, stood in the doorway, pointed at each vehicle in turn, and calmly blew both of them away.

"That should discourage anyone from playing the hero before our transportation arrives," he announced.

"How will they know what happened or who to blame?" asked Blossom.

"We'll tell them," answered the Bandit. He pointed at the wall behind the cashiers and carved out the name SANTIAGO with a laser beam.

"That should do the trick," agreed Dante.

The old woman spoke up for the first time. "That will fool no one," said Gloria Mundi. "I know who you are."

"I'm Santiago," said the Bandit.

"You're the One-Armed Bandit," she replied, "and I'll tell everyone I know who are. Santiago's been dead for more than a hundred years."

"I'm sorry you feel so strongly about that, ma'am," said the Bandit regretfully. He turned to her and pointed his finger between her eyes.

"Wait!" shouted Dante,

"What is it?" asked the Bandit.

"Santiago doesn't go around killing old ladies!"

"Santiago doesn't leave witnesses who can identify him."

"She's a crazy old woman who thinks she saw God once," persisted Dante. "No one will listen to her!"

"She's a threat to our continued existence," said the Bandit. "She's got to go."

"I agree," said Matilda.

"Is that how you want it to begin?" demanded Dante. "With Santiago killing a half-crazed beggar woman?"

"How do you want it to begin?" she shot back as the empty airport transport pulled up, avoiding the smoking shells of the two Democracy vehicles. "With a description of each of us on file with every soldier and bounty hunter on the Inner Frontier? We need the Democracy to be searching for clues here while we're setting up shop in the Albion Cluster."

"This isn't the way we're supposed to start," said Dante bitterly.

"We're in the revolution business," replied Matilda. "This is a war. There are always civilian casualties."

"What war?" croaked Gloria Mundi. "You're a bunch of bank robbers, working for the One-Armed Bandit!"

"That's it," said Matilda. "We have no choice. She has to die."

"What if she promises not to tell the authorities what she saw?" asked Dante.

"Would you believe her if she did promise it?" asked Matilda, staring at Gloria Mundi.

"No," admitted Dante, his shoulders slumping. "No, I wouldn't."

"Well, then?"

"Damn it, Santiago doesn't kill helpless old ladies!" repeated Dante.

"I hope you don't think I want to do this," interjected the Bandit. "But it was you yourself who pointed out all the unpleasant choices Santiago would have to make and all the unsavory things he would have to do."

"I didn't mean this."

"We both know Santiago will have to do far worse things before he's done," said the Bandit.

Suddenly they heard a humming sound and turned to see the source of it. Virgil Soaring Hawk had just aimed a burst of solid light between Gloria Mundi's eyes and left a smoking hole in the middle of her forehead.

"Enough talk," said the Injun. "Let's get the hell out of here."

Not an auspicious debut, thought Dante as he stepped over the old woman's corpse and carried his briefcase out to the vehicle. Not a promising start at all.

20.

Candy for the billfold, candy for the nose,

Candy for the client, as the business grows.

Candy by the bushel, candy by the ton;

The Candy Man supplies it, come and share the fun!

If he had a name, no one knew it. If he had fingerprints, they had long since been burned off. If he had a retinagram on file, it was rendered meaningless when he replaced his natural eyes with a pair of artificial ones, which had the added advantage of being able to see far into the infra-red.

They say he began his career out on the Rim, and later moved to the Spiral Arm. No one knew how many addicts he had created, and no one knew how much money he had made, but estimates of both were astronomical.

He began with cocaine and heroin, both grown on his own farms on the Rim, then moved to more and more exotic designer drugs and hallucinogens. He finally stopped when he got to alphanella seeds, but only because there was nothing more addictive—and expensive—in the entire galaxy.

There were warrants for the Candy Man all across the Outer Frontier, up and down the Spiral Arm, and throughout the Democracy, so it made sense that he eventually turned up on the Inner Frontier, the one place where there was no price on his head.

That lasted about three Standard months. By then he'd taken over a rival drug lord's territory, and had killed three of the enemy and a pair of the Democracy's undercover agents. There was no place left to run to, so instead of running he surrounded himself with a quasi-military operation. Only the very best, the very wealthiest clients ever got to see the Candy Man face-to- face. He rarely did his own selling, and even more rarely did his own killing. (He did do his own accounting, and no one in his employ ever got to see his data files.)

He divided his time among half a dozen worlds, and even his most trusted underlings never knew when and where he'd show up next. He owned an impregnable mansion on each world, and three meals a day were prepared for him at each of them, just to confound any potential assassins, As an ambitious young man on the way up, he'd taken all kinds of chances; now that he was no longer poor and no longer in such a hurry, he saw no percentage in taking any chances at all.

The Bandit and his party had never heard of the Candy Man when they touched down on Beta Cordero II. They had spent a leisurely month getting there, approaching it by a wildly circuitous route to give the crews Matilda had hired time to build what appeared to be a large, luxurious private hunting lodge. There was no way the casual, or even the acute, observer could spot the three subspace antennae, or the generator that not only supplied light and power for the lodge but for its underground computer complex. There were three guest houses; two were what they seemed, the third was an arsenal, currently four-fifths empty but soon, they hoped, to be filled with whatever weaponry Santiago needed to accomplish his goals.

The Bandit walked quickly through the lodge, ignoring the huge living room with the four-way fireplace crafted out of shining alien stone, checked his sleeping quarters, and declared it acceptable. He then summoned Dante and Matilda to cozy paneled room he had claimed as his private office.

"I don't see any reason to waste time," he announced. "We might as well get to work."

"Have you something in mind?" asked Dante.

"There's no sense building an organization when we can simply take one over," answered the Bandit. "Find the biggest drug and smuggling rings in the sector."

"They might not be anxious to join us," said Dante.

"They won't have a choice. You just find them; I'll handle it from there."

"Whatever you say, Santiago," replied Dante.

"You don't need me for that," said Matilda. "I think I could serve you better by contacting some of the people I know and recruiting them."

The Bandit nodded his approval. "Keep in touch," he said, dismissing her. She left the room and he turned back to Dante. "Will you need to spread any money around to find out who's in charge of each ring?"

"Almost certainly."

"Take whatever you think you'll require. We're going to get it back anyway."

"You're going to kill the leaders?" It wasn't really a question.

"My job is protecting the citizens of the Inner Frontier," replied the Bandit. "They are preying on my people."

"We might be able to buy them off, get them on our side," suggested Dante.

The Bandit stared at him expressionlessly. "We don't want them on our side. They're parasites, nothing more."

Which is precisely what we'll become when we take over their organizations. I wonder how you rationalize that—or does Santiago just not consider such things?

"Killing their leaders will be an object lesson to the rank and file," continued the Bandit. "No one rises to a position of authority in such an organization without being totally ruthless. This will convince them that Santiago is an even more ruthless killer. That should impress them and keep them on our side." Why do I feel uneasy about this, wondered Dante. This is exactly what Santiago is supposed to do, so why does it worry me when you talk about doing it?

"That's all," said the Bandit, dismissing him. "Let me know when you have the information."

"Yes, Santiago," said Dante, getting up and leaving the office.

Matilda was waiting for him in the corridor. "Well," she said as they walked past a number of holographs of savage alien animals to the living room, "what do you think?"

"About what?"

"About him," said Matilda. "He's growing into the role exactly as we'd hoped."

"If you say so."

"You don't think so?"

He shrugged. "I don't know."

"What's bothering you?" she asked.

"I can't put my finger on it," said Dante.

"He was right to want to kill the old woman, you know," said Matilda. "It would have been suicide to have left her behind."

"There were alternatives."

"What? Take her along for a month and then turn her loose? She'd still have betrayed us."

"Nonsense," he replied irritably. "All he had to do was turn to me or Virgil, address us as Santiago, and ask if we wanted him to do anything else."

She stared at him, surprised. "Hey, that's not bad."

"Yeah—but he didn't think of it."

"Not everyone's as devious as you are."

"You asked, I answered." He paused. "Also, he really gets into giving orders. The 'misters' and 'ma'ams' vanished pretty fast."

"He's Santiago. It's his job to give orders."

"I know, I know—but good manners ought to last a little longer."

"He's adaptable. And he's a born leader. Look at his decision to rob the bank, and burn Santiago's name into the wall. Look at the other ideas he's had." She paused. "What does he want you to do?"

"Find the biggest smugglers and drug runners in the sector."

"Whom he'll then proceed to kill?"

Dante nodded. "And take over their operations."

"Isn't that precisely the kind of thing that Santiago is supposed to do?"

"I suppose so. I just don't like it."

"That's why you're the Rhymer and he's Santiago."

"Probably you're right," he said.

"Then let's get going," said Matilda. "We both have work to do."

Dante sought out Virgil and handed him a wad of credits and Maria Theresa dollars.

"What's this for?" asked the Injun.

"The best drugs you can buy."

"That's my job?" asked Virgil with a happy smile. "I could really get into working for this guy."

"Just buy them, don't take them," said Dante.

"I'm ambidextrous," said Virgil. "I can do both."

"You heard me," said Dante firmly. "Buy it, and see if you can find out who sells it."

"The guy I buy it from."

"Find out who he works for, as high up the line as you can go."

"But I can't take any of the drugs?"

"That's right."

"This fucking scheme was a lot better when it just had me thinking about it," muttered Virgil.

"And let me know where you're going, so we don't visit the same worlds."

"You're buying drugs too?"

"That doubles our chances of finding the headman."

"Do you get to take any?"

"You can have mine when this is all over and we've got our man," said Dante disgustedly.

Virgil grinned. "That's more like it!" he said, and headed off toward the newly-poured slab that housed all their ships.

Dante stopped by his room, packed a small bag, made sure he had enough money left, and then walked to the tiny landing slab. He fired up the pile on a one-man ship, climbed into it, had the navigational computer throw up a globe of the sector and its populated worlds, and decided on Alibaster, about 16 light-years distant. He radioed his destination to Virgil to make sure they didn't both visit the same planet, and then took off. He hit the stratosphere about 90 seconds later, then jumped to light speeds.

He slept through most of the voyage, and awoke when the ship's computer told him he was in orbit around Alibaster. The world was almost totally covered the fleecy white clouds that gave it its name. The ship turned over control of its functions to the spaceport's landing tower, and touched down without incident.

Dante emerged, passed through Customs, and caught a subterranean monorail that took him into the underground city of Snakepit. There were too many cyclones and tornadoes on the surface, so Man had built this commercial outpost where none of the planet's weather could bother him.

Snakepit extended about two miles in each direction. Since the planet had never been inhabited by a sentient race, the native quarter—the exclusive domain of offworld non-Men—was a little smaller and more upscale than usual. There were a number of banks—all far more heavily-guarded than the one on Heliopolis II—and the usual array of traders, assay offices, hotels, brothels, casinos, restaurants, subspace stations, holo theaters, and permanent residences.

Dante checked into a hotel and then decided to take a look around and get the feel of the place. The first building he passed was a grocery selling fruits from Pollux IV, vegetables from Greenveldt and Sunnyblue, mutated beef from Alpha Bezerine IV, even some wine from distant Altagore.

He continued walking, came to a grubby bar, and entered it. He studied the faces he found there. These weren't the hard men who traveled the Frontier, living by their wits and their skills. These men weren't traveling anywhere, and such skills as they had once possessed were long gone. You're the bottom of the food chain. There will be too many connections between you and the man I'm after.

He turned and left, ignoring the catcalls that followed him, then began looking into store windows until he found one that sold formal wear. He went in, purchased the finest outfit they had, waited while the robot tailor shortened the sleeves and took in the waist, then returned to his hotel and napped until dinnertime.

Then he donned the formal outfit, changed some of his larger bills at the hotel desk so that his roll of money would look even bigger, and had the desk clerk direct him to the most expensive restaurant in Snakepit. He wasn't very hungry, and found the food mediocre and overpriced, but he stayed long enough to be seen by a goodly number of people. Then, after he paid his bill with cash, flashing his huge roll of the money, he went off to the Golden Flush, the most expensive casino in town.

He made quite a production of peeling bills off his roll to bet at the craps table, broke even after half an hour, then wandered over to the jabob table (the one alien game that had taken hold on the Frontier's casinos), and dropped a quick fifty thousand credits.

Next he went to the men's room, ostensibly to rinse his face off, actually because it was the most private spot in the casino and the one where he was most likely to be approached. And sure enough, a blond man with almost colorless blue eyes followed him in.

"I saw you at the tables," he said.

There was a long silence. Dante wasn't going to make it any easier on the man. He'd sell harder if Dante offered him no encouragement.

He hadn't asked any questions, so Dante offered no reply.

"You look like a man with money to spend," continued the man. "You ever spend it on anything besides the tables?"

"From time to time," replied Dante.

"How about tonight?"

Dante finished wiping off face, then turned to the blond man. "The only thing I buy is seed, and I don't buy it from flunkies."

"I'm no flunky!" said the man angrily.

"Bullshit," said Dante. "I can smell a flunky a mile off. You go tell your boss I'll make a buy, but only from him."

The man seemed to be considering his answer, and whether to admit that he even had a boss. Finally he said: "He doesn't deal with the customers."

Dante pulled his wad out. "I've got two million credits here. I have another million Maria Theresa dollars back on my ship. I'm going to spend it on seed. Now, I can spend it with your boss, or I can buy it from someone else, it makes no difference to me." He paused. "But it'll make a difference to you, because I'll pass the word that you're the reason I went elsewhere."

"Maybe I'll just kill you and take your money," said the man menacingly as he stepped closer and loomed over the much smaller Dante.

"Just how dumb do you think I am?" said Dante, allowing his contempt to creep into his voice. "See this diamond stickpin I'm wearing? It's a miniaturized holo camera. Your face, your voiceprint, everything you've said since you came in here are already in half a dozen computers."

It was a lie, but told with utter conviction, and the blond man hesitated uneasily. "Why should I believe you?" he demanded.

"Because we're alone in a bathroom on your turf, and if it wasn't true I'd be inviting you to blow me away. Is everyone in your organization as stupid as you?"

"You call me stupid once more and I'll kill you, camera or no camera!" snarled the blond man.

Don't push it too hard. These guys shoot first and ask questions later.

"Okay, we're at an impasse. I've got millions to spend, your boss has millions to unload. You know I won't deal with anyone else. Do you take me to him, or do I spend my money somewhere else? It's getting late; I need a decision."

The blond man frowned. Finally he said: "It may take a while to reach him."

"That's not my problem. All he has to know is that my name is Dante Alighieri, and I'm staying at the Cheshire Hotel. He can find me there." He walked to the door, then turned back to the man. "I'm leaving in the morning. If I don't hear from him by then, I won't be back."

He walked out of the men's room without waiting for a reply, kept walking past the bar and tables of the Golden Flush, and didn't stop until he reached his suite at the Cheshire a few minutes later. Then he considered his situation. By now they'd checked out his identity and his ship's registration. They wouldn't be able to find out where he got his money, but they'd be able to assure themselves that he was who he said he was, that he wasn't a Democracy undercover agent. It would take a few hours for the man to round up some muscle and come to the hotel. He had time to get out of his uncomfortable formal outfit, take a quick Dryshower, and get into his regular clothes.

He finished dressing and had spent the next two hours hovering a few inches above the floor on a form-adapt chair, staring out his window at the city, watching the artificial lights play on the rough underground walls, when the Spy-Eye alerted him that he had visitors and showed him holographs of the seven humans who were standing at the door to the suite. He ordered it to open, then had his chair turn until he was facing his visitors.

The muscle entered first. What surprised him was that the muscle that seemed to be in charge were both women. They were hard-featured, hard-muscled, hard-eyed, and heavily armed, one with long auburn hair, the other with short blonde hair, otherwise almost identical. They and the four men spread out and began searching the suite, examining it for hidden microphones, hidden cameras, hidden killers. Finally, satisfied, they stood aside and a stocky man entered with them. He was dressed in colorful silks and satins out of a previous, more spectacular galactic era, and he wore a hat with a huge feather in it, which he soon took off, revealing a colorfully-tattooed bald head.

"Allow me to introduce myself," he said, showing no inclination to offer an exquisitely-gloved hand. "I am known as the Candy Man."

"Pleased to meet you," said Dante.

"Are you really?" asked the Candy Man. "In fact, why are you meeting me at all? You were told I don't deal directly with the customers."

"And I told your man I don't deal with flunkies."

"Of course you do. Every single time."

"And yet here you are."

"You act like a rich, foolish man, Mr. Alighieri, and yet based on what my associate told me, you are not foolish at all. Since you seem to be pretending to be something you are not, I thought we should meet. I just happened to be on Alibaster today"—he stared hard at Dante—"or did you already know that?"

"All I know is that I came here to do buy some seed. How much can you supply?"

"Subtlety is not among your virtues, Mr. Alighieri," said the Candy Man. I'm glad you think so. I must be a better liar than even I thought.

"I'm in a hurry. Have you got any seed, or any I wasting my time?"

"I have more than you could use in half a dozen lifetimes," said the Candy Man.

"Prime?"

"The best."

"That's what they all say," replied Dante.

"You show me the color of your money, I'll show you the color of my seed."

"Money is my other favorite subject," said Dante. "How much are we talking about?"

"How many seeds are we talking about?" shot back the Candy Man.

"Fifty now, more later."

"You'd better go easy on them, Mr. Alighieri. Use them up in less than half a Standard year and there won't be any later."

"How I use them is my business," said Dante irritably. "Yours is selling them to me, and you can't do that without naming a price."

"For fifty? Are we talking credits, or New Stalin ruples, or . . . ?"

"Whatever you want."

"Most of my clients use credits," said the Candy Man. "Fifty seed will cost you two and a half million."

"You've got to be kidding!" exclaimed Dante.

"Do I look like I'm kidding?"

"I can get fifty prime seeds for an even million on Beta Cordero II!"

"Nobody lives on Beta Cordero II."

"Somebody does now."

"And they're selling seed at fifty for a million?" demanded the Candy Man.

"Right. Are you going to match their price, or am I going to walk?"

"Walk if you want, Mr. Alighieri, but I guarantee you won't be dealing with anyone on Beta Cordero II."

"Why not?" said Dante.

"Because I don't take kindly to people poaching in my sector. When I'm done with them, Beta Cordero II will be unpopulated again."

"Maybe this guy is thinking of coming to Alibaster and taking over your operation," said Dante. "It makes no difference to me, as long as I get my seed."

The Candy Man threw back his head and laughed. "I like your sense of humor, Mr. Alighieri! I'm so well-protected that not even Santiago himself could lay a finger on me."

Dante returned his smile. "Not even Santiago?" he repeated. "That's must be a comforting thought."

He was still smiling when the Candy Man went off to plot his next move against his newest rival.

21.

One is the Blade, one is the Knife,

One takes your money, one takes your life.

They're never alone, they're never apart,

Stay on your guard or they'll cut out your heart.

Dante followed the Candy Man's female bodyguards—one tall and auburn-haired, one tall and blonde—down the streets of Snakepit until they stopped at an elegant restaurant. He waited to make sure they were there to eat rather than extort money or perhaps meet their boss, and then he entered and approached their table.

"Good evening," he said. "We met briefly at my hotel last night. May I join you?"

Their expressions said they'd just as soon kill him as look at him.

"I just want to talk to you for a few minutes," he said. "Tell you what: if you don't like what I have to say, I'll pay for dinner."

They exchanged glances, and then the auburn-haired one nodded her assent.

"Sit," she said.

"Thank you." Dante pulled up a chair and sat down.

"What do you want?" said the blonde.

"I told you: I want to talk to you."

"You'd better make it good," said the blonde. "You've already lied to the Candy Man."

"Me?" said Dante, surprised. "About what?"

"You've never chewed a seed in your life."

"Why would you say something like that?" asked Dante with mock indignation.

"Because they were delivered to you this morning, and you're still clear-eyed and clear-headed," she said. "No seed chewer in the galaxy could go all day without chewing one, and once they do that, they're in their own world for days."

"I have excellent self-control."

A waiter approached, and the blonde waived him away. He bowed obsequiously and went off to serve a table at the far end of the restaurant.

The auburn-haired woman suddenly laid a screecher on the table next to her fork. "If you lie one more time, Mr. Alighieri, I'm going to kill you right here, right now. I assure you this is not an idle threat. Now tell us why you are here."

"What makes you think—?" he began, and her hand closed on the sonic pistol. He stopped and sighed. "I followed you here because I want to talk a little business with you."

"And you've never chewed a seed, have you?"

"No, I never have."

"All right, Mr. Alighieri," said the blonde. "You have a business proposition for us. We're listening."

"If we don't like what we hear," added the auburn-haired one, "we can always kill you later."

"Just relax," said Dante. "You're going to want to thank me, not kill me."

"I hope so for your sake," said the blonde.

"Before I begin, I'd feel much more comfortable if I knew your names," said Dante. They exchanged glances again. "How can it hurt?"

"I'm the Knife," said the blonde. She gestured to her partner. "She's the Blade. That's all you have to know."

"Interesting sobriquets," commented Dante.

"Get on with it," said the Blade impatiently.

"All right," said Dante. "Let me begin by saying that the Candy Man has an impressive organization, not the least of which are you two."

"Flattery will get you nowhere," said the Blade.

"Except an early death," chimed in the Knife. "Now either tell us what you came to tell us or we'll kill you."

He stared at them. They had lovely faces, but there was no compassion in them, no trace of mercy at all. These ladies were not ambivalent about killing.

"As I was saying, the Candy Man has a good organization, as well he should. He's the biggest fish in a small pond—but a bigger fish has come to the Frontier. Not to put too fine a point on it, your boss's days are numbered."

"Explain," said the Knife.

"Santiago has set up shop in this sector. It's as simple as that. Your boss is a walking dead man."

"Santiago?" repeated the Knife, frowning. "What are you talking about?"

"Santiago has been dead for centuries!" added the Blade.

"A popular misconception," replied Dante. "He's alive, he's nearby, and he will not tolerate any competition. His organization dwarfs what the Candy Man's set up, and he's getting more powerful every day. You wouldn't believe some of the people who've joined him."

"Like who?" said the Knife dubiously.

"Like Waltzin' Matilda. Like Dimitrios of the Three Burners. Like the Rough Rider." He paused after each name for it to sink in, then added the clincher. "Like the One-Armed Bandit."

The Blade looked impressed. The Knife looked dubious. "If he's got all that firepower, why did he send you?" she demanded. "In fact, why are we still alive?"

"That's what I'm here to discuss with you."

"Why we're alive?"

"Why he's allowing you to live," said Dante. "There's a reason. Would you like to hear it?"

"We're listening," said the Blade.

"Santiago's got his fingers in a thousand pies on ten thousand worlds," said Dante. "He can't be bothered with the day- to-day operation of one obscure little drug ring that only covers half a dozen systems."

Suddenly the Knife's eyes widened.

Good, thought Dante. You've figured it out.

"Are you suggesting he wants us to take it over?" she said.

"He prefers to promote from within," said the poet. "Who knows the clientele and the routes better than you? Who can defend it better while he's occupied elsewhere?"

"Why doesn't he try to buy off the Candy Man?"

"Because it would be a demotion for the Candy Man, a step down no matter how you cut it. He couldn't help but be resentful, and a resentful partner isn't a loyal one. Santiago demands absolute loyalty from his partners." He paused while the words sank in. "But it wouldn't be a step down for you two. There'd be more money, more authority, more autonomy."

There was a moment of silence.

"What's he offering?" asked the Blade at last.

"Half—which is a hell of a lot more than you're making now," Dante pointed out. "I should add that we have a man who will audit you regularly. Santiago has no use for people who try to cheat him."

"Half?" repeated the Blade.

"Half," agreed Dante.

"Just for standing aside while Santiago kills the Candy Man?"

"He's going to want a little more than that as a token of your good faith," said Dante.

"Oh?" said the Knife suspiciously.

"He wants to know that you're fully committed to him and his organization," said Dante.

The Knife looked blank, but not the Blade. "Are you telling me he wants us to kill the Candy Man!"

"That's right."

"What's to stop us from killing the Candy Man and not splitting with anyone?" asked the Knife.

"You wouldn't live out the day," said Dante, amazed that he could lie with such absolute conviction. He leaned forward. "You're looking at it all wrong. Join him and you'll be millionaires within a Standard month, and you'll have the protection of Santiago's galaxy-wide organization if you should ever need it. As long as you're Santiago's partners, no outsider will ever be able to do to you what you're going to do to the Candy Man."

"What about insiders?" asked the Blade. "There will be people who already work for the Candy Man who may think they should be running things."

"This is a test of your leadership abilities," said Dante. "If you can take this organization over and run it successfully, Santiago will help you go on to bigger and better things."

The Blade picked up her screecher and tucked it back in her belt, then stood up.

"We have to discuss this. In private."

"I can wait outside for you," said Dante.

"That won't be necessary." She turned to her blonde companion. "Come on."

The Knife got up and followed her to the women's bathroom while Dante ordered a Cygnian cognac. He had just about finished it when they returned and sat down opposite him.

"All right," said the Blade. "It's a deal."

Dante looked at the Knife. "Yeah," she said, "it's a deal."

"Fine. I think you've made a wise decision. You'd gone as far as you could with the Candy Man. You'll advance much farther with Santiago."

"So now you'll tell Santiago we're in business?"

"No."

"No?" demanded the Blade.

"He'll know it when he hears that the Candy Man is dead," said Dante.

They finished the meal, and Dante returned to his hotel. The next morning the entire city was abuzz with the news that the Candy Man had been murdered.

Dante paid for his room, went to the spaceport, and was soon on his way to Valhalla. He contacted the Bandit en route and told him what had transpired.

"Amazing!" said the Bandit.

"What are you referring to, sir?"

"They actually believed you, without any proof to support what you said. You must be one hell of an accomplished liar."

"Well, I am a poet, sir," replied Dante.

22.

Jackrabbit Willowby, lightning fast,

Built an empire made to last;

Sold his soul for works of art—

Fast he was, but not too smart.

Jackrabbit Willowby had never actually seen a jackrabbit. In fact, he'd never been within 60,000 lightyears of Earth. But he knew that the jackrabbit was one of the very few animals that wasn't extinct more than three millennia after the dawn of the Galactic Era, and that it survived because of its fecundity. Willowby himself had 43 children from 36 mothers, all of which he neglected, and took his name from that prolific animal.

He didn't have an abundance of virtues. He was an agent of the Democracy, in charge of monitoring the black market in a 50- world sector than included Beta Cordero II. He was in charge of close to a thousand men spread across those worlds, ready to respond to his commands.

In most cases, those commands were exactly what the Democracy wanted—but in a few cases they were not. Willowby and a handful of carefully-chosen confederates were happy to look the other way for a consideration, which averaged some 25% of the black marketeer's take. They afforded the very best protection, and no one who dealt with them ever had cause to regret it. Similarly, those few that they approached who chose not to deal with them soon found themselves serving long jail terms or else were mourned by their friends.

Willowby developed a taste for expensive works of art, which led him to expand his operation, reaching more and more worlds, even those not officially under his control, finding new routes for contraband material, and protecting those routes with the full force of the Democracy. Before too many years had passed he was worth tens of millions of credits, and none of his employees had any cause for complaint. He understood the need to keep them all happy—and loyal—and while his crew was far from the most honest on the Inner Frontier, they were unquestionably the wealthiest and most contented.

He had only one rule: no one retired. He wanted his team to work in the shadow of the gallows until the day each of them died. He never wanted any to lose contact, or feel they could make their own deal with the Democracy and supply evidence against their confederates. You could get filthy rich working for Willowby, but that was the price you paid—there was no end to it. Most of his employees had no problem with that. The few that did didn't live long enough to cause any serious complications.

Dante had heard rumors about Willowby, and he knew it was just a matter of time before he showed up and made his pitch. The sudden death of the Candy Man could only hurry the day, and Dante was anxious for the meeting to take place.

"We don't want anything to do with him," said the Bandit when Dante brought up the subject. "He works for the Democracy. That makes him the enemy."

"True," answered the poet. "But this one has a ready-made organization that could bring in 50 times what we're going to make from the Candy Man's operation."

"If we deal with enough Democracy members, we'll be no different than they are," insisted the Bandit.

"I think you're looking at it all wrong, sir," said Dante. "If we can put Willowby to work for us, or somehow take over his organization, we'll be plundering him of millions every week, money that would eventually be spent or invested in the Democracy. Think of the good we could do with that money! Think of the hospitals it could build."

"You're getting ahead of yourself," said the Bandit. "First we need a Frontier-wide organization. Then we'll worry about hospitals and everything else."

"Even the original Santiago didn't have that big an organization," said Dante. "He just made it seem like he did."

"What good are hospitals and schools and whatever else you want if I can't defend them?"

"It's not what I want," protested Dante. "It's what we want. And it's not just hospitals and schools. Hell, there's 200 alien races living in fear and poverty out here on the Frontier. They need our help."

The Bandit stared at him, seemed about to reply, then decided to remain silent.

"So can I tell the Knife and the Blade to send Willowby here if he starts making any inquiries?" continued Dante.

"Yes," said the Bandit.

"Alone, I presume?" said Dante. "Or just with his personal muscle?"

"Whatever makes him happy," said the Bandit. "It makes no difference to me."

Dante leaned back and relaxed. He'd been half-afraid that the Bandit had planned to kill Willowby, and while he had no moral problem with killing the enemy, it made a lot more sense to co-opt this one and leave him in place. The Candy Man worked just a handful of systems, really just six planets, and the Knife and the Blade knew all of his contacts. But from everything Dante had been able to learn, Jackrabbit Willowby's organization encompassed hundreds, perhaps thousands, of worlds, and if they killed him, there'd be no way they could keep his organization intact, or even find out who belonged to it.

Dante spend the next two days working on his epic, reworking the verses, honing the language, making lists of the colorful characters he'd heard about that he wanted to meet and include in the text.

Then Virgil checked in, stoned out of his mind. He'd found the drugs, which was admittedly the easy part of his assignment, but he couldn't remember where he'd gotten them or who he'd purchased them from. Dante checked the computer log of Virgil's ship, found out that the Indian had visited Nestor III, Lower Volta, and New Waco, and decided to send Blossom off to see if she could find out where Virgil had purchased his drugs, and from whom.

"And don't be a hero," he cautioned her. "We've already got one, and he'll handle any dangerous situation."

"We're all heroes, Rhymer," she said adamantly. "Everyone who fights the Democracy is a hero."

"Let's keep it to ourselves," said Dante. "The less people who think we're heroes, the less often we'll have to prove it. Remember: what we're doing only works as long as the Democracy thinks we're outlaws. Once they figure out what we're really about, that's the end of Santiago and everyone who has anything to do with him . . . so just make some very discreet inquiries, try not to call any attention to yourself, and then come back with whatever information you can get."

"Why should I listen to you?" she demanded. "I work for Santiago."

"And I speak for him," said Dante.

"I thought you were supposed to be a poet."

"I am. Don't make me write about how you turned Santiago down the first time he needed you."

She considered his remark, and finally nodded her assent. "But next time I want to hear it direct from him."

"All right, next time you will."

She left, and Dante spent another half hour working on his poem until he was summoned to the Bandit's office.

"What's up?" he asked upon arriving.

"I just heard from the Blade. Jackrabbit Willowby is on his way to Valhalla."

"Alone?"

The Bandit smiled. "Hardly."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"He's coming with a little display of force to impress me."

"How little?"

"20 men, maybe 25."

"I'm impressed already," said Dante. "Where do we put them all?"

"I'll meet them outside," answered the Bandit. "I might as well show them I have nothing to hide."

"You can meet them there, but you'll want to deal privately with Willowby in your office. You don't want anyone else to hear your negotiations. You might have to get tough with him."

"Don't worry," said the Bandit. "I just want them all to see me, since they're going to be dealing with me from now on."

Dante shrugged. "Okay, if you're sure that's the way you want to do it."

"I'm sure."

Dante waited in his quarters until he heard Willowby's ship approaching the landing strip. He looked out a window as it came into view and soon settled gently on the slab.

Twenty men emerged from the ship and formed two lines. Five more climbed out, went to the end of the lines, and fanned out, ready to handle trouble from any direction.

Then, after a wait of perhaps three minutes, Jackrabbit Willowby came out of the hatch and climbed down to the ground. He was a short man, elegantly dressed, and he moved with an athletic grace. Dante couldn't spot any weapons on him, but then, with all those bodyguards, he didn't need any.

Dante noticed that everyone's attention was directed toward the lodge. He turned and saw that the Bandit had walked out the front of the compound and was approaching Willowby.

Six of Willowby's men moved to form a living wall between them. The Bandit came to a stop and looked expectantly at Willowby.

"Good day, sir," said Willowby, parting the men with his arms and stepping forward to stand between them. "To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?"

"You know who I am," said the Bandit.

"They told me your name was Santiago, but that is either a joke or a lie."

"I'd be careful who I called a liar, Jackrabbit Willowby."

"You see?" said Willowby. "You know my name. It's only fair that I should know yours."

"You do," said the Bandit. "My name is Santiago."

One of the men walked over and whispered something to Willowby.

"I'm told that you are actually the One-Armed Bandit."

"You've been misinformed. I am Santiago." The Bandit stared at his visitor. "Are we going to spend all afternoon arguing about my name, or do you have some reason for being here?"

"You're a very brave man, to speak to me like that when I'm surrounded by my men."

"You haven't answered me."

"Of course I have a reason for being here," said Willowby. "You deal in contraband materials. I work for the Democracy."

"So you're here to arrest me?"

"Putting you in jail won't do either of us any good," replied Willowby easily. "I'm here to negotiate a fine with you."

"A fine?"

"If I put you out of business, someone would just replace you next week or next month, the jails would have one more mouth to feed, and what purpose would be served? Let's be totally honest: there is a continuing demand for the goods you sell. Someone is going to satisfy it; it might as well be you."

"I'd call that very reasonable of you," said the Bandit.

"I can see we understand each other," said Willowby with a smile. "How does 25 percent sound to you?"

The Bandit seemed to be considering the offer for a moment. Finally he shook his head. "No, that's not enough."

Willowby looked confused. "Not enough?" he repeated.

"I think a third makes more sense."

"You'd rather pay me a third than a quarter?"

"No," said the Bandit. "You're going to pay me a third."

"What are you talking about?"

"I want a third of your business. Give it to me and you can leave here alive."

"Are you crazy?" snapped Willowby. "I've got 25 men with me!"

"You mean these men?" asked the Bandit, waving an arm in their direction. As he pointed, a laser beam shot out of his finger and mowed them down before they knew what was happening. The last seven or eight had time to reach for their weapons, but the beam was replaced by an exploding energy ball, and an instant later Willowby was the only member of his party still standing.

"Who are you?" he demanded.

"I told you: my name is Santiago. And you are a member of the Democracy. That's all I need to know."

The Bandit pointed a deadly finger at him, and an instant later Willowby fell to the ground, dead.

"That was stupid!" yelled Dante, rushing over to join the Bandit. "I told you—we needed his organization!"

"He worked for the Democracy," said the Bandit calmly. "The Democracy is our enemy."

"You were always going to kill him, weren't you?"

"That's what Santiago does to his enemies."

"Yeah, well Santiago could use his brain every now and then!" snapped Dante. "You've cost us billions. Billions!"

"I don't deal with the enemy."

"Then next time let me!"

The Bandit turned to him, and for just an instant Dante thought he was going to aim his lethal arm at him.

"You're a poet. Go write your poems. I'm Santiago. Let me handle my business in my own way—and don't ever stand between me and the enemy." He turned to one of the men who had run out of the house. "One of them is still alive. The fifth from the left."

"You want me to finish him off, Santiago?" asked the man.

"No," said the Bandit. "If I'd wanted him dead, I'd have killed him myself. Treat his wounds, drop him off on some colony world, and make sure he knows that it was Santiago who did this. Let him pass the word about what happens to anyone who stands against me." He turned to Dante. "Does that meet with your approval?"

"Hell, no!" said the poet bitterly. "What the fuck does he know about running an organization that spans a hundred worlds?" He tried to control his temper. "If you were going to let someone live, why not Willowby? He'd have been just as impressed as that poor bastard."

"Yes, he would have," agreed the Bandit. "And next time he'd have sent 200 men, or 500, or a thousand, and he'd have stayed away until it was over. He'd never give me another chance at him once he knew what I could do, and he couldn't let me live after I'd grabbed a third of his empire. If he'd shown any weakness of resolve, his own men would have been dividing the rest of his business."

"You could have negotiated," complained Dante. "Ten percent would still have been worth hundreds of millions."

"You don't negotiate with officers of the Democracy," said the Bandit coldly. "You kill them."

"But he was a corrupt officer, damn it! We could have reached an accommodation."

"They're all corrupt," said the Bandit, turning and heading back to the compound. "This conversation is over."

Dante watched him walk away.

Maybe you're right. Maybe you can't deal with representatives of the Democracy, even thoroughly corrupt ones. But damn it, you sounded a lot more reasonable when you were still just the One-Armed Bandit.

23.

Come inside the Blixtor Maze;

Spend your money, spend your days.

Nameless pleasures lie in wait—

Come along and meet your fate.

The Blixtor Maze was the brainchild of an alien architect named Blixtor. No one was quite sure what race he belonged to. Some said he was a Canphorite, but others said no, the Maze wasn't rational enough to have been created by a native of Canphor VI or VII, that he must be a native of Lodin XI. Still others said it was actually created by a human, but that his computer had crashed and he'd given up on the project, and other races built it based on what they could reconstruct from his shattered modules and memory crystals.

This much is known: no one ever succeeded in mapping the Blixtor Maze. It was said that parts of it went off into the fourth dimension, other parts were so complex that not even a theoretical mathematician could explain them. It was approximately one mile square. No one knew how many levels there were. The only thing that was certain is that no one had ever walked from one end to the other in less than a week, and even Homing Wolves, those remarkable domesticated creatures from Valos XI, were unable to retrace their steps.

It took four centuries to build the Maze on the isolated world of Nandi III. Legend has it that the original Maze was to be four miles on a side, but two crews got lost and starved to death. Nobody believed it—until they tried to find their way out of the Maze. There were some who felt the Maze was constantly moving, or rotating in and out of known dimensions, because you could wander into an antiquarian chart shop or a drug den, and when you walked out the same door nothing was where it had been. Further, if you had left something behind, you could turn and attempt to go back and retrieve it, only to find that the establishment you thought was two paces behind you was nowhere to be seen.

There were no warning signs as you approached the Maze, because the authorities operated on the reasonable assumption that you wouldn't be on Nandi II if you didn't have business there. Far from banning weapons, visitors were encouraged to enter the Maze heavily armed, since no lawman or bounty hunter was likely to respond to any entreaties coming from within the Maze. All laws were suspended the moment you took your first step inside the Maze. Murder was no longer a crime; neither were any of a hundred other actions that could get you executed or incarcerated in the Democracy, or the half-dozen that were still illegal across most of the Inner Frontier.

Dante was unsurprised to learn that Virgil was guilty of at least three of them. He was contacted by Blue Peter, who explained that Virgil was being held inside the Maze, that a group of permanent residents had him under what passed for house arrest, and that it was going to take a guide to find him and a lot of money to bail him out.

"How did you get out?" asked Dante over the subspace radio.

"The Maze spit me out," answered the alien. "It didn't want me."

"It spit you out?" repeated Dante.

"Come to Nandi," said Blue Peter. "It'll make more sense once you see it."

Two days later the Bandit's ship touched down at the Nandi spaceport. He and Dante passed through customs—both used false IDs and passports—and took a room in a run-down hotel that was 50 yards from the entrance to the Maze.

Blue Peter was waiting for them.

"I'm glad you got here," he said. "Who knows what they're doing to him?"

"Whatever they're doing, he's probably so grogged up on bad booze and worse drugs that he's totally unaware of it," said the Bandit.

"Shouldn't we go get him?" asked Blue Peter as the Bandit walked into the hotel's restaurant.

"First we'll eat dinner," answered the Bandit. "We'll leave our gear here, get a good night's sleep, and go after him in the morning." He paused. "And tonight, before we're through eating, you'll tell us what you know about the Blixtor Maze."

"Nothing," said the alien. "Well, almost nothing."

"How could it spit you out?" asked Dante.

"That might be the wrong term," admitted Blue Peter. "I hid in this warehouse right across street from the jail where they were holding Virgil. I planned to wait until it was dark and then see if I could break him out." He paused. "When the sun set, I waited an hour and then I stepped out, ready to cross the street—and somehow I wasn't facing the jail. In fact, I wasn't even in the Maze. I was standing on the road that borders the north side of the Maze. I looked for the door I'd come through, but there was nothing but a solid wall for hundreds of yards." He smiled an odd alien smile. "The Maze didn't want me. That's when I knew I'd have to contact you if he was ever to get out of there."

"I can see the entrance to the Maze from the front of the hotel," said the Bandit. "Can you find him if we go through it?"

"Yes," said Blue Peter. Then, "No." Finally, "Maybe."

"Explain."

"It's never the same twice," said the blue alien. "If it's the way it was the last time Virgil and I entered it, and nothing inside the Maze has changed, I can find it—but the odds against that are thousands to one. I've been in the Maze a dozen times, and it's never been the same twice. I've talked to people who live in the Maze, who have been there for years, and they never know what they'll see when they walk out their front door."

"How do they keep finding their front door when it's time to go home?" asked Dante.

"Oh, if the Maze wants you to find something, you will," Blue Peter assured him. "It might even move things around just to accommodate you."

"You make it sound sentient."

"It's not sentient—I mean, how could it be?—but it's tricky as hell."

The Bandit stared at him for a moment, then walked to a table and called up the menu. The other two joined him, and they ate the meal in total silence.

"I'll see you in the morning," said the Bandit when he was through. He got to his feet. "Sunrise, right here."

He left and headed toward the airlift as Dante turned to Blue Peter.

"Just what the hell was Virgil doing that got him incarcerated?" asked the poet. "From what I know of this world, I'd have thought nothing was illegal. Certainly it couldn't just have been drugs."

"It wasn't."

"Well, then?"

The alien looked at him for a long moment. "I don't think I'm going to tell you."

"Why not?"

"Because you will want to work with him again, and if I told you, you might leave him here forever."

"It was that bad?"

"Let us say that it was that unusual."

"Were you involved?"

"I think I've told you everything that I'm going to tell you," said Blue Peter. "Goodnight, Rhymer. I'll see you in the morning."

"What's your room number?"

"This hotel is for humans only," said the alien with no sign of bitterness. "I am staying a few blocks away."

"See you in the morning, then," said Dante as Blue Peter left the restaurant and walked out the front door of the hotel. He spent a few minutes sitting at the table, staring at his empty wine glass and trying to imagine what new perversion Virgil had discovered. Finally he got up and went off to his room.

His bed woke him gently just before sunrise, as he had instructed it to do, and he showered and dressed quickly, then went down to the restaurant. He decided he couldn't stand the smell of food that early in the day, so he sat in the lobby and waited for the Bandit to finish. Blue Peter joined him a moment later, and the two of them sat, half asleep, until the Bandit emerged from the restaurant.

"Okay," he said. "Let's go get him."

The three of them went out into the cool dry air of Nandi III, turned right, and rode the slidewalk past a row of low angular buildings to the entrance to the Maze.

"This is it?" asked the Bandit.

"That's right," said Blue Peter.

"If everything moves around, how are we going to find him?" asked the Bandit.

"We'll hire a guide."

"A guide? You mean someone knows his way around the Maze?"

"It's not that simple," began Blue Peter.

"Somehow it never is," interjected Dante dryly.

"There is a alien race, almost extinct now, that can usually find what you're looking for. Not always, but usually. Rumor has it that they were imported to Nandi III centuries ago to help build it. These are their descendants. No one knows what world they originally came from."

"Can they find their way back out?" asked the Bandit.

"Frequently."

"How do we make contact with one?"

"We'll just enter the Maze," answered the alien. "They'll start contacting us."

"What do they look like?"

"They're humanoid," said Blue Peter. "Perhaps four feet tall. Covered with fur. Their colors differ markedly from one to the next."

"Has the race got a name?"

"Probably," said Blue Peter. "I mean, all races have names, don't they? Inside the Maze, though, we call them Lab Rats, since they're the only ones who can find their way around with any degree of accuracy."

"Lab Rats?" said Dante with a smile.

"Your face just lit up," said Blue Peter. "You're going to use them in your poem, aren't you?"

"How could I not write about a race known as the Lab Rats?" responded Dante.

The Bandit stared at the entrance, which was a broad archway.

"We just walk in, right?" he asked.

"That's right."

"Okay, let's get on with it."

He strode forward, and Dante and the alien fell into step behind him. Ten feet into the Maze he stopped and looked behind him.

"The entrance is still there," he noted.

"Yes, it is," agreed Blue Peter.

"Maybe you were exaggerating a little bit?"

"I wasn't," said the alien adamantly.

They followed the street for fifty yards, until it dead-ended against a large modular triangular building built of imported alien alloys.

"Let's try the left," said the Bandit, walking off in a new direction.

They followed him. The street narrowed until the buildings were so close together that he couldn't fit through the opening.

"So much for that," he muttered. "All right, let's go in the other direction."

He turned and backtracked, but when they came to the triangular building, everything seemed different.

"Something's wrong," he muttered, looking around.

"What is it?" asked Dante, who was bringing up the rear.

"That alley," said the Bandit, pointing. "It wasn't there before." On a hunch, he turned to his right, toward the entrance. It was gone. "Okay, so you weren't exaggerating."

Suddenly a creature the size of a child emerged from the shadows and approached them. It was covered by dull gray fur, and its face was long and angular, with wideset green eyes and a broad purple nose.

"Need a guide?" it hissed in a sibilant whisper. "Need a girly-girly house? Need a trip to Dreamland? Like to make a bet? I take you anywhere you want for 20-credits-20."

The Bandit tossed a coin to the Lab Rat. "Tell him," he ordered Blue Peter.

"I'm looking for a friend," began the alien.

"No blue girly-girly houses in the Maze."

Blue Peter shook his head. "This is a human friend. He's been locked up. His name is Virgil Soaring Hawk. I want to find him."

"I must search," said the Lab Rat. "I tell you soon."

"Should we wait here?" asked the Bandit.

"Go wherever," said the Lab Rat. "When I am ready, I find you."

He shambled off and scuttled around a corner.

"No sense following him," said Blue Peter. "When you get to the corner and look for him, he won't be there."

"Then let's walk around and see what the Maze is like, as long as he says he can find us," said Dante.

The Bandit agreed, and the three of them set off. The farther into the Maze they got, the stranger it became. Streets ended inside buildings, or curved and twisted back onto themselves. Buildings were all shapes; some seemed to blink in and out of the men's dimension, though when they approached them they seemed solid enough. There were doorless, windowless buildings from which peals of human laughter emanated, and stores that sold objects that were totally unfamiliar to Dante. There were brothels showcasing males and females of a dozen different races, and gambling dens with long, winding, seemingly endless tunnels leading to individual games. They followed a corridor, found a room with aliens playing jabob, retraced their steps, and found themselves inside an alien shrine that featured an altar stone still wet with blood. They walked out the exit, and found themselves blocks from the gambling den, on a four-level avenue covered by a building that rose from the ground on both sides of the street, leaned toward the middle, and joined about ten feet above the top level, forming a huge triangular arch.

"This gets weirder and weirder," said Dante.

"This is the ordinary part," said Blue Peter. "It gets really weird about three blocks from here."

Another Lab Rat, this one light tan with large black spots on its fur, approached them. "Psst!" it hissed.

"Go away," said Blue Peter. "We've already got a guide."

"Psst!" it repeated. "Your guide has deserted you. I will never do that. I offer the unusual, the exotic, the bizarre. All for only 20 credits."

"Not interested," said the Bandit.

"For you, 15 credits," said the Lab Rat. It pulled its thin lips back in a distorted smile. "Eat at Joe's."

"If we want a restaurant, we'll find one without your help," said Blue Peter irritably.

"Not like Joe's," said the Lab Rat. "Your meal is lightly basted and still alive. You can listen to it scream as it slides down your gullet."

"Forget it."

"It is forgotten," said the Lab Rat. "Psst! Girly-girly house of cyborgs, only 12 credits."

Their own guide suddenly appeared. He stared at the other Lab Rat and growled deep in his throat. The new Lab Rat hissed at him. A moment later they were roaring and screeching, jumping up and down and making threatening gestures. Finally, as the noise reached a crescendo, they both stopped at the same instant, and the new Lab Rat raced away.

"Do not let my brother disturb you," said their guide. "I will kill him later."

"He's your brother?" asked Dante.

"Probably," was the answer.

"Did you find Virgil Soaring Hawk?" asked the Bandit.

"Ah, the unfortunate Virgil," said the Lab Rat. "Yes."

"Why 'unfortunate'?" asked Dante.

"He is guilty of sins for which they have not yet created any names," replied the Lab Rat. He turned to Blue Peter. "You helped."

"Take us there," said the Bandit.

"They will not release him."

"That is not your concern," said the Bandit, tossing him another coin. "Just take us there and then leave."

"If I leave, you will never find your way out."

"That is our concern," said the Bandit.

"You will die of old age here, all but the blue one," warned the Lab Rat.

"Why not me?" asked Blue Peter.

"The Maze finds your presence offensive. It will throw you out."

"How do you know?"

"The same way I know how to find Virgil Soaring Hawk," replied the Lab Rat, as if that answered everything.

"But—" began Blue Peter.

"Shut up," said the Bandit. He turned to their guide. "No more talk. Take us to Virgil."

The Lab Rat stared at him, gave a shrug that rippled down its entire body, and headed off down a dank, twisting alley. The Bandit and his companions fell into step behind the furry creature, following as it turned one way and then another, seeming to follow no rational course—but they noticed that while they were constantly backtracking, they never passed the same street or building twice.

Finally the Lab Rat ascended two levels, walked a block, climbed back down to the pavement, and waited for his party to assemble.

"Here we are," he said.

"Where are we?" said the Bandit.

"You wanted to find Virgil Soaring Hawk, didn't you?"

"Yes."

The Lab Rat pointed to an unmarked door. "Just walk through there."

"There are 50 identical doors on this block," said the Bandit. "How do you know it's this one?"

"Because."

"All right. Open it."

"I am done. You are not paying me to stay."

"I paid you to find Virgil Soaring Hawk. You're not done until I know he's inside."

The Lab Rat turned to him. "Have I ever lied to you?"

"You haven't said five sentences to me."

"There. You see?"

"Open the door."

"I weep at your distrust."

"You'll do more than weep if he's not in there."

The Lab Rat stared at him for a long moment. "This door," it said, walking to a door next to the one it had originally indicated.

"I thought it was the other door."

"I changed my mind."

The Bandit opened the door and turned to Dante. "Keep an eye on him until I make sure that Virgil's here." He entered the building.

"What's behind the first door?" asked Dante.

"Open it," said the Lab Rat.

"Just tell me."

The Lab Rat forced his lips into another smile. "That would spoil the surprise."

"I notice your Terran has become a lot more fluent since our first meeting," noted Dante.

"That's because it is noon in the Maze."

"It gets better or worse depending on the time of day?"

"And the weather."

Dante was about to reply when the door opened and the Bandit reappeared.

"Okay, let him go and follow me."

Dante turned to tell the Lab Rat to leave, but it was already gone. He walked forward and entered the building, followed by Blue Peter. They walked down a narrow arched corridor that curved to the left, and after a moment came to a lighted room. There was a strange multi-leveled desk with a small, olive-skinned man seated behind it.

"This gentleman," said the Bandit, indicating the man, "seems to be in charge of the place."

"I am in charge."

"It's not a jail and it's not a stockade, right?"

"That is correct."

"And yet you freely admit that you have incarcerated Virgil Soaring Hawk here."

"The Maze is used to aberrant behavior," said the man. "It is used to perversions that I hope you cannot begin to imagine. And yet your friend has performed acts that offend not only the inhabitants of the Maze but the Maze itself."

"And the Maze told you that, did it?" asked Dante.

"Not in so many words, but if you live here long enough, you know how to interpret its moods."

"I am sorry our friend has offended you," said the Bandit. "Tell me how much we owe you for damages, I'll pay his tab, and we'll be on our way."

"The same perversions, performed on another world, will be no less offensive," said the man.

"But since you won't know about them, they won't offend you," the Bandit pointed out.

"The Maze says he must stay. He will not be harmed, he will be well treated—but he will be confined alone for the rest of his life."

"He belongs to me," said the Bandit. "I'm taking him away with me."

"Do you indulge in similar sins?" demanded the man.

"What I do is no one's business but my own."

"And I suppose you're going to tell me that what Virgil Soaring Hawk does is no one else's business?"

"That's right."

"That's wrong. Two men and a female Tellargian have been taken to a psychiatric ward after spending less than half the night with him."

"What the hell did he do to them?"

"We have no idea, but it is our duty to make sure that he never does it again."

"Enough talk," said the Bandit. "Name your price and I'll pay it. Just turn him over to me and we'll leave."

"That's out of the question."

"Nothing is out of the question for Santiago. Now, where is he?"

"He's quite safe, not only from his own urges, but also from delusional intruders who think they're Santiago."

"I'm only going to ask once more," said the Bandit. "Where is he?"

The olive-skinned man glared at him and offered no response.

The Bandit looked around the room, turned to the wall at the far end of it, and pointed his finger. A laser beam shot out, and soon cut a doorway through it.

"Rhymer," he said, purposely avoiding mentioning Dante's name, "go see if he's there."

Dante stepped through and found himself in what seemed to be a haberdasher's storehouse. He stepped back into the room.

"No, there's nothing there."

The Bandit turned back to the olive-skinned man. "I'm going to count to five," he said, "and if you haven't told me where I can find Virgil Soaring Hawk, I'm going to melt one of your fingers to putty. Then I'll count again. When we run out of fingers and toes, I'll melt more vital things. Look into my eyes and tell me if you think I'm bluffing."

The man stared into the Bandit's eyes and swallowed hard. "You're not bluffing."

"Then save yourself a world of pain and tell me what I want to know."

"I'll take you there," said the man with an air of defeat.

He got up and led them back down the corridor through which they had come, but instead of letting them out into the street, it dead-ended at a metal door.

"He's in there?" asked the Bandit.

"Yes."

"Open it."

The man uttered a code that was half-mathematical formula and half-song. The door vanished and Virgil, who had been lying on a floating pallet, got to his feet.

"Well, fancy meeting you here," he said.

"Shut up and get out of there," said the Bandit.

The Injun quickly exited his cell.

"Made my bail, huh?"

"So to speak." The Bandit turned to the olive-skinned man. "How do we get back to the street?"

"You don't."

The Bandit pointed a deadly finger between the man's eyes. "Do we have to go through all this again?"

"I'm not kidding. The Maze doesn't want him freed."

"The Maze doesn't have a vote," said the Bandit. "We're leaving this planet."

"You can try," said the man.

"Let's start by going back to your office."

The man led the way, but when they arrived, it was no longer an office, but a stone cell with iron bars on the windows. A heavy door slammed shut behind them.

"I told you," said the man. "The Maze will never let you leave."

"Don't bet every last credit you own on it," said the Bandit. He made a slight adjustment to his artificial arm, then stepped back and pointed at the wall with the iron bars. A pulse grenade shot out and exploded when it hit the wall, and a moment later there was a huge gaping hole.

The Bandit stepped through it, followed by his party. They found themselves in a walled courtyard, and the Bandit shot another grenade at a wall.

The Maze responded, entrapping them again, and it became a battle of attrition. The Bandit would explode or melt any barrier the Maze created, and the Maze would use all its resources to find a new way to imprison them.

After an hour the Bandit turned to Dante. "I don't have unlimited supplies of energy or ammunition," he said. "I'm going to have to put an end to this."

"What are you going to do?"

"Watch."

He made one more adjustment to his arm, then pointed to the sky. Something shot out, something small and glowing with power. It reached its apex at a thousand feet, then whistled down at the very center of the Maze. There was no explosion, no sense of heat, no tremors of the ground beneath their feet—but suddenly the Maze began to vanish, starting at its core and radiating outward. Buildings disappeared, streets and sidewalks vanished, thousands of Men and aliens popped out of existence without a sound.

Dante thought whatever the Bandit had precipitated would gobble them up as well, but it stopped about 30 yards away.

"What the hell was that?" asked the poet, trying to keep his voice calm and level and not succeeding very well.

"A little something I commissioned a Dinalian physicist to create for me," answered the Bandit. "It works on the same principle as a molecular imploder, but it creates a chain reaction."

"You could have killed us!" said Blue Peter.

"I know its physical limits," answered the Bandit.

"As it was, you probably killed a few thousand Men and aliens," said Dante.

"They would have stopped us if they could," said the Bandit. "That makes them our enemies."

"Bullshit!" snapped Dante. "99% of them didn't even know you were here and couldn't care less."

"Then this will add to the legend. Try to understand: Santiago has no friends in the galaxy, just enemies and hirelings."

"So we're just hirelings?" demanded the poet.

"I didn't mean you, of course."

"The hell you didn't!"

"I saved your life. This is no time for an argument."

"You saved my life at the cost of thousands of the lives you were created to save."

"It was a value judgment," said the Bandit. "Don't make me decide I made a mistake."

"It wasn't an either/or situation," said Dante. "There were half a dozen alternatives. Santiago—a real Santiago—would have found one!"

The Bandit turned to the olive-skinned man, who had been listening intently, and burned a deadly hole between his eyes.

"What was that for?" shouted Dante.

"It was your fault," said the Bandit angrily. "You implied that I wasn't Santiago. I couldn't let him hear that and live to pass it on."

"So you killed him, just like that?"

"You made it necessary."

"How the hell did you get so warped?"

"There's nothing warped about it," said the Bandit. "It goes with the job."

Dante snorted contemptuously. "What do you know about it?"

"What do I know?" repeated the poet. "I made you!"

"You found me," replied the Bandit. "There's a difference."

Dante was about to reply, but something about the Bandit's expression convinced him to keep silent. A few days earlier he had told the Knife and the Blade that everyone in Santiago's organization was expendable, but he never really believed it.

Until now.

24.

Dante never wrote a verse about the Madras 300. He tried several times, but it never came out right.

But then, neither did the Madras 300.

It began a week after their experience in the Blixtor Maze. Dante, who had felt ever since they returned, was sitting alone in the dining room very late at night, sipping a cup of coffee, when Virgil Soaring Hawk approached him.

"What are you doing up?" asked the poet.

"Couldn't sleep."

"Why not?"

"Probably because you're using the strongest stimulant on the planet," said the Indian with a grin.

"I'm not interested in your habits or your perversions," said Dante.

"That's what I want to talk to you about."

"I just told you: I'm not interested."

"Neither is Santiago."

"Is that supposed to mean something to me?"

"It should."

"Virgil, it's halfway through the night and I don't know what the hell you're talking about," replied Dante. "I'm not in the mood for guessing games, so if you've got something to say, say it."

"I just did."

"Go away."

"You're not paying attention," said Virgil.

"I must not be, so spell it out for me."

"Look, Rhymer, I know why you came after me in the Maze. We're joined at the soul, you and I."

"The hell we are."

"It's an historic inevitability. Dante has to have his Virgil. But why did he come along?"

"You work for him," said Dante. "We all do."

"All I've done is buy drugs for him," said Virgil. "That's hardly an indispensable job."

Dante stared at him. "You think he shouldn't have come after you?"

"Maybe so, maybe not. But I know what I am and what I've done, and he at least knows some of it. So why did he destroy the Maze and maybe kill a couple of thousand people just to free me? I'm probably just going to get arrested again on the next world I visit for crimes against God and Nature. You know it, I know it, he knows it."

"Let me get this straight," said Dante, frowning. "Are you telling me you wanted him to leave you there?"

"I didn't want him to. I want to be free! But what kind of Santiago frees one lone redskin pervert at the cost of all those lives?"

"He's reestablishing the legend," said Dante uneasily. "He has to let people know how powerful he is."

"By killing the people he's supposed to protect? Hell, I could do that. He's supposed to do something better."

"I don't know what you want."

"It's not what I want," said Virgil. "I work for you—"

"You work for him," interrupted Dante.

"No!" said Virgil firmly. "Everyone else around here works for him. I work for you—and it's my job to tell you that I think you put your money on the wrong horse."

"And you reached this conclusion because he saved your life at the expense of others?"

"How much more honest can I be?" retorted Virgil.

Dante finished his coffee and sat in silence.

"So what do you think?" persisted the Indian.

"He's only been Santiago for a few weeks, and we're redefining the job."

"That's no answer."

"It's the best I've got," said Dante. "Hell, he's the best I've got."

"You found him very fast. Maybe you should have looked a little longer."

"Maybe I should have. I don't know. But the Frontier needs him now."

"It needs help now," agreed Virgil. "That doesn't mean it needs him."

"What do you suggest?" said Dante irritably. "Who has the authority to fire him? Who has the skills to kill him?" He sighed heavily. "Hell, he's doing what he thinks is right. Who am I to challenge that? I'm just a small-time thief turned poet. I don't have a monopoly on right or truth."

"All right," said Virgil. "You're the boss."

"I'm not the boss, damn it!"

"You're my boss. I won't bring it up again."

The Indian turned and left Dante alone with his thoughts and his doubts. By morning he had convinced himself that both of them were wrong, that this was a century and a half after the original Santiago and different times called for different approaches.

Then came the Madras raid.

Word came from an informant that a small Navy convoy was shipping gold bullion to their base on Madras IV, a mining world some 132 light-years distant.

The Bandit knew he didn't have the firepower to take on the Navy in space, so he waited until they landed and most of the ships departed. Then he touched down on Madras with Dante, Virgil, and three new hirelings.

The moment they emerged from their ship they were captured by an armed patrol. The Bandit meekly surrendered, the others followed suit, and shortly thereafter they found themselves incarcerated in an otherwise-empty stockade, surrounded by a sonic barrier that became intensely painful every time anyone got within four feet of it.

"I wonder how long they plan to keep us here?" mused one of the new men.

"Not long," said the Bandit. "They'll want to know what we're doing here."

"Well, it is a mining world," said Dante. "We could say we're here to consider investing in one of the mining complexes.

"We'll tell them the truth," said the Bandit.

"That we're here to rob them of their bullion?"

"That's right."

"You could save a lot of ammunition that way," said Virgil dryly. "Given our position, they just might laugh themselves to death."

"You mean this cell?" asked the Bandit. "I can leave it whenever I choose to."

"Then what are we doing here in the first place?" continued Virgil.

"Wasn't this easier than searching the whole planet for their headquarters?" said the Bandit.

"Now that you've found their headquarters, why are we still incarcerated?" persisted the Indian.

"So far all we're seen are the guards. I assume we'll be questioned by someone higher up the chain of command, someone who might know exactly where the bullion is."

"You know they're probably monitoring every word we say," put in Dante.

"So what?" replied the Bandit. "Sooner or later they're going to have to talk to us—and if it's too much later, I'll destroy the stockade and initiate the conversation myself."

"I don't know why you didn't do it in the first place," muttered Virgil.

"If I'd just walked in and blown them away, no one would know who was responsible. I plan to answer all their questions honestly, especially who I am, let them inform the Democracy exactly who it was that robbed them."

"Isn't this a little early in the game for that?" suggested Dante. "Shouldn't we accumulate a nest egg and some more manpower before we start taunting the Democracy?"

"How much is enough?" replied the Bandit. "The sooner we begin our mission, the better."

A quartet of armed guards suddenly appeared, flanking an officer with a chest full of medals.

"So you want the Democracy to know who you are?" said the officer. "I think we can arrange that."

"I am Santiago," said the Bandit.

The officer laughed in amusement. "Can you spell 'delusional'?"

"I'm here for the bullion," continued the Bandit. "Where is it?"

"I admire your sense of humor," said the officer. "I can't say as much for your grip on reality."

"I'm only going to ask you once more. Where is the bullion?"

"In a safe place," said the officer. "We've run retina scans on all of you. You're the One-Armed Bandit. This one here is Virgil Soaring Hawk, the one on your left is a thief and murderer called Danny Briggs, the one directly behind you is—"

"I am Santiago," repeated the Bandit.

"We've got a holo recording of your intention to rob the bullion," said the officer. "You can be the One-Armed Bandit or Santiago or Peter Pan, for all I give a damn. You might as well call yourself Methuselah, because you're going to spend one hell of a long time in this stockade."

"You've had your chance," said the Bandit. He waved his arm at the officer and the guards, and a moment later all five lay dead on the shining, multi-colored floor.

Then he stood back, pointed to the tiny control panel on the far wall, and melted it. The sonic field vanished, and they walked out.

"If it was that easy, why are any of the rest of us here?" asked Virgil.

"Four of you are here to carry the gold, and the Rhymer's here so he can chronicle my exploits," said the Bandit. "The stockade is at the far end of the compound. As we were brought in, I saw a barracks, a mess hall, and an office. I'll handle the opposition. You search every inch of the compound until you find the bullion."

The Bandit didn't wait for them to respond, but walked out the door and straight to the barracks. Dante heard some screams, and then all was silent. He went to the office and began to search through it. There was a safe with a complicated computer lock that took him almost thirty minutes to disable, but there was no bullion in the safe, nor even any money, just a handful of coded crystals that presumably showed the disposition of Navy ships in the sector.

"Any luck?" asked Virgil from the doorway.

"Not yet," said Dante, sitting at a computer and examining the crystals. "How about you?"

"Not a thing."

"Wait a minute!" said Dante, sitting at a computer and examining a decoded crystal. "Hey, Santiago—I've got it!"

The Bandit appeared in the doorway a moment later.

"What did you find?" asked Dante.

"There's a school about four miles from here. The bullion is hidden there."

"Why?" asked Virgil.

"Probably to safeguard it against what just occurred," said the Bandit. "Did it give the bullion's location at the school?"

"No, just that it's there."

"There were some vehicles out front," said the Bandit. "Let's go."

A moment later they were racing toward the school. It turned out to be a boarding school, with a pair of dormitories and a large cafeteria.

"No guards," noted Virgil.

"Guards would call attention to the place," replied Dante. "This way no one will assume there's anything here that needs guarding."

The Bandit got out of the vehicle. "Unload the air sleds," he instructed Virgil. "The bullion's going to be heavy."

"I wonder where it's hidden?" said Dante. "This is a pretty large complex."

"Let's find out," said the Bandit. He pointed at a window, and a second later it crashed into a hundred pieces. Ten more windows, chosen at random, followed.

Suddenly a number of adults—obviously teachers—burst out of the school's entrance.

"What the hell is going on?" demanded one of them, a gray- haired woman who seemed to be in charge.

"This is a robbery," said the Bandit calmly. "We're here for the bullion."

"Bullion? What are you talking about?"

"Please don't waste my time by feigning ignorance. We have just come from the military compound. We know that they stored their bullion here."

"We don't have any bullion!"

"I told you not to waste our time," said the Bandit. "I tell you now that if you don't immediately agree to produce the bullion, I will take out the east wing of your school, regardless of who might be in it."

"You wouldn't dare!" said the woman. "There are 300 children in that wing."

The Bandit turned and pointed toward the east wing.

"No!" yelled Dante, hurling himself at the Bandit's arm and trying to hang onto it.

The Bandit shrugged and Dante went flying through the air. By the time he'd hit the ground, there was a deafening explosion and the east wing was no more.

"The bullion," said the Bandit calmly, "or the west wing goes next."

"Don't!" cried the woman. "I'll show you where it is!"

The Bandit nodded at Virgil and the three other men. "Follow her and bring it back out."

As they disappeared inside the school, the Bandit turned to Dante, who was still sprawled in the dirt.

"I will not tolerate another display of disloyalty," he said coldly.

"Goddammit to hell!" spat Dante. "Do you realize what you've done?"

"I got us the bullion."

"You killed 300 kids!"

"They were Democracy children," said the Bandit with an unconcerned shrug. "Why wait until they grow up to exterminate them?"

Dante stared long and hard at his hand-picked Santiago. My God—what have I done?