The Return of Santiago

Part 4: SILVERMANE'S BOOK

25.

There are those who will swear he's a hero,

Born to fulfill Mankind's dreams.

But listen to those who now are his foes:

Santiago is not what he seems.

The door opened and Matilda entered her room.

"Lights," she said, and instantly the room was filled with light.

She turned to walk to a closet, then jumped as she saw Dante Alighieri seated in a chair by her desk.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she demanded.

"We have to talk."

"I've spent two weeks on the road recruiting members for the organization. I'm tired. We'll talk tomorrow."

"Now," he said, and something in his voice convinced her to sit on the edge of her bed and face him.

"All right," she said, staring at him. "What's up."

"We've made a terrible mistake."

"What are you talking about?"

"The Bandit."

"You mean Santiago?"

"He's no more Santiago than I am," said Dante. "He never was."

"Just because he doesn't fit your image of—"

"Shut up and listen!" snapped Dante.

Again she stared at him. "Just what the hell did he do?"

"What would you say if I told you he killed 300 kids for no reason except that someday they'd grow up to be members of the Democracy?"

"Did he?"

"Yes. On Madras IV."

"He must have had some reason."

"I just gave it to you."

She frowned. "300 children?"

"In cold blood." Dante paused. "You and I can argue about whether he should have killed that crazy old lady back on Heliopolis. After all, she was a witness to a crime and could describe Santiago. But these were just kids. They never saw us, we never saw them."

"That doesn't seem like him."

"The hell it doesn't. He killed a couple of thousand people in the Blixtor Maze. This isn't the same guy we knew three months ago—or if it is, then we were terrible judges of character."

"Of course he's the same man. We didn't set out to select an angel."

"We don't want an angel," agreed Dante. "But we want someone who can discriminate between a Democracy officer or bureaucrat and a child who lives in the Democracy."

"Maybe we defined the parameters of the job wrong," suggested Matilda. "Maybe he thinks—"

"You're not paying attention," interrupted Dante. "Fuck the definitions. Do we want a Santiago who'll wipe out 300 kids for any reason at all?"

She sighed deeply. "No," she said at last. "No, we don't."

"Part of it is my fault. I told him to lose the 'sirs' and 'ma'ams', and never to apologize, that Santiago didn't do that. But he's gone overboard. I should have known it would happen before we ever set foot on Madras."

"How could you?"

"Virgil's helped me out of some tight spots, and introduced me to some people I wanted to meet . . . but let's be honest: he's a lying, drug-addicted killer who's probably sent half a hundred bedmates to the psycho ward. Whatever he is to me, he's nothing to Santiago—and yet thousands of men and aliens died in the Blixtor Maze just so the Bandit could set him free. That's not loyalty; that's out-and-out crazy."

"All right," said Matilda. "When you put it that way, I can't disagree with you."

"I don't know where it started going wrong," continued the poet. "I never met a more decent, more humble man than the One- Armed Bandit. He practically reeked with concern for his fellow man. How could just calling himself Santiago change him so much?"

"You can ponder that for the next few years," she answered. "The more immediate question is: what do we do about him?"

"I don't know," admitted Dante. "We certainly can't take him out by ourselves. I've seen him wipe out twenty hired guns without working up a sweat." He paused. "Besides, there probably aren't half a dozen men on the Frontier who can kill him. Do you want someone that formidable, that potentially uncontrollable, to become our Santiago? We'd just be replacing one problem with another."

"If we can't tolerate him and can't remove him, just what do you propose to do?" demanded Matilda.

"I don't know. That's why we're talking."

"I suppose we can wait until there's an opportunity . . ." began Matilda.

"To do what?"

"To kill him, of course," she replied. "He doesn't have any reason to suspect we're turning against him. Sooner or later he's got to drop his guard, relax, turn his back, do something to give us a chance."

"And then what?"

"Then we find another Santiago, or you go back to writing your poem without him and I go back to being the best thief on the Frontier." She stood up and began nervously pacing back and forth across the room. "Hell, I just wanted a Santiago so the Democracy would have a bigger target than me. If I can't have one, I can't have one. I was doing just fine before I met you, Rhymer; I can do fine again."

"It's more than my poem," said Dante. "The Inner Frontier needs Santiago. Hell, the human race needs him."

"Even if he kills 300 innocent children?"

"He's not Santiago."

"He is now. Just ask him. Or your ladyfriends from Snakepit. Or the survivor from Jackrabbit Willowby's little army. Like it or not, Santiago is abroad in the galaxy once more, all thanks to us."

"We created him," agreed Dante. "We have to find some way to un-create him."

"Short of finding an even better killer, I don't know what we can do," said Matilda. "We given him an organization. We've set him up in the drug trade, and robbed millions from a bank. We've supplied him with Wilbur's services, and that's probably doubled his money already. We've hired two dozen guns, and we've got a couple of ladies like Blossom who'll do anything, no matter how perverse, if it's for the good of the cause. We did more the create him; we made him successful."

"Some of them might leave if we give the word," said Dante with more conviction than he felt.

"Name one, besides Virgil," she challenged him.

He grimaced. "I can't."

"I know."

"Still, we have to do something. Somehow, in his mind, he's equated being against Santiago with being for the Democracy. The originals knew the difference. They didn't expect anyone to thank them, or to understand what they were doing. Santiago didn't get to be a myth that's lived for over a century by killing children and old ladies."

"You really feel you can't reason with him?"

"He's armored in his . . . I was about to say his ignorance, but that's not it. He's armored in his righteousness—and it's been my experience that there's nothing more difficult to reason with than a righteous man."

"So what do we do?"

"We keep in touch, we talk whenever we're alone, we try to keep him from doing any more harm until we can come up with a solution, and we hope we don't cause even more unnecessary deaths by waiting." He paused. "I know this started out as a way for me to add to my poem and you to get the heat off you—but it's much more than that now. He'd still be killing Unicorns back on Heliopolis if it wasn't for us. I don't even blame him; he can't help being what he is, and Lord knows he didn't apply for the job. It's our fault he's here, doing what he's doing, and we've got a moral obligation to put an end to it."

"I never thought I'd hear you argue in favor of moral obligations," she noted wryly.

"Neither did I," he admitted. "I certainly don't think of myself as a moral man. But we've unleashed something very dangerous, something uncontrollable, and I think it's our duty—mine, anyway—to do something about it."

At that moment the door burst open and three recently-hired men entered the room, burners in their hands.

"What the hell's going on?" demanded Matilda.

"He wants to talk to you," said one of the men. He turned to Dante. "To both of you."

"Who does?" asked Dante.

The man looked amused. "Guess."

Dante and Matilda walked out of her room, down the corridor to the living room, and then to the office. The Bandit was sitting at his desk.

"That will be all," he said to the three men. "You can leave now."

"Are you sure, Santiago?" asked the spokesman.

"I am quite capable of protecting myself," he said in a voice that brooked no opposition.

The three men left without another word, and the door slid shut behind them.

"What do you want?" asked Matilda.

"Yeah," said Dante. "We were just about to get romantic."

"Spare me your lies," said the Bandit.

"Who's lying?"

"Just how stupid do you think I am? I heard every word you said."

"What are you talking about?" said Matilda.

"I had both your rooms bugged."

"Why?"

"How can you ask that when I just told you I've been listening to you since Matilda entered her room?" said the Bandit irritably.

"All right, you heard us," said Dante, deciding that further denials were futile. "Now what?"

The Bandit looked from one to the other. "I thought you were more perceptive than you are," he said at last. "You have absolutely no concept of what Santiago is, what I must do if I am to succeed. We don't live in a humanistic universe. There is absolute good and absolute evil abroad in it. The Democracy is the evil, and we can never compromise with it, can never appease it, can never show it any more mercy than it would show to us if it were given the opportunity."

"You're talking about the Democracy, and I was talking about the 300 kids you killed," said Dante. "How evil were they?"

"Can't you understand?" replied the Bandit. "That's 300 armed men who won't be coming after us in 15 years."

"That's 300 kids who might have grown up to be doctors, who might have saved a million lives, including some right here on the Frontier."

"They belonged to the Democracy. They would have been trained to be the enemy."

"That's a crock," Dante shot back. "For all you know, it was a religious school, training ministers to come out to the Frontier."

"No more word games," said the Bandit. "My problem is not what to do with members, however young, of the Democracy. It is what to do with you." He paused. "I should kill you, as you would kill me if you had the chance. That is the only logical course of action, do you agree?"

Dante and Matilda stared at him, but made no reply.

"Well, at least you don't disagree." The Bandit rubbed his chin thoughtfully with his real hand. "On the other hand, I wouldn't have become Santiago without you. I owe you something for that."

"If you can solve this moral problem, you can solve others," said Dante. "Maybe there's hope for you yet."

"Shut up," said the Bandit, making no attempt to hide his annoyance. Not anger, noted Dante. We're not important enough to arouse his anger. He's just annoyed, as if we were insects that were bothering him on a hot summer day.

The Bandit was lost in thought for another moment. Finally he looked up at Dante and Matilda. "I know I can never again trust you, that you will kill me if you are given the opportunity. By the same token, I can't trust anyone you recruited; I don't know where their loyalties lie. So this is my decision: I will give the two of you, as well as Blossom and Virgil, one Standard day to get off Valhalla. If you are still here when the day is over, I'll kill you. I will contact Wilbur and tell him to transmit all my money to an account of my choosing, and that if he doesn't do so within that same Standard day he's a walking dead man."

"Maybe he can't do it in a day," suggested Matilda.

"He'll find a way, or he'll wish he had." The Bandit got to his feet and faced them. "One day and one second from now, we are at hazard. If you don't act against me, I won't seek you out—but know that starting tomorrow, I will kill each and every one of you the next time we meet."

26.

They sat in their ship—Dante Alighieri, Waltzin' Matilda, Virgil Soaring Hawk, and the Flower of Samarkand—half a dozen lightyears from Valhalla, and discussed their situation.

"I don't believe you've told me everything," said Blossom angrily. "What did you do? Why has he turned against us?"

"He hasn't turned against us so much as he has turned against Santiago," said Dante.

"You keep saying that," protested Blossom. "How can he turn against Santiago? He is Santiago!"

"No," said Dante. "He's a man we've been calling Santiago. There's a difference."

"Maybe he had a point about those children," she said. "At least they won't be gunning for him in ten or twelve years."

"Are you saying that if he had the ability to kill every child in the Democracy, he should?" asked Matilda.

"No," said Blossom. "But there are billions, maybe hundreds of billions, of children. He killed 300. Is that any reason to turn against him?"

"If he'd killed one, that would be reason enough," said Dante.

"Didn't all the other Santiagos kill people?" she demanded. "Innocent people as well as guilty?"

"Yes, they all killed people," answered Dante. "And sometimes innocent bystanders were killed. That's the fortunes of the kind of war Santiago has to wage. But no Santiago ever went out of his way to kill innocent bystanders when it could be avoided."

"How old are you?" said Blossom. "30? 35? How do you know what Santiago did more than a century ago?"

"I know what he was."

"That's no answer!"

"It's the best you're going to get."

"Which is a roundabout way of saying that you don't know for a fact whether or not any Santiago killed innocent children."

"If they did," said Dante, "then we're going to improve upon the originals."

"Who made you the arbiter of what Santiago does and doesn't do?" continued Blossom. "You're just a poet."

"Not even a very good one," admitted Dante.

"So?"

"I'm carrying on the work of a very good one," said Dante. "In the cargo hold of this ship are thousands of pages of his manuscript. I've studied it until I damned near know it by heart, and that means I know what Santiago did and what he meant to the Frontier. The One-Armed Bandit is no Santiago."

"Where does it say that he has to be? That was your idea, not his."

"It's his now," said Dante. "But he doesn't understand the concept. He's made it too black and white. He's the good guy and all the members of the Democracy are the bad guys—but it's not that simple. It never has been. Most members of the Democracy are just men and women who are trying to get through each day without rocking the boat or hurting the people they love. Not only don't they have any interest in the Democracy's abuses, they don't even have any knowledge of them. As for the Democracy itself, we don't want to get rid of it; it's all that stands between us and a hostile galaxy. What we want to do is limit its abuses, and remind it who it's supposed to be protecting out here on the Frontier. The Bandit would destroy it; Santiago just wants to straighten it out. Neither will ever succeed, but the Bandit will kill more innocent people with each passing day, and eventually bring down destruction on all the people he's fighting for, because he's going to commit some abuses that the Democracy can't ignore."

"Santiago committed abuses," said Blossom. "That's why he was King of the Outlaws."

"Santiago committed crimes," said Dante. "That's why the Democracy put a price on his head and left it to the bounty hunters to find him. If he'd gone to war against innocent Democracy citizens, the whole goddamned Navy would have come out to the Frontier, two billion ships strong, and blown away every world they came to until they found him. That's what the Bandit's asking for."

Blossom sighed deeply. "All right. Maybe you're right, maybe you're not—but it's all academic now anyway, since he's banished us and plans to kill us on sight. So what do we do now?"

"I don't know," said Dante. "Find the true Santiago, I suppose."

"While this one's killing people right and left and telling everyone Santiago's to blame for it?" asked Virgil.

"What do you suggest?" said Dante.

"Kill him."

"Who's going to do it?" Dante shot back. "You? Me? Matilda? You've seen him in action. Even Dimitrios of the Three Burners wouldn't stand much chance against him."

"There must be someone out there."

"So you find a better killer," said Matilda. "Then what?"

"Then you hope he's more reasonable than the Bandit," replied Virgil.

"We're going about this all wrong," said Dante. "Santiago is more than merely a competent killer. We chose the Bandit not just because of his physical abilities, but because we thought he was a moral man."

"He is," answered Virgil. "Too moral. Sometimes that can be as much a fault as not being moral enough."

Dante turned to Matilda. "Have you got any suggestions?"

"He's not an evil man," she began.

"But he's done evil things, and he's almost certainly going to do more."

"Let me finish," she said. "He's not an evil man. He's wrong- headed in some respects, but he's willing to put his life on the line for the cause—as he perceives it—every day, he's willing to be hated and feared and mistrusted by all the people he's trying to defend, he's willing to do everything required of Santiago. The problem isn't that he's a shirker, but that, because of his misconceptions, he's willing to do too much, not too little."

"What's your point?" said Dante.

"I think it's more practical to educate him than replace him," she said. "After all, he's already set up shop as Santiago. Even if you found a way to kill him, there's no guarantee that the next one would be as moral, or as self-sacrificing."

"How are we going to educate him if he's going to shoot us on sight?" demanded Dante in exasperation.

"We aren't," said Matilda. "That much is obvious."

"So . . . ?"

"So we find someone who can."

"You're saying we get someone to join his organization and try to influence him?" asked Dante. "That strikes me as a pretty slim hope."

"Do you want to kill him?"

"You know we can't."

"Anyone can be ambushed. We're smarter than he is. It wouldn't be that hard—especially now, before he builds a truly formidable organization." She stared at him. "Now answer my question."

"No," he admitted. "No, I don't want to kill him."

"Then we have two choices: we can hope someone else kills him, or we can try—by proxy—to change the way he looks at things."

"Do you have anyone in mind?"

"Not yet."

"I don't want to cast a pall of gloom here," volunteered Virgil, who looked only too happy to do so, "but you're the guys who chose the Bandit in the first place. What makes you think you'll do any better this time around?"

"If we don't find a replacement, who will?" asked Dante.

"Me."

"You have a candidate in mind?"

"Yeah. I figure the easiest way to make the Bandit accept our candidate is to send him someone with a reputation, someone with bona fides, so to speak—but a freelancer, not someone who proposes to share his business out of the blue."

"All right," said Dante. "Who is it?"

"You ever hear of the Black Death?"

"He's a killer for hire?"

"Everyone's a killer for hire," said the Injun. "The difference is the he don't make any bones about it."

"And what makes you think he can influence the One-Armed Bandit?" asked Matilda.

"He owes me a couple of favors."

"Sexual, of course," said Dante distastefully.

"Personal, anyway," said Virgil noncommittally.

"Can you trust him?"

"Probably."

"Just 'probably'?" asked Matilda, frowning.

"'Probably' is as high a rating as I'd give the Rhymer here," retorted Virgil, "and he and I are connected at the soul."

"The hell we are!" snapped Dante.

Virgil grinned. "You see? My closest friend in the galaxy, and he's pissed that I cherish our friendship. One of these days he'll sell me out for thirty pieces of silver."

"Two pieces of lead alloy would do it," muttered Dante.

"Get back to the point," said Matilda. "Can we trust the Black Death?"

"As much as you can trust anyone," answered Virgil.

"Can he kill the Bandit if he has to?"

"Hell, I can kill him when he's back's turned. How many times did he turn his back on you in the past month? A hundred? A thousand?"

"So your friend shoots people in the back?" said Dante.

"Not really, though I'm sure he'd have no serious objection to it." Virgil lit a smokeless cigar. "His job is killing people. He doesn't care if you subtract points for form."

"Where can we find him?" said Dante. "I'll want to talk to him before we agree to this."

"Not a good idea," said Virgil.

"Why not?"

"He doesn't like being hemmed in. Let me talk to him one-on- one."

"Not a chance," said Dante.

"Why not?"

"Not to put too fine a point on it, you're a moral dwarf compared to the Bandit. I don't want you telling anyone how we want the Bandit to behave."

"You really know how to hurt a guy, Rhymer," said Virgil with an obvious lack of sincerity. "Say that in public and someone might think you disapproved of my lifestyle or my ethics."

"There's nothing wrong with either that castration and a couple of decades in solitary confinement wouldn't cure," said Dante. "Now tell me where we can find this Black Death."

"He's not like the Tyrannosaur," replied Virgil. "He doesn't have his own world, and he doesn't stand out in a crowd—at least, not the way you'd think. He's a freelancer. It might take me a few days to track him down."

"Start."

"Start how? We're eight lightyears from the nearest inhabited planet."

"Get on the subspace radio. Ask your contacts. Pass the word that you've got a lucrative job for him."

"I'll ask around, but you don't want me to lie about a the paycheck. He might take it as an insult."

"Just get your ass over to the radio and do what you have to do," said Dante irritably.

Virgil started to say something, thought better of it, and went over to the subspace radio, where he tried to track down the Black Death.

"We can't just sit around and hope this works out," said Dante. "If I know Virgil, this Black Death is more likely to kill for the Bandit than persuade for us."

"So what do you want us to do?" asked Blossom, who had been silent for the past few minutes.

"I'm glad to see you're talking to me again," said Dante dryly. "And to answer your question: we'll keep looking."

"For what?"

"I wish I knew. Some way to educate or depose the Bandit." He stared at her for a long minute. "If we can't come up with something, maybe we'll send you back."

"He'll kill me!"

"What if you contacted him and convinced him that we made you leave against your will, that you believe in him and everything he's doing and you want to come back?"

"Which probably isn't too far from the truth," commented Matilda.

"He won't care about the truth," said Blossom. "You know how rigid he is. He's already said he'll kill us. He never changes his mind."

"Well, it's something to keep in reserve," said Dante.

"Fuck your reserve!" snapped Blossom. "I believed in him, and now you've fixed it so he'll kill me the next time he sees me! I want out. The next planet we touch down on, you go your way and I'm going mine."

"I can't stop you," said Dante.

"You're damned right you can't," she replied. "You're a fool, you know that? You've got a saint on Valhalla, and that's not good enough for you. You want a god."

"I just want Santiago."

"The real Santiagos were killers and thieves. You want yours to walk on water!" She got to her feet. "I'm going to my cabin. Leave me alone until we land."

She walked through the galley to the cabins and entered the nearest of them.

"Well, I handled that with my usual aplomb," said Dante bitterly. "Virgil, the Bandit, and her." He grimaced. "Sometimes I wish I'd never found that goddamned poem."

"Sometimes I wish I were Queen of the Universe," replied Matilda. "Tell me when you want to stop talking drivel and get back to business."

"I think you'd make a rather nice queen."

"You heard me."

"I heard you. I just don't see any viable options." He sighed deeply. "Maybe the kids were an aberration. Maybe he'll work out after all."

"Maybe he will."

"Except it wasn't just the kids," complained Dante. "It was all those people in the Maze. And the old lady at the bank, too—and the fact that he couldn't think his way out of it, couldn't come up with a lie that would allow him to let her live."

"I know," she agreed. "At first I thought he was right, but after I heard you explain how we could have avoided killing her, could even put her to use explaining that we all worked for Santiago, I knew he was wrong." She paused. "He's just not very quick on his mental feet."

"Most fanatics aren't," said Dante.

Suddenly Virgil stood up and turned to them. "It's all arranged," he announced. "Lay in a course for Tosca III."

"What's on Tosca?" asked Dante.

"The Black Death."

27.

The Black Death comes, the Black Death goes,

The Black Death can be bellicose.

So friend, be on your guard today—

His blood is up, he lives to slay.

As Dante became more comfortable with his epic, he began using poetic license here and there. The first time was when he wrote of the Black Death.

He was writing about heroes and villains so big they blotted out the stars, so memorable that children would be telling their stories decades after he wrote them, and once in a while he came across such an aberration that he felt free to embellish, or in this case, to out-and-out falsify.

Not that the Black Death wasn't every bit as deadly as Dante said. In point of fact, he was even deadlier. Not that he didn't deserve the three verses Dante gave him, or that he wasn't feared wherever he went—once he was recognized.

The interesting fact is that he was almost never recognized.

Until it was too late.

The name itself conjures up fantastic images. A tall, muscular black man clad in muted colors, plain blazers or screechers in worn holsters, shopworn shoes or boots.

Or perhaps a slender man, looking like Death itself, wearing a black frock coat, his clothes and his drawn skin absorbing all color and reflecting only the total absence of color.

You can picture an unforgiving, unsmiling face, cold lifeless eyes like those of a shark, a thin-lipped mouth that never smiles. Some kind of hat or headpiece so that the sun never illuminates that deathmask countenance.

Expensive gloves, that never slip off the handles of his weapons, that leave no fingerprints, that never expose his surprisingly delicate fingers to prying eyes.

That's the image of a man called the Black Death—and yet the only thing it had in common with the real Black Death was the gloves.

His name was Henry Marston, hardly a name to roll off frightened men's lips. And he wasn't black. He was a pale, chalky, sickly white; what pigment his skin had once possessed was almost totally gone.

He stood five feet seven inches, when he was strong enough to stand. His weight varied between 110 and 125 pounds; it had never in his life been more than 136.

His clothes were nondescript, wrinkled, a bit faded. The left elbow was patched; the right cuff frayed. He wore no primary colors; everything was neutral, fading and blending into one another.

The only belt he wore held his loose-fitting pants up. It housed no weapon of any kind. There were no tell-tale bulges pinpointing hidden knives or pistols anywhere on his body. His boots were so old they were past the point of holding a polish, and the large toe of his left foot poked out through a crack in the inexpensive material it was made of.

And there were the gloves.

They went halfway up his forearms, totally functional, totally unstylish.

There was also the mask. It was transparent, and covered his face from the bridge of his nose down to his Adam's apple, then all the way around to the back of his head.

If there was ever a man who looked less than formidable, it was Henry Marston.

So it was probably God's little cosmic joke that he was the deadliest man alive, far more dangerous than Dimitrios or the One-Armed Bandit or Tyrannosaur Bailey, with a sobriquet that was more accurate than most.

"No matter what you think," Virgil told his companions as they waited patiently to pass through Customs at the Tosca III spaceport, "he's everything I've said he is."

"Why shouldn't we believe you?" asked Dante.

"Well, he doesn't make a good first impression," admitted Virgil. He paused thoughtfully. "Come to think of it, his second and third impressions aren't much of an improvement."

"We came here on your say-so," said Dante angrily. "If you've been wasting our time, maybe you'd better tell us right now."

"Everything I said about the Black Death is true," said Virgil. He spat on his hand and held it up, palm out. "I give you an Injun's solemn oath on that."

"There's something you're not telling us," continued Dante.

"It'll probably be better if you find out for yourself."

"Why?"

"Because if I tell you any more about him, you won't want to meet him."

"He's that ineffectual?" asked Matilda.

Virgil smiled. "I told you: he's the deadliest killer out here—at least the deadliest I've ever seen."

"Then why won't we want to meet him?"

"You'll be afraid to."

Dante glared at him. "Just how much seed have you been chewing today?"

"None," Virgil assured him. "I'm depressingly sober."

"Then shut up," Dante ordered him. "The more we talk, the angrier I'm getting with you. Just take us to meet this Black Death and let's get it over with."

"You're the boss," said Virgil. They passed through Customs without incident. "By the way," added Virgil as they walked to a hovering limo, "call him Henry."

"Why?"

"Because that's his name. And he hates being the Black Death."

"You mean being called the Black Death," Matilda corrected him.

"That, too," agreed Virgil.

The limo took them into Red Dust, the nearest of Tosca's three towns. The buildings showed the effects of the wind constantly blowing the dust against them, and two of the slidewalks were closed for repairs, also due to the omnipresent dust.

The limo announced that they had reached the municipality of Red Dust and asked for a specific destination.

"Take us to the Weeping Willow," said Virgil.

"Done, sir," replied the limo so promptly and formally that Dante decided that it must be frustrated at its inability to offer a snappy salute.

The Weeping Willow was a nondescript tavern. small and unimpressive, filled with second-hand and oft-repaired chairs and tables. There was no back room for gambling, no upstairs rooms for sex, nothing but a small selection of mediocre liquor from various points on the Inner Frontier, an unused alien dart game hanging on one wall, and a much-dented metal bar in addition to the tables.

Dante glanced around the tavern. A small, sickly-looking man sat at a table in the corner. Two oversized women, smoking alien cigarettes and drinking alien whiskey, sat at another, playing a complex game using hundreds of cards with unfamiliar markings. The only other person in the place was the tall, muscular bartender, who looked hopefully at them when they entered, then lost interest when he saw they weren't there to drink.

"Your information was wrong," said Dante. "He's not here."

"Yes he is," answered Virgil calmly.

Dante looked at the small man with the transparent mask and the long gloves. "Is this some kind of joke?" he demanded.

"Why don't we talk to him, and then you can tell me if it's a joke or not," said Virgil, approaching the small man's table.

Henry Marston looked up and tried to smile at Virgil. It was evidently too much of an effort, and the smile froze halfway across his face, then vanished a few seconds later.

"Hi, Henry. It's been a while."

"Hello, Virgil," said Henry, stifling a cough. "What brings you to a little dirtball like Tosca?"

"I'd like you to meet two friends of mine—Dante and Matilda."

"I hope you'll forgive me if I don't get up," said Henry in a weak, hoarse whisper.

"I heard you were on Tosca," said Virgil, pulling up a chair and motioning for his companions to do the same. "Got a job to do here?"

"It's done," said Henry.

"Then why are you still here?"

"I was paid to kill her," was the answer. "I have to stick around and make sure she died." Wonderful, thought Dante. The old man's such a lousy shot he doesn't know if his victim will live or die. What are we wasting our time here?

"Excuse me for interrupting," said Dante, frowning, "but are you really the man known as the Black Death?"

"It's not a name of my own choosing," said Henry.

"I mean no disrespect, but you look like you're half-dead yourself."

"I am."

Dante turned to Virgil. "And this is the guy you think can take out the Bandit?"

"If he has to," said Virgil. "But I thought the plan was for him to ride herd, to kind of redirect him."

"Ride herd?" repeated Dante. "No offense, Henry, if that's your name, but he can barely sit up in his chair. What the hell got into you?"

Virgil chuckled. "Nothing got into me. That's why I'm still alive."

"I think your friend deserves an explanation, Virgil," said Henry.

"Yeah, I suppose so," agreed Virgil. "Too bad. I just love to watch him when he's confused."

"Is one of you going to tell me what this is all about?" said Dante, trying to control his temper.

"It's him," said Matilda, nodding her head toward Henry.

Henry smiled. "You're very perceptive, my dear."

"I'm getting really annoyed!" growled Dante. He turned to Matilda. "What do you know that I don't know?"

"You're not the Black Death at all," said Matilda, staring at Henry. "That may be what they call you, but that's not what you are. You're its carrier."

"What are you talking about?" demanded Dante.

"Look at him," said Matilda. "That mask isn't there to protect him from unfiltered air. It's to protect us from him. Look at his gloves. You can't touch him and he can't touch you." She paused. "What disease are you carrying, Henry? Ybonia?"

"Ybonia takes weeks to act," replied Henry. "I'm a carrier for bharzia."

"How fast does it act?"

"If I touch you, you're dead within an hour. If I breathe on you, it could take up to two days. They are not days you would wish on anyone."

"I've heard about bharzia," said Dante. "There's no cure for it."

"Not yet," agreed Henry. "Maybe in another ten or twelve years."

"I thought it killed everyone that was infected," continued Dante. "That once it showed up on a planet it decimated the whole population. How come you're still alive?"

"No one knows," said Henry. "Genetic sport, probably. I haven't had a healthy day in two decades, but I don't die. There are days, oh, thousands of them, when I wish I was dead, but it never happens."

"How did you decide to become the Black Death," asked Matilda.

"I figured that if God has such a vicious sense of humor that He'd leave me alive when all I wanted to do was die, the least I could do was even the score by killing men and women He wanted to live."

"An interesting philosophy," commented Dante.

"What do you do with your money?" asked Matilda.

"What can someone like me do?" responded Henry. "I spend some of it on moral lepers like Virgil, who allow me to vicariously experience some very out-of-the-ordinary things. And I donate millions to research. Without me, they'd be thirty years from a cure."

"It doesn't sound like much of a life."

"It's the only one I've got."

"Maybe you'd like to do something meaningful with it," said Dante.

"Are you suggesting that killing hundreds of men and women isn't meaningful?" said Henry sardonically.

"I'm being serious."

"All right, let's be serious," said Henry, staring back at him through watery eyes. "Who do you want me to kill?"

"Hopefully no one."

Henry looked amused. "My only skill is killing people. If you want me to let them live, that could run into real money."

Dante was silent for a long moment, studying the old man. Finally he spoke. "I'm sorry for wasting your time, Henry. You're not the man we want."

"I don't even know what the job is," complained Henry.

"It doesn't matter," said Dante. "It requires a man with a stronger moral compass than you possess."

"I resent your drawing moral and ethical judgments on my character before you've had a chance to know me," said Henry.

"Okay, you resent it," said Dante. "What are you going to do—take off your mask and breathe on me?"

"It's a possibility."

"That's why we can't use you," said Dante. "Killing the man in question was a last resort . . . but killing seems to be your only resort."

"You do what you're good at," replied Henry bitterly. "This is what I'm good at."

"I don't mind that it's what you're good at," said Dante. "I mind that it's all you're good at."

Henry stared at his gloved hands for a long moment. "Just out of curiosity, what would the job have paid?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know?" repeated Henry unbelievingly.

"It's too complicated to explain. You'd have been working for someone else."

"The man you wanted me to kill?"

"The man I hoped you wouldn't have to kill."

"This is getting very complicated," said Henry. "I'm a simple man. Show me who you want dead and I'll kill them. Show me who you want to live and I'll leave them alone. Black and white makes sense to me. I don't like grays."

"That's the problem, all right," said Dante. "I'm sorry to have bothered you."

"No bother at all," said Henry. "Leave 200 credits at the bar."

"Why?"

"For my time. I didn't ask for this interview."

Dante considered it, then nodded his agreement. "Fair enough."

"If you ever decide what you really want, come on back and we'll talk some business," said Henry.

"If you're still alive," said Virgil with a smile.

"Oh, I'll be alive," Henry assured him. "If God wanted me dead, the son of a bitch would have taken me out 20 years ago."

"Well, I'll see you around," said Virgil, as the three of them got to their feet.

Henry was about to reply when a single gunshot rang out. The old man fell over backward in his chair, a bullet buried deep between his eyes.

Dante turned to the door to see who had fired the shot, then blinked his eyes very rapidly and shook his head. Maybe it was simply because Henry has been referring to the deity, but for just an instant it seemed to the poet that he was looking at God Himself.

28.

He's a master of each weapon, and he's got a lion's heart.

He turns mayhem into science, and then science into art.

He's Silvermane the hero, and there isn't any doubt

If you go and break the law he will surely call you out.

He was the most beautiful man Dante had ever seen. Not beautiful in a feminine way, but rather every feature perfect, the kind of beauty Michelangelo had striven for and never quite achieved.

He stood six feet eight inches tall, but so perfect were his proportions, so catlike the grace with which he moved, that he seemed smaller. His eyes were a clear and brilliant blue, his nose straight, his teeth perfect, his jaw firm without being overly square. His shoulders were broad, his waist and hips narrow, his legs long and lean.

His most distinctive feature was his hair. He had a huge thick shock of it, and it was silver in color—not black streaked with white to form a bright gray, but actual silver, every strand the purest color. It hung down his back, the longest section of it reaching his waist, and gave the impression of a huge, heavily-maned lion.

He wore a matched set of projectile pistols, and the belt that supported his holsters held perhaps a hundred bullets. A knife handle peeked out from the top of one of his polished boots. His clothes were black and silver, and fit him as they'd been designed by the finest tailor back on Deluros VIII. He wore no jewelry of any kind, not even a ring.

A thousand of the best commercial artists over the eons had tried to capture his likeness on the covers of adventure books and magazines, and had never succeeded. Heroic statues had always fallen short of the mark. Dante had a feeling that when women thought of their ideal man, they would have traded whatever their imaginations came up with for the man standing in the doorway of the tavern, putting his pistol in his holster.

The man stared at Dante and his two companions curiously, as if expecting a reaction.

"You know who that was?" said Dante at last.

"The Black Death," said the man in a strong, clear baritone.

"You meant to kill him?"

"I hit what I aim at."

Dante moved his chair away from Henry's corpse. "Well, you might as well pay the insurance."

"Pay the insurance?" repeated the man, frowning.

"Put a bullet in his ear, just to be on the safe side."

"I told you: I hit what I aim at."

"You never miss?"

"Never." The man noticed that a trickle of blood had rolled down the side of Henry's head and was moving slowly toward Dante's boot. "I'd move if I were you. His blood is probably as deadly as the rest of him."

Dante quickly stood up and walked a few steps away. "Thanks. Are you a bounty hunter?"

The beautiful man shook his shaggy silver head. "No."

"The law?"

The man smiled. "There isn't any law out here."

"Let me guess. You just didn't like the way he looked?"

"You don't strike me as a fool," said the man. "Don't say foolish things."

"I'm just trying to find out who you are and why you killed the man I was talking to."

"Then you should ask."

"Consider it done."

"My name is Joshua Silvermane, and I killed that man because he didn't deserve to live."

"Silvermane," repeated Dante. "I've heard of you. Dimitrios thinks very highly of you."

"Dimitrios of the Three Burners?" asked Silvermane.

"Yes."

"He's right."

"He never mentioned your modest streak," said Dante sardonically.

Silvermane stared at him without making any reply, and suddenly the poet became very nervous. Finally the tall man spoke. "I don't trade witticisms."

"I know why I think the Black Death deserved to die," said Dante, quickly changing the subject. "Why did you think so?"

"He killed a woman who had never done him any harm, a woman who was far better than he was."

"Your lover?" asked Matilda.

"I never met her."

"Someone paid you to hunt him down and kill him," concluded Dante. "That's pretty much like bounty hunting."

"No one paid me anything."

Dante frowned. "Then I don't understand."

"She had just married a friend of mine. A very bitter and unsuccessful suitor commissioned the Black Death to pay her a visit."

"And you hunted him down for your friend?" said Dante. "I'd call that a noble thing to do." He paused. "What do you do when you're not hunting down killers for your friends?"

"I right wrongs."

"For whom?"

"Sometimes you don't worry about that. Sometimes you just see something that's wrong, and no one is doing anything about it, so you have to."

"Why you?"

"Because someone has to."

"That's not much of an answer."

"When I was seven years old," said Silvermane, his perfect face reliving the event, "I was walking down the street of a Tradertown on Majorca II with my father. There was a fight in a building we were passing, and a stray laser beam caught him in the neck. He dropped to the ground, bleeding profusely, and for an hour I begged people to help him while they just walked around him or crossed the street and ignored him. He died before anyone helped get him to a doctor, and I swore that I would never walk past someone who needed help, would never be one of the ones who looked away."

"A not-for-profit avenger!" said Virgil, amused. "How do you pay your bills?"

"Sometimes people pay me out of gratitude," said Silvermane. "I've never asked for money, and I've never felt bitter or cheated when it wasn't given—but it comes often enough to feed and clothe me, and keep me in bullets."

"Why bullets?" asked Virgil. "I haven't seen half a dozen projectile pistols in my life."

"They make a bang," said Silvermane. "People aren't used to the noise, and it sometimes freezes them into immobility for a second or two. That's usually more advantage than I need. Also, my pistols never run out of power. I know how many bullets I have left in each and in my belt, and I don't have to constantly check my power packs."

"You know," said Dante, staring at him curiously, "Sebastian Cain used bullets, too."

"Never heard of him."

"He died a long time ago," said the poet. "I think you may have a lot in common with him."

"Interesting," said Silvermane with no show of interest whatever. He turned to the bartender. "Find me a waterproof groundsheet or something else that's airtight and doesn't leak and I'll take the body off the premises."

"Coming up," said the bartender.

"Have you got a burner?" continued Silvermane.

The bartender reached beneath the bar and produced a small laser pistol.

"Good," said Silvermane. "After I get the body out of here, take that thing and fry every drop of blood you can find on the floor."

"Was something wrong with him?" asked the bartender.

"More than you can imagine. Just do it."

"Right." He disappeared into a back room, then returned a moment later with the requested groundsheet, which he carried over to Silvermane.

"Have you got a trash atomizer out back?" asked the tall man.

"Yeah," said the bartender. "Just walk around the building. You can't miss it."

"I'm going to use it," announced Silvermane, bending over and wrapping Henry Marston's body in the blanket while being careful not to touch it with his bare hands, then hefting it to his shoulder as if it weighed almost nothing. "Even dead, this fellow is too dangerous to bury."

"Be my guest," said the bartender, as Silvermane walked out the front door.

Dante turned to his companions. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"I don't know," said Matilda, a troubled expression on her face. "We've been wrong once already."

"And the Bandit seemed a lot more tractable than this guy," added Virgil.

"But the Bandit's a fanatic," said Dante. "We couldn't know that up front."

"And this guy travels around the galaxy risking his life righting wrongs for free," Virgil pointed out. "Doesn't that seem a little fanatical to you?"

"Maybe," said Dante. "Maybe it's noble." He signed deeply. "It's almost as if Black Orpheus himself is telling me that this is the one. He uses bullets, just like Cain did . . ."

"But four other Santiagos didn't," said Matilda.

"I know," said Dante.

"Now why don't you admit the real reason you're considering him?" continued Matilda.

"And what is that?"

"The same reason I'm considering him," she replied uncomfortably. "He's the first man we've seen who might actually have a chance against the Bandit."

"What if he wins?" asked Virgil. "Are you really sure you want to replace one fanatical killer with an even more formidable one?"

"I don't know," said Dante. "I've just got this feeling."

"Take deep breaths and think pastoral thoughts," said Virgil. "It'll pass."

At that moment Silvermane re-entered the tavern and approached their table.

"The three of you are witnesses to a killing," he announced. "If you're going to report it, let me know, and I'll stick around and give my side of it. I don't intend to be a fugitive."

"Report it to who?" asked Virgil.

"I don't know," admitted Silvermane with a shrug. "I just got here half an hour ago. I don't know if they have any local law enforcement."

"My guess is that they don't even have any local laws," said Dante. "Anyway, we're not reporting anything. The man you killed was scum and we all know it."

"Good," said Silvermane. "Then I'll be on my way."

"I'd like to buy you a drink first," said Dante.

"I know you would," said Silvermane.

"You do?"

"Of course. You could only have one reason for talking to the Black Death, and now he's dead." He turned to the bartender. "Bring me a beer. A cold one." Then it was back to Dante. "Who did you want him to kill, and why?"

Dante uttered an embarrassed laugh. "I wasn't ready for such bluntness."

"There's a lot of evil abroad in the galaxy, and life is short," said Silvermane. "I have no time to waste. Who's your target?"

"It's not that easy."

"It never is—but I can't help you if you don't tell me what you want."

"I want someone to stand up for people who can't stand up for themselves," said Dante.

"That's what I do best," said Silvermane.

"So you say."

"Who's the enemy?"

"The Democracy."

Silvermane stared long and hard at him. "You don't look like a traitor."

"I'm not."

"Continue."

"There's a difference between being a traitor to your race and being opposed to the excesses of your government," continued Dante.

Silvermane stared at him and offered no reply.

"Well?" said Dante, uneasily breaking the silence.

"Well what?"

"What I said. Does it sound like something that might interest you?"

Silvermane continued staring at him. Finally he spoke. "Do you seriously expect me to believe that you were recruiting the Black Death to go to war with the Democracy?"

"No. I was interviewing him about eradicating a mistake—but he wasn't the man for the job. We were just about to leave when you showed up."

"What is the mistake?"

Now it was Dante's turn to stare in silence for a long moment, as he tried to decide how much to tell the tall man. "We chose the wrong man for the job."

"The job you're offering me?"

"The job I'm willing to discuss with you. I'm not offering anything yet."

"All right. Who did you choose originally?"

"A man known as the One-Armed Bandit."

"I've heard of him."

"Everyone has," Virgil put in.

"I heard he vanished from sight a few months ago," continued Silvermane. "I assumed he'd been killed. Eventually that happens to just about everyone in our line of work."

"The One-Armed Bandit is no more," said Dante. "But the man who was the One-Armed Bandit is still around."

"Oh?"

"These days he calls himself Santiago."

"The King of the Outlaws," said Silvermane. "If he wanted to attract attention, he couldn't have chosen a more obvious name. Tell me about it."

"We convinced him that it was time for Santiago to return to the Inner Frontier, to walk among Men again, to harass and harry the Democracy."

"The way I heard it, Santiago harassed and harried everyone for profit," said Silvermane.

"That's the way he wanted people to hear it," said Matilda.

Silvermane didn't have to be force-fed the proper assumption. "Okay, so he was a revolutionary. He didn't get very far. We've still got a Democracy."

"We need the Democracy," said Dante. "No one's trying to overthrow it."

Again the tall man surprised them with the speed with which he could assimilate what was being said. "So he was trying to lessen their abuses out here, and of course he had to convince them he was an outlaw. Even Santiago couldn't have held off the Navy."

Dante and Matilda exchange looks.

He's awfully fast on the uptake. Maybe, just maybe . . .

"That's it in a nutshell," said Dante.

"And what's the problem with the One-Armed Bandit?" asked Silvermane. "Has he gone overboard on the outlaw part?"

"I wish it was that easy," admitted Dante with a grimace.

"What is it, then?"

"We were on Madres a couple of weeks ago . . ." began Dante.

"That was him?" said Silvermane. "That made the news everywhere on the Frontier, as well as the Democracy. More than 300 kids slaughtered."

"That was him."

"What the hell got into him?"

"He says that's 300 kids that won't grow up to be 300 members of the Democracy."

"He's a fool," said Silvermane. "99 percent of the Democracy is just like the men and women who walked past my father when he was dying. They're not heroes or villains, they just don't want to get involved. Hell, they're what the Democracy's there to protect. If you've got a problem with the Democracy, eventually you emigrate and come out to the Frontier." He paused. "You've got yourself a real problem, and of your own making. I assume that without you, there'd be no Santiago."

"I was part of it," interjected Matilda. "It wasn't just him."

"We've been a century without Santiago," said Silvermane. "A trillion people have been born and died in that time, maybe more. Why is it that you two have decided to resurrect him?"

Matilda gestured to Dante. "He's the new Black Orpheus."

"Self-appointed?"

"I've got the original's manuscript," said Dante. "That's how I was able to find out what Santiago really was. I'm continuing his work—and if it's to be about anything besides a handful of misfits and losers, if there's to be any balance in the galaxy, then we need a Santiago."

"So you want me to become Santiago because it'll make a satisfying poem," said Silvermane noncommittally. He turned to Matilda. "What about you?"

"I'm his great-granddaughter."

"You want me to plunder the Frontier and then die so you can claim your inheritance?"

"It's simpler than that," she answered. "I need Santiago to take the heat off me, to give the Democracy a bigger target."

Silvermane smiled. "I was wondering if we'd ever meet, Matilda."

"I haven't told you my name."

"You didn't have to. I heard that Waltzin' Matilda was traveling with the new Black Orpheus. And you just told me as much yourself: if only Santiago will draw the Democracy's attention away from you, you have to be Waltzin' Matilda." The smile vanished as he stared at her. "I've been hearing about you for years. Given your accomplishments, you're younger than I expected."

"I started early."

Silvermane turned to Virgil. "What about you?"

"I'm with him," said Virgil, jerking a thumb in Dante's direction.

"Why?"

"It's too complicated to explain—or maybe too simple."

"Try."

"He's Dante. I'm Virgil."

"How many circles of hell have you led him through so far?" asked Silvermane.

"Sonuvabitch!" exclaimed Virgil, obviously impressed. "You've read it!"

"It seems to me there's an awful lot of poetry going on around here," said Silvermane. "But it seems that these days even poets wind up relying on the sword."

"Maybe the two aren't mutually exclusive," suggested Dante. "Maybe it's the pen that must direct the sword."

Silvermane patted his pistol. "Maybe I'm writing history with my own pen."

"Are you ready to write an epic?" asked Dante. "Or are you going to keep writing little unrelated pieces that will all be forgotten?"

"I'm happy curing the ills of the Frontier one by one," said Silvermane. "I don't know how I'd feel about trying to cure them wholesale."

"I can't make you," said Dante. "I just want you to think about it."

"You say that, but what you mean is that you want me to think about killing the One-Armed Bandit—who, I should point out, wouldn't need killing if you hadn't chosen him to be your secret hero."

"I really don't want him killed if it can be avoided, if we can find some other way."

"How many deposed tyrants are walking around these days?" asked Silvermane. "If he's got the bit between his teeth, if he believes in what he's doing, there's only one way to replace him, and we both know what that is."

"You're a cold son of a bitch, you know that?" said Dante irritably.

"I'm in a cold business."

"You're not in a business at all. You don't demand pay for what you do." Dante paused and studied him carefully. "How do we know you won't be as much of a fanatic as the Bandit is?"

"You don't."

"What do you think?" said Dante.

"I have no idea," admitted Silvermane. "I don't think I'm a fanatic, and I don't think I can be corrupted—but until you give me a cause I'm willing to die for and combine it with absolute power, how can I answer your question with any certainty?"

"You just did," said Dante. "I trust you."

"I thank you for your trust, but I haven't said I'm interested in the job yet."

"I know. Take some time and think about it. We'll explain how we're setting up an organization, what connections we've established so far." Dante paused. "But don't take too long. If he goes and slaughters another 300 kids, I'll have to take him on myself, and I don't have the chance of a snowball in hell."

"Then why do it?"

"Because he's my responsibility," answered Dante. "Because those kids would be alive if it wasn't for me."

"If I agree to become Santiago, I think we're going to get along just fine," said Silvermane.

"When do you want me to learn about the operation?"

"The first thing you'd better tell me about is the One-Armed Bandit," said Silvermane. "On the not-unreasonable assumption that he has no intention of resigning, he's the first obstacle, and if he can't be overcome, none of the rest matters. I've heard about that prosthetic arm of his, but I don't really know anything about it. Just how lethal is it?"

"Depending how he's using it, he pinpoint a target no bigger than a coin at 600 yards, or he can take out a city block."

"Is he inclined to shoot first or talk first?"

"Once upon a time he talked first," said Dante. "These days I don't know."

"Left arm or right?"

"Left."

"Any vision problems?" asked Silvermane.

"Not to my knowledge."

"Okay, I'll think about it."

"Where will we find you?"

"I'll be leaving for New Pategonia in an hour. That's about sixteen lightyears from here. You can find me at the Jong Palace."

"That's a casino?"

Silvermane smiled. "A hotel."

"With Henry—that's the Black Death—dead, we have no reason to stay here. We might as well go to New Pategonia with you."

"There's no room in my ship."

"I meant that we'll leave Tosca when you do."

"All right. I'll see you there." He walked to the door, then turned back to them. "If I decide to do it, you won't regret asking me. I'll be the best Santiago I can be." Then he was out in the street.

"Jesus, I hope so!" muttered Dante.

29.

Simon Ten Broek loves to draw attention;

Simon Ten Broek spent years in bleak detention;

Simon Ten Broek, with crimes too vile to mention;

Simon Ten Broek won't live to see his pension.

New Pategonia was everything that Tosca was not: green, temperate, pleasant, criss-crossed by rivers, framed with snow- capped mountains. It had been developed into a resort world by the cartel that had laid claim to it. They erected a ski lodge atop the snowiest mountain, then leased out the rest of the range, until the place was dotted with ski facilities. Next they expanded downward, building half a dozen fishing camps along the meandering rivers. Soon a quartet of towns sprang up, and before long the secluded little world was actually bustling with permanent and transient populations.

The largest of the towns, quickly approaching city status, was Belvidere, and it was there that Dante and his companions found the Jong Palace. After registering for a room, Virgil immediately went off by himself in search of a little professional love, hopefully from a different species, and Dante and Matilda sat down in a corner of the lobby while a small furry alien loaded their luggage onto an oversized airsled and carefully guided it up to their rooms.

"Have you done any further thinking about it?" asked the poet when he was sure no one could overhear them.

"That's all I've been thinking about," answered Matilda.

"Me too."

"And what have you concluded?"

"If the Bandit goes out and kills more innocent bystanders, kids or adults, it makes no difference. We'll have to stop him, and like it or not Joshua Silvermane is the only weapon we've got."

"I keep thinking that if we found the Bandit and Silvermane in less than four months, maybe we could find the perfect Santiago in a year or two," said Matilda.

"Maybe we could," admitted Dante. "Or maybe we found him already."

"Silvermane?"

"Maybe."

Matilda frowned. "Surely you're not referring to the Bandit?" she said.

"I don't know. Maybe I was a little too full of myself when I thought this thing up. What special insight do I have into what it takes to be Santiago? Hell, maybe killing them off before they grow up to be soldiers and cops and bounty hunters is the right way to go about it."

"You don't believe that for a moment," she said firmly.

"I don't know what I believe any more," he admitted. "Except that maybe it was a bit presumptuous, trying to force my will on the history of the Inner Frontier. No one told the first Santiago that it was time to become Santiago. He wasn't manipulated. He just did it, because it was his destiny." He sighed deeply. "Hell, I don't even know what my destiny is. Why am I screwing around trying to tell them theirs?"

She stared long and hard at him. "I don't like it when you're like this."

"Like what?"

"Full of self-doubt," said Matilda. "From the outset, you've always known what you wanted to do, and how you planned to do it. This isn't like you."

"I stood back and took a good look at what I've done," he replied. "A lot of people are dead who wouldn't be if it weren't for me."

"You didn't kill them."

"They're dead just the same. Not just the children, though that's the worst of it—but I killed the Candy Man and Jackrabbit Willowby just as surely as if I aimed the weapons and pulled the triggers."

"They deserved to die."

"I'm not arguing that," said Dante. "But the fact remains that if I'd stayed on Bailiwick and never come to the Frontier, they'd still be alive. I'm the reason they're all dead, maybe the only reason."

"So are you quitting?"

"No, I'm not quitting. But I've got to be certain this time. I can't keep choosing the wrong man and turning him loose on the galaxy."

"It just means you care, and that you're giving it a lot of thought."

"It means I've got a lot to make amends for." He looked at her. "And it means that I can't make any more mistakes."

"If it was anyone's mistake, it was mine," she protested. "Don't forget—I'm the one who got you to come to Heliopolis to meet the Bandit in the first place."

"And I'm the one who approved him."

"There's enough guilt to go around," said Matilda.

"Yeah, I suppose so," agreed Dante. He got to his feet. "Come on. I'll buy you a drink."

"You're on," she said, relieved that the conversation was over.

"In fact," he continued, "instead of going to the hotel bar, why don't we go out for that drink and take a look around town? I've never been to New Pategonia before, and I'll probably never come back. It'd be a shame not to spend at least a couple of hours getting the flavor of the place."

"Sounds good to me," said Matilda, taking his arm and walking out into the street with him.

"It's really quite a lovely world," said Dante approvingly. "Fishing, skiing, skating—they probably even have hunting safaris."

"And even though there's snow surrounding us, it's still very pleasant down here in the valley," she added.

"Let's walk up and down the street and see what kind of shops they have."

"What are you looking for?"

"Anything I can steal." She looked annoyed, and he smiled at her. "Oh, don't worry, I won't—but a lifetime's habits are hard to lose. I still like to look."

They walked down the block, reached a corner, and were about to cross to the other side of the street when Dante heard a familiar voice behind him.

"Hi, Danny boy," it said. "You've led me one hell of a merry chase."

"Shit!" muttered Dante, freezing.

"Turn around very slowly," continued the voice, "and keep your hands out from your body."

Dante did as he was ordered. "You're a long way from home, Commander Balsam," he said when he finally was able to face his antagonist.

"It's just plain Balsam now," said the big man, aiming his burner between Dante's eyes. "Things got so dull back on Bailiwick after you left that I quit my job and became a bounty hunter." He paused. "You've been a busy boy, Danny. I've been on your tail for months now, but all I keep finding are dead bodies."

Matilda began edging away from Dante, and suddenly Balsam trained his weapon on her. "That's far enough."

"You want him, not me," said Matilda.

"You're with Danny Briggs," said Balsam. "That's enough for me. You're going to stay with us until I find out if there's any paper on you." Dante took a tentative step toward him. "Watch it, Danny. You're wanted dead or alive. It makes no difference to me which way I bring you back."

"You've really been following me since I left Bailiwick?" asked Dante.

"A few weeks later," said Balsam. "You leave an awful easy trail to follow."

"I'd totally forgotten I was wanted back in the Democracy," admitted Danny. "I've had more important things on my mind."

"Always thinking—that's my Danny." He paused. "Where's the Indian?"

"What Indian?"

"Don't play stupid, Danny. It's unbecoming, and it doesn't fit you at all." Balsam looked around. "My information says that you usually travel with an Indian."

"I don't see one," said Dante. "Do you?"

"No, but after I take possession of that poem you're supposed to be writing, I'll figure out who he is and find him." He smiled. "Am I in it?"

Dante shook his head. "I only write about interesting people."

"You cut me to the quick," said Balsam with mock pain. Suddenly he laughed. "Hell, I'll write myself into it after I take it away from you."

"You're not touching it," said Dante firmly.

"We'll see about that," said Balsam. Suddenly he grinned. "You're only worth 60,000 credits this month, Danny. How much is it worth to you if I let you keep your damned poem and you go deeper and deeper into the Frontier?" He paused. "I'm not saying I'll never come after you again, but I'll give you a 60-day head start. How does that sound?"

Danny looked past Balsam and saw Joshua Silvermane exit a restaurant and step out into the street. The tall man stopped and surveyed the little scene calmly, an armadillo watching ants bickering.

"You haven't answered me, Danny."

"I don't deal with blackmailers."

"View me as a liberator," said Balsam.

"You don't want to know what I view you as."

"I'm running out of patience, Danny. I can kill you or I can take you back alive or I can let you go—but one way or another I'm going to make myself 60,000 credits. Now, do I do it the hard way or the easy way?"

"Why not make a trade?" said a strong baritone voice.

"Who the hell are you?" demanded Balsam as Silvermane approached them.

"My name's Joshua Silvermane."

"I never heard of you."

"That's okay," said Silvermane. "I never heard of you, either."

"What kind of trade are you talking about?"

"Just a moment," said Silvermane, walking to the entrance to a drug parlor about 40 feet away.

"Where are you going?" said Balsam suspiciously.

"Stay where you are. I'll be right back."

Silvermane vanished into the drug den's interior. A moment later there was a deafening crash!, and an instant after that a body literally flew out through a window and landed with a sickening thud! on the street, where it lay, twitching feebly.

Silvermane emerged and approached Balsam again.

"That's Simon Ten Broek," he said, not even deigning to give the moaning man a glance. "There's paper on him all over the Frontier. He's worth 100,000 credits back on Spica VI, even more in the Roosevelt system."

"What the hell did he do?"

"Rape. Arson. Torture. Murder. Three jailbreaks. You name it, he's probably done it."

"Okay, he's a wanted man. So what?"

"I'll trade him to you for the poet and the lady," said Silvermane. "You'll come out at least 40,000 credits ahead."

"What if I say no?"

"Then I'll kill Simon, and when I'm done, I'll probably kill you too."

Balsam aimed his weapon at Silvermane. "You forget who has the advantage here, friend."

"Put that burner down or I'll take it away and cram it up your ass," said Silvermane with no show of fear or apprehension.

The grin vanished. Of all the answers Balsam had expected, that was the least likely, and it troubled him. "How do I know that's really Simon Ten Broek?"

"How do I know you're really a licensed bounty hunter?" Silvermane shot back.

"This is ridiculous!" snapped Balsam, his courage slipping away in the face of this totally confident stranger. "I've wasted enough time! You want a trade? All right, we'll trade! Just take them and get the hell out of my sight."

"You've made a wise decision," said Silvermane. He turned to Dante and Matilda. "Come on."

They fell into step behind him as he began walking back to the Jong Palace. As they did so, Balsam went over to Simon Ten Broek and delivered a powerful kick in his ribs. "Get up!" he bellowed.

Silvermane was beside Balsam before he realized it. "And that," he said, "was a foolish decision." He grabbed Balsam' wrist before he could reach for his weapon. They stood motionless for a moment. Then there was an audible crack!, and Balsam screamed. Silvermane released his grip, and Balsam dropped to one knee, holding his wrist.

"I gave you a prisoner, not a toy," said Silvermane sternly.

"You broke my wrist!" snarled Balsam.

"You'll have time to think about abusing your fellow man while it heals."

"Abusing my fellow men? You threw him through that fucking window!"

"I met him on equal terms," said Silvermane. "You didn't. If I hear he was further abused, I'll come looking for you. You'll live a lot longer if I don't."

Silvermane stood and stared down at the bounty hunter.

"I heard you," grated Balsam.

"Make sure you remember."

Silvermane turned and walked to the Jong Palace, followed by Dante and Matilda.

"Thank you," said Dante once they were inside.

"There's no need," said Silvermane. "I took an instant dislike to your officious Democracy associate. Besides, it makes no difference whether I kill Simon here or they put him to death back in the Democracy. The important thing is that he dies."

"What did he do?" asked Matilda.

"More than I hope a lovely lady like yourself can imagine," said Silvermane.

"He's the reason you came to New Pategonia?"

"He's the reason."

"What will you do now?"

"I haven't decided."

"Have you thought about what we discussed last night?" asked Dante.

"Why else would I save you from a bounty killer?" replied Silvermane with an amused smile.

"And have you reached a decision?"

"I'm working on it."

30.

Billy Green-Eyes, bold and brave,

Would never be a hero.

And now our Billy seeks the grave:

His prospects total zero.

Silvermane announced that he had one more world to visit before he made his decision. It was the mining world of Trentino, the seventh planet in the Alpha Bellini system, and they had no choice but to follow him in their own ship.

The journey took three days. Virgil opted for 70 hours in the Deepsleep Chamber, but Dante and Matilda chose to remain awake most of the time, discussing their options, wondering if they'd found their Santiago or if they could do better with a little more searching.

"It doesn't really make much difference if there's a better man out there," said Matilda after they'd gone over the possibilities for the tenth time. "We have an immediate problem, or we wouldn't be here. We've got to stop the Bandit before he kills more innocent people."

"We could hire an assassin if that's all that matters," responded Dante. "I think our original idea was right. We just chose the wrong man."

"Maybe it's not time," said Matilda. "Maybe events choose the man. You and I are just people, not events. Maybe it's simply not yet time for Santiago to cast his shadow across the galaxy."

"How much worse do things have to get?"

"I don't know. But do you ever get the feeling that we're like journalists who stop reporting the news and start creating it?"

"I'm not a journalist, and neither are you."

"You know what I mean. Maybe we're not supposed to hand-pick a Santiago. Maybe he'll step forward on his own. Maybe until he does, until it's his idea to be Santiago, we're being premature about the whole thing."

"I thought you wanted a Santiago," he said accusingly.

"I did," she said. "And I got one. And look at what's happened."

"That's because he's not Santiago."

"Make up your mind. Is he Santiago because you say he is, or because we set him up in the Santiago business, whatever that is,—or is he Santiago because he's an historic inevitability at this time and place?"

"Oh, come on. Next you'll be telling me that only God can anoint him."

"I'm just saying that maybe God is working on a different deadline, and that He might do a better job of choosing a Santiago than we've done."

"We have it within our grasp to do some good, to make a difference," said Dante adamantly. "You don't get more than one or two such opportunities in a lifetime. I'm not turning my back on it."

"It's not a question of turning your back, but of pursuing it too vigorously," replied Matilda.

"Damn it!" exploded Dante. "Whose side are you on, anyway?"

"The Frontier's," she answered. "And I want to make sure that what I do doesn't bring it even more hardship and misery."

He stared at her for a long moment. "It's time. In fact, it's past time. Santiago's reign ended on a fluke. To this day the Democracy doesn't even know they killed him."

"You're absolutely sure you're right?"

He paused for just an instant. "I'm absolutely certain that I hope I'm right."

"Maybe he'll take the decision out of our hands and turn us down," she said hopefully.

"He won't."

"What makes you so sure?"

"I've been watching him. He's not a fanatic, he's no One- Armed Bandit—but he's got an ego as big as all outdoors. The more difficult we make the job sound, the more we explain that he'll be fighting a holding action, that he can never hope to overthrow the Democracy, the more he'll want to prove that we're wrong, than he can bring the whole thing down."

"And you want that quality in a Santiago?" she said dubiously.

"The odds are a billion to one against him," said Dante. "He's got to be a bit of an egomaniac even to consider taking the job on."

"Well, I've never known you to be wrong about anyone," she said. Then she added: "Except the Bandit. How did you miss what he would become?"

"You don't want to know."

"Yes, I do."

"I let your opinion influence me," said Dante.

"Bullshit!"

"You vouched for his character, so all I concentrated on was his ability. And he does have the ability; otherwise we wouldn't be trying to find ways to stop him."

"So the One-Armed Bandit is my fault?" she said heatedly.

"No. I'm the one who made him the offer and hired Wilbur and Blossom and set up the drug deal with the two ladies from Snakepit. If I made the wrong decision, and I did, I have no one to blame but myself."

"So what do we do now?"

"Wait. The offer's on the table. The next move is Silvermane's."

"He's almost too good to be true," she remarked.

"Virgil had something very wise to say about things that were to good to be true," said Dante wryly.

"What was it?"

"It's not important." Dante got to his feet. "We'll be landing in an hour. I think it's time to wake Sleeping Beauty."

He went to the Deepsleep pod and spent the next five minutes bringing Virgil to wakefulness.

"How are you feeling?" he asked when the Indian finally climbed out of the pod.

"Stiff."

"That's normal," said Dante. "You haven't moved in almost three days."

"And hungry."

"You haven't eaten in three days either. We'll go back to the galley and get something for you."

"How soon do we land?"

"Less than an hour."

"I'll wait," said Virgil.

"I thought you were hungry."

"There's nothing like the taste of galley food to kill an appetite. I'm an hour from a real restaurant. I can wait."

Dante shrugged. "Suit yourself."

He stopped by the galley, got a cup of coffee, rejoined Matilda in the command cabin, ordered the ship's computer to respond to any questions from the planetary authorities, and relaxed until they touched down.

"Where are we staying?" asked Virgil as they rode the slidewalk to Customs.

"I haven't bothered to reserve any rooms," answered Dante. "The way Silvermane operates, I figure we'll be back on the ship before nightfall."

"He doesn't waste his time, that's for sure," said Virgil. "He could be a little friendlier, though."

"He saved my life," said Dante. "How much friendlier does he have to be?"

"Okay, so I used the wrong word. He could be a little warmer."

"I don't think it's a job requirement."

"Have it your way," said Virgil, losing interest in the conversation.

They reached the Customs station, and found themselves facing a uniformed woman rather than the usual robot.

"Welcome to Trentino," she said. "May I ask the purpose of your visit?"

"Business," answered Dante.

"Precious stones or fissionable materials?"

"Neither."

"Those are our only two industries."

"We're here on personal business," said Dante.

"I must insist that you be more explicit, Mr. Alighieri." She stared at his titanium passport disk. "That's very odd. It's such an unusual name, and yet I could swear I've encountered it before." She frowned, shrugged, and looked back at him. "Why are you here, Mr. Alighieri?"

"To confer with a business associate named Joshua Silvermane, who either landed within the past few hours or will be landing shortly."

"Ah, Mr. Silvermane!" she said, her face lighting up. "What an absolutely beautiful man! And what wonderful manners!" She checked her screen again. "What is the nature of your business with him?"

"I don't believe I'm required to divulge that information," said Dante. "But if you have any doubts that he is expecting us, just contact him."

"That will not be necessary," conceded the woman. She glared at the poet. "You cannot pass through here without purchasing visas."

"What are the shortest visas available?"

"One week. They cost 100 credits apiece."

"You don't have anything for daytrippers?"

"We don't get daytrippers on Trentino."

Dante pulled the cash out of his pocket and gave it to her. She encoded the visa on each of their passports.

"I am required to warn you that the atmosphere of Trentino is inimical to human life. As you pass through the spaceport, you will emerge into a domed, enclosed area that is approximately one mile long and a quarter of a mile wide. You must be a registered miner to pass beyond the dome, and if you attempt to do so without a protective suit no attempt will be made to hinder you—but the air, such as it is, is 83% methane, and the temperature is minus 92 degrees Celsius, which is to say you will not survive for even a minute." She paused. "I am also required by law to ask you if you understand my warning."

"Perfectly," said Dante.

They began walking past her station when a metal bar shot out, stopping them.

"You may not answer for your companions. Each of them must answer for themselves." She turned to Matilda. "Did you understand my warning?"

"Yes."

And to Virgil: "Did you understand my warning?"

"Right. I just didn't care about it."

"Welcome to Trentino," she said with an expression of distaste. "You may pass through now."

The three of them walked past the Customs station, made their way through the spaceport, and soon found themselves outside the facility but still enclosed by the huge dome.

"So where do we go from here?" asked Matilda.

"He wouldn't tell me who he's after," replied Dante. "I suppose we might as well wait here. I mean, hell, you've seen him in action. Can you imagine it'll take him more than an hour or two to find whoever he's looking for and taking care of business?"

"That seems so . . . passive," she said. "He's a very distinctive man. Perhaps we should ask around. He's not the kind of man people forget."

"If that's what you want," said Dante. He turned to Virgil. "You wait here by the spaceport entrance, just in case we miss him."

"How will I know you've missed him?"

"He'll come back alone. If he does, tell him we're here and that I want him to wait for us."

"Fine."

"We really have to talk to him," said Dante. "No booze and no drugs, and no fucking any stray pets that pass by."

"What fun is that?" said Virgil with a smile.

"I'm not kidding."

"Neither am I."

Dante was about to say something further, changed his mind, then turned and began walking down the major thoroughfare with Matilda at his side.

"Where do we start?" he asked. "Bars, I suppose."

"You're in a rut," she replied. "For all we know, he's after a stockbroker or an incompetent doctor."

"I can't walk into every brokerage house and infirmary and ask if they've seen this tall silver-haired guy who's here to kill someone."

"Okay," she conceded. "You've got a point."

"If he's looking for someone, and doesn't know anything except that he's on Trentino, I imagine he'd stop at the first bar he came to and ask about him. And if he didn't get any answers there, he'd stop at the next one, and so on down the line."

"Why not drug dens or whorehouses?"

"A man's likely to visit a bar more often than the other two. And if he's chewing seed or with a woman, they may not want to disturb a good client, so they'd lie and say they didn't know him. I think a bar's the likeliest spot."

"I'll give you this much," she said. "You've always got a sensible answer."

"God didn't give me Silvermane's abilities, and medical science hasn't given me the Bandit's, so I have to use what I've got."

They stopped by a bar about half a block away, and Dante described Silvermane. He got as far as the hair and the height.

"Yeah, absolutely, he was here maybe half an hour ago," said the bartender. "Couldn't mistake him for anyone else. He was looking for Billy Green-Eyes."

"Where would we find Billy Green-Eyes?" asked Dante.

"Same place as always. Go two blocks down, turn left, and you'll come to a small park built around a fountain. Check the first bench you come to."

"It sounds simple enough," remarked Dante. He turned to Matilda. "Let's go. The fireworks should be all over by now."

They followed the bartender's directions. When they turned and approached the park, they saw Silvermane standing, hands on hips, talking to an emaciated man who was seated on the bench.

As they drew near, they could see that the man was horribly mutilated. He was missing his left arm, his right leg, and his left eye. Part of his left ear was gone, burned off by a laser beam. He was dressed in rags, and a cheap pair of crutches were balanced against the back of the bench.

Silvermane looked up and nodded a greeting.

"Hi," said Dante. "Where's Billy Green-Eyes? Have you found him yet?"

"You're looking at him," said Silvermane.

"Him?" said Dante, startled. "He's what you came to Trentino to kill?"

"He's not quite the man he used to be," said Silvermane with a grim smile. "Are you, Billy?"

The man on the bench muttered something unintelligible.

"What the hell did he do?" asked Matilda.

"About seven years ago a plague broke out on New Damascus, way out in the Belladonna Cluster. Billy-boy here stowed away on the ship that was racing the vaccine to them, killed the crew, and held them up for a few million credits before he delivered the vaccine. Thousands died during the negotiations." He paused. "Sweet man, our Billy."

"So what happened to him?"

"Six of the survivors happened to him," continued Silvermane. "Billy killed them all, but not before they did what you see. He'd blown all his money on seed, and his deeds made him a pariah even among the scum he associated with, so no one would help him or give him money to go back to the Democracy for the necessary prosthetics. Hell, even if he'd managed to borrow the money, they'd have jailed and executed him the second they spotted him. So Billy has been rotting out here for the past few years, isn't that right, Billy?"

Another unintelligible answer.

"He lives in the filthiest corner of the filthiest warehouse on Trentino. Each morning he comes out to the park and sits here, hat in hand, begging, but of course everyone knows he's the man who extorted millions for the New Damascus vaccine, so he probably takes in about three credits a week, all from newcomers. We're just been discussing his situation, haven't we, Billy?"

Billy glared at him balefully with his one remaining green eye, but said nothing.

You cold son of a bitch, thought Dante. Whatever he's done, I don't know how you can shoot a helpless old cripple who can't lift a finger to defend himself.

"And now we're all through discussing it," concluded Silvermane.

"All right," said Dante uncomfortably. "Shoot him and let's get it over with."

"I'm not shooting anyone," replied Silvermane.

"Oh?"

"Four thousand men, women and children died on New Damascus while Billy was negotiating a price for the vaccine. Killing's too easy for him."

"So what are you going to do to him?" asked Dante.

Silvermane stared at the emaciated one-eyed, one-armed, one- legged beggar. "Not a thing," he said. "Have a long life, Billy." He turned and began walking back to the spaceport.

Jesus, you're even colder than I thought, mused Dante. And then: Still, that's very much like justice.

"I hope he lives another century," said Silvermane.

"He deserves to," agreed Matilda.

"Still, I'll give him credit for facing those New Damascans. There were six of them, and he stood his ground, for what little good it did him."

"You sound like you admire him."

"I admire the trait, not the man," explained Silvermane. "I suspect there's a lot to admire about your One-Armed Bandit as well."

"There is," she admitted.

"Seems a shame," he continued. "From what I've heard, he's a moral man doing the best he can."

"His best isn't good enough," said Dante firmly. "He can destroy what we're trying to build."

"I know," said Silvermane. "That's why I've decided to accept your offer."

31.

The Plymouth Rocker mourns a love

That used to be and is no more.

He curses to the skies above—

A most unhappy troubadour.

Bodini II wasn't much of a world. Small, flat, green, agricultural, dotted here and there by impenetrable thorn forests. It had a trio of towns, each with a small spaceport where the local farmers and agricultural cartels brought their goods to ship to the nearby colonies and mining worlds.

It was here that Silvermane took Dante, Matilda and Virgil when they left Trentino. They passed through Customs without incident and stopped for a quick lunch in one of the spaceport restaurants.

"Couldn't you just send this guy a subspace message telling him to join us?" asked Dante.

"Not the Plymouth Rocker," answered Silvermane.

"And we really need him?"

"He's the one I want."

"What makes him so special?"

"I trust him." Silvermane paused. "There aren't many men I've trusted over the years. He's the best of them."

"I heard a lot about him maybe ten, fifteen years ago," volunteered Virgil. "Not a word since then. I figured he was dead."

"Why?" asked Dante.

"When you stop hearing about people out here, especially people like him, you just naturally assume someone or something caught up with them."

"I heard someone mention him not too long ago," said Matilda. "Dimitrios, maybe, or perhaps the Bandit."

"He had quite a reputation back then," said Virgil. "What happened to him?"

"To him?" replied Silvermane. "Nothing."

"The way you emphasized that," interjected Dante, "something happened to someone."

"You're a perceptive man," said Silvermane. "I suppose that goes with being a poet."

"So what happened?" said Dante, ignoring the compliment.

"He had a woman," answered Silvermane. "Lovely lady. Mind like a steel trap. Totally fearless. Devoted to him. They made a hell of a team."

"Did she have a name?" asked Dante, pulling out a stylus.

"She had a lot of them, depending on the situation," said Silvermane. "I first knew her as Priscilla, so that's the way I think of her. They did everything together, Priscilla and the Rocker. I don't remember ever seeing them more than eight or ten feet apart. He'd start a sentence and she'd finish it, or the other way around. If you were with them for any length of time, you finally appreciated what the term 'soulmate' really means."

"What did they do?"

"A little of everything. They were actually law officers together back in the Democracy, two of the best. They worked the entire Quintaro Sector, and they put one hell of a lot of bad guys away." He paused thoughtfully. "I think they did a little bounty hunting when they first moved out here. Then they spent a couple of years bodyguarding Federico Bogardus when he was King of New Lebanon. Just the two of them . . . but that was enough to scare off any potention assassins."

"How did she die?" asked Dante.

"What makes you think she died?"

"You said he had a woman. Past tense. You don't leave a woman like that—or bury yourself on an obscure little world like this one. Not without a reason."

"You're good, poet. We're going to get along just fine." Silvermane paused for a moment, staring sightlessly into the past. "She was quite a woman, that Priscilla. Been dead about a dozen years now."

"What happened?"

"She died," said Silvermane noncommittally. "The Rocker left Prateep a few weeks later, and he's spent the last few years on this little backwater planet."

"Is he a farmer?"

"No. He just rents a house from an absentee landlord."

"What does he do, then?" asked Dante.

"He hides."

"From what?" asked Matilda.

"From the past. From his memories." The tall man smiled grimly. "They always find him."

"And this is the man you want by your side?"

"Nobody fights by my side," said Silvermane with what Dante thought was just a touch of arrogance. "But this is a man I want for our organization."

"Why should he be willing rejoin the world?" asked Matilda curiously.

"Because I know him better than he knows himself," said Silvermane.

"I still don't see why you couldn't have just sent him a message to join us," said Dante.

"It's been years since he's seen any action," said Silvermane. "I want to make sure he's in good enough physical and emotional shape. A decade of seclusion and mourning can change a man beyond all recognition."

"Well, let's hope it didn't."

Silvermane got to his feet threw some Maria Theresa dollars on the table. "Let's go find out."

Dante and the others joined him, and a few moments later they were rapidly skimming a few inches above a dirt road in a sleek limo.

"Beautiful country," remarked Dante, looking out across the green fields.

"Dull country," said Silvermane. "Beautiful country has hills and mountains and valleys and makes lousy farmland. You need an expanse of flat characterless land like this to grow anything in quantity."

"I grew up surrounded by mountains and valleys," said Dante. "We paid a premium for the food we imported." He smiled wryly. "Maybe that's why I appreciate farmland."

"Take a look at that!" said Matilda, pointing to a huge cow that stood a good ten feet at the shoulder. Suddenly another enormous cow came into view, then a whole herd of them. "Aren't they remarkable?"

"Mutated," said Silvermane. "Cost a bundle to create them, but once they began breeding true they've more than paid back their cost."

"You sound like you've been here before," noted Matilda.

"Once, about eight years ago."

"You didn't get him to come with you back then. Why should this time be any different?"

"I didn't ask him to come with me then," answered Silvermane.

"What were you doing here?"

"I'd been wounded, and I needed a place to stay while I healed. The Rocker gave it to me."

"He sounds like a good friend."

"He was, once."

"Maybe he still is."

"We'll know soon enough," said Silvermane.

They rode the next half hour in silence, and then the limo came to a halt, hovered for a moment, and lowered itself gently to the ground.

"We have arrived at our destination," announced the navigational computer.

Silvermane climbed out of the limo, then helped Matilda out. When Dante and Virgil had also emerged, he turned and faced the farmhouse a short distance away.

The door irised and a burly man stepped through. He took one look at Silvermane and a broad smile crossed his sallow face.

"Joshua!" he called out. "How the hell are you?"

"Just fine this time," answered Silvermane, approaching him. The man trotted forward and threw his muscular arms around Silvermane.

"Damn, but it's good to see you!" He backed away a step. "Who are your friends?"

Silvermane introduced each by name. "And this is the notorious Plymouth Rocker," he concluded, indicating the man.

"It's been a long time since I was notorious," said the Rocker. Then: "Come on into the house. You must be thirsty after your trip out from the spaceport."

"One of us sure as hell is," volunteered Virgil, stepping forward.

The Rocker took them back to the farmhouse, and a moment later they were inside it. The walls of the foyer were covered with holos of a lovely woman, who Dante knew must be Priscilla. They passed to the living room, which had still more holos, plus a dozen little remembrances of her: a favorite book of poetry, a gold-handled hair brush, a crystal wine glass that had stood empty for more than a decade.

"It's like a goddamned shrine to her," Dante whispered to Matilda.

"It must be wonderful to be loved the way he loved her," she whispered back.

"Wonderful or stifling," whispered Danny. "Either way, it had to make losing her almost unbearable."

The Rocker brought out beer for everyone, then invited them to sit down on the various chairs and couches.

"So, what brings you to Bodini?" he asked Silvermane when they were all settled.

"You."

"I'm always glad to see you, Joshua," said the Rocker. "But I'm out of the business."

"What business?" asked Silvermane with mock innocence.

"Any business."

"You can't bury yourself here forever."

The Rocker pointed to an elegant urn with gold inlays that floated in an anti-grav field near his fireplace. "That's what remains of my Priscilla," he said. "When I die, I've left orders to cremate me and then mix our ashes together. I won't have it any other way." He paused. "I don't want to die on some other world and be separated from her forever."

"Whatever you say," said Silvermane.

"That's what I say."

"Still, it seems a shame."

"That I can't go killing bad guys with you?" said the Rocker with a smile. "You don't need me. You never did."

"It's a shame," continued Silvermane, as if the Rocker hadn't said a word, "that you can't avenge her death."

"What are you talking about?" demanded the Rocker, suddenly alert. "No one knows who killed her—you know that. How can I avenge her?"

"You've been looking at it all wrong. You don't know which individual killed her. But you know he worked for the Democracy, that he represented it."

"So what?" said the Rocker bitterly. "How do you go to war with the whole Democracy?"

"That's the easy part. You join me."

"Just you and me against the whole Democracy?"

"You and me—and them," said Silvermane, indicating his companions. "And the whole of Santiago's organization."

"How can Santiago have an organization?" said the Rocker in exasperated tones. "He's been dead for a couple of hundred years, if he ever really existed at all. You're not making any sense, Jushua."

"Santiago is alive," said Dante.

The Rocker turned to him. "Another quarter heard from."

"Santiago is more than a man," continued Dante. "He's an ideal, and he changes outfits just the way you and I do. Today he's wearing Joshua Silvermane."

"Well, I'm sure that's very interesting, but it doesn't make any sense," said the Rocker.

Dante was about to explain, but Silvermane cut him off. "It doesn't have to," he said. "All you have to know is that you can punish the Democracy for what they did to Priscilla, or you can stay here and mourn her and never do anything about it. It's your choice."

The Rocker stared at Silvermane for a long moment. Dante thought he was actually going to take a swing at him, but instead he finally got to his feet.

"I'll only come if I can take Priscilla with me," he said at last.

"If that's what you want."

"It's not negotiable. Wherever I die, she's got to be there or they'll never mingle our ashes."

"Have you considered living?" suggested Silvermane.

"Not lately," admitted the Rocker. "But now you've given me a reason to, even if we only last an hour—which, I might add, seems optimistic." He walked to a closet, pulled out a very old pulse gun, and tucked it in his belt. Then he went to the pedestal and gently, tenderly took the urn in his arms. "Okay, I'm ready. Let's go."

"Don't you want to take anything else?" asked Dante.

"Like what?" asked the Rocker.

Dante shrugged. "I don't know. Some clothes, maybe, or perhaps another weapon?"

"I'll buy 'em when I need 'em."

A few moments later they were racing back to the spaceport, as Dante and Silvermane took turns filling in the newest member of their organization.

32.

They didn't all leave Bodini II together, since they had come in a number of ships. Dante, Silvermane, and the Plymouth Rocker took off first and landed on Brandywine, a lovely little world in the Spinos system, where Silvermane had a mountain retreat. He hadn't visited it in close to three years, but it had a full-time staff—a husband-and-wife team, plus a groundskeeper—and it was in perfect repair. Dante left messages to Matilda and Virgil to meet them there. He wasn't sure how far he could trust Blossom, so he kept her out of the loop.

"Nice layout," commented the Plymouth Rocker, walking through the rustic retreat. "Build it yourself?"

"I appropriated it from someone who didn't need it any longer," replied Silvermane.

"Who was it?"

"Nobody very important," answered Silvermane in tones that made it clear the subject was closed.

"Well, Joshua, what's our next step?" asked the Rocker.

"We're about to decide—and call me Santiago."

"Sorry."

"I've been thinking about it," said Silvermane. "And it seems to me that there's no reason to build a new organization when it's so much easier to take over the One-Armed Bandit's. How many men does he have working for him now?"

"I'm not sure," answered Dante, settling down in an angular chair of alien design that was more comfortable than it looked. "He has people recruiting all over the Frontier. I would think he's got between 75 and 100 by now, maybe even more."

"That proves my point. It could take us months to get that many men—and then we'd have to go to war with his men. Much better to just take over what he's got."

"Won't the One-Armed Bandit have a little something to say about it?" asked the Rocker.

"Not if we work it right," said Silvermane.

"You're not talking about walking right in and killing him?" said Dante. "We don't have any idea what defenses he's installed since I left—not that he needs very many."

"No, I don't plan to confront him on his own world," replied Silvermane. "I may be brave, but I'm not suicidal."

"So the trick is to get him off Valhalla," said the Rocker.

"That's right."

"How?"

Silvermane turned to Dante. "I thought our resident poet might have an idea. It seems that he's never short of them."

"Are you being sarcastic," asked Dante, "or are you really asking for suggestions?"

"Both."

Dante lowered his head in thought for a moment, then reached into a pocket and pulled out a notebook and a stylus and began scribbling something.

"What's he doing?" asked the Rocker.

"I'm sure he'll tell us when he's done," said Silvermane, watching the young poet as he crossed out words, wrote in new ones, and stared off into space, obviously thinking. Finally he looked up.

"Here's how we do it," he announced, and then read aloud:

"Women scream and children shake,

Lawmen hide and strong men quake.

The world is turning upside down—

The One-Armed Bandit's come to town."

"What the hell does that have to do with anything," asked the Rocker.

Silvermane smiled. "You're on the right track, Rhymer."

"Would someone explain what's going on to me?" said the Rocker.

"Dante is the new Black Orpheus," said Silvermane. "He's the reason that Santiago is being resurrected in the first place. The One-Armed Bandit knows this. Do you start to follow?"

"Okay," replied the Rocker. "So the Bandit sees the poem, and he realizes that Dante is telling the Frontier that he's not the hero he's cracked up to be. So what? From what you tell me, he's already going to kill Dante the next time he sees him."

"He's calling himself Santiago these days," said Silvermane. "He's done everything he can to separate himself from his identity as the One-Armed Bandit. He's going to make enough enemies as Santiago; he doesn't need the ones who have reason to kill the Bandit."

"That's not enough," said the Rocker. "Are you telling me he's going to drop everything he's doing and come after Dante here just because he writes one lousy stanza calling the Bandit a villain?"

"Use your imagination," said Silvermane. "This is the opening shot, the Bandit's wake-up call." He turned to Dante. "Am I right?"

"You're right."

"Okay," said the Rocker. "What comes next?"

"I find a remote planet maybe 100,000 light-years from Valhalla," said Dante, "and I start printing poems in the classified section of its major newsdisc—and each poem is more explicit. I point out who he deals with, what he looks like, where he lives. I start naming his key people. Then we get a third party to transmit all this to the Bandit. How long do you think it'll be before he comes after me himself?"

"Why wouldn't he simply send one of his killers?" asked the Rocker.

"Because I know too much. He's got to be sure he shuts me up, and that means he'll do the job himself."

"And once we know he's left," concluded Silvermane, "you and I will pay a visit to Valhalla and take over the Santiago business."

The Rocker turned to Dante. "And then you come back from the planet before the Bandit can reach it?"

"I'm not going to it at all. I don't have to be there to put the ads in. We'll have to send somebody there, because he'll check to see if they were inserted locally, but I'm the only one he'll recognize, and I'm no more suicidal that Santiago here."

"Okay," said the Rocker. "Now that you've explained it, I don't see any reason why it shouldn't work." He paused. "I'm not stupid, no matter what you think. I'm just not used to dealing with a devious bastard like yourself."

"I'll take that as a high compliment," said Dante, forcing a smile.

He spent the next three days writing the verses that would convince the Bandit to leave his headquarters and travel halfway across the Frontier. In the meantime, Silvermane contacted a friend who owed him a favor and had him to go Hadrian II, a distant, isolated Frontier world that had a large enough population to support a hugely popular newsdisc.

Matilda showed up the day after Dante finished the poems, and Virgil arrived two days after that. Blossom radioed them that she had decided to return to Valhalla and beg the Bandit to take her back.

"Stupid," said Dante.

"Maybe he will take her," said Matilda.

"She's signed her own death warrant," said Dante. "If he doesn't kill her, we probably will. After all, there's no question now where her loyalties lie."

"You recruited her," said Matilda. "Can't you un-recruit her, just send her back to Heliopolis?"

"She practically worships the Bandit. Do you think she'll just pack up and leave peacefully if we kill him—or if we take over while he's gone and haven't killed him yet?"

"No," she admitted, "I suppose you're right. I'm just sorry about it."

"If I were you, I'd worry about how many more innocent bystanders the Bandit will kill before we depose him," said Dante. "At least Blossom knows the score and made an informed choice. Stupid, but informed."

Even at light speeds it took Silvermane's friend eight days to reach Hadrian. Dante could have sent the poems via subspace radio while the man was en route, but he couldn't be sure the man wouldn't just transmit them on, and the whole purpose was to make certain that if the Bandit or any of his people traced the poems to their source, there could be no doubt that they came from Hadrian II itself.

Finally the man landed on that distant world, the poems were transmitted, and within two days the first four had appeared on the newsdisc, which had a new edition every eight Standard hours.

Then came the question of how best to get the poems into the Bandit's hands.

"It's too obvious to send them directly to the Bandit," said Dante. "I mean, hell, if they come from an 'interested friend', he might try to find out who the friend is before he races off to Hadrian."

"What do you suggest?" asked Silvermane.

"I've been thinking about that," said Dante. "We'll use Wilbur Connaught."

"Santiago's accountant?" said Silvermane, surprised. "The one they call the Grand Finale?"

"That's the one."

"Why him?"

"Because I can give him a reason for reading the classified section of the Hadrian newsdisc," answered Dante. "He told me once that he used to work for Barioke, one of the major warlords out on the Rim. That was a long time ago. Barioke's probably dead by now; he's certainly not a warlord any longer."

"So?"

"So we run a classified saying that Barioke needs to speak to Wilbur about a very private matter, and that since he's lost track of him he's trying classifieds all over the galaxy." Dante paused. "Then we put the same ad in 20 other newsdiscs, but we wait two days to insert it. Since Wilbur has to get into the Democracy now and then to keep an eye on Santiago's investments, he's still got a Democracy ID, which means all of Barioke's messages will be routed to his code no matter what computer he's using. But the one we want him to read will get there first—the others are just to convince him he's not being used—and we'll make sure that it appears right next to the poem. He'll see it, and bring it to the Bandit's attention. The Bandit may make sure the poem originated on Hadrian, but I don't think he'll check Barioke's message, or even read it."

"Sounds good to me," said Silvermane. He looked around. "Does anyone have any objections to it?"

No one did—until Matilda burst into Dante's room three days later, a worried expression on her face.

"What's up?" he asked, looking up from the stanza he was working on.

"You'd better get your ass out to Hadrian II quick!" she said. "The Bandit's probably got a half day's start on you. You have to beat him there!"

"What are you talking about?" said Dante. "I'm not going anywhere—and we want the Bandit to go to Hadrian."

"You don't understand!" snapped Matilda, tossing a computer cube across the room to him.

"What is it?" he asked.

"The Hadrian newsdisc," she replied.

"The ads are there?"

"Yes."

"Well, then?"

"That's all anyone else read," said Matilda. "But I read the whole damned thing. Do you know the name September Morn?"

"Sounds like a painting, if memory serves."

"Screw memory! She's the poet laureate of the Questada Cluster, and she lives on Hadrian."

"I didn't know they had a poet laureate."

"There are a lot of things you don't know," said Matilda. "For example, I'll bet you don't know that she's won an award for a poem about Santiago."

His eyes widened. "You're kidding!"

"Do I look like I'm kidding?"

"Oh, shit! He's going to think she wrote it!"

"Almost certainly."

"We'll contact her via subspace and tell her to get the hell off the planet!"

"Do you think the Bandit will stop looking for her if she's gone when he gets there?" asked Matilda.

"No," said Dante. "No, of course he won't. But what the hell do you expect me to do if I get there ahead of him?"

"I don't know, but this was your idea. I think you owe it to her."

"To do what?" he yelled in frustration.

"You're the big thinker," said Matilda angrily. "Think of something."

"All right, all right," he said, getting to his feet. "Give me ten minutes to pack some things, and tell Virgil I need to borrow his ship. It's faster than mine."

She nodded her assent. "Anything else?"

"Hell, I don't know." He paused. "Yeah. See if you can contact Dimitrios of the Three Burners and have him meet me there. Tell him I really need some help."

Nine minutes later Dante took off from Brandywine, convinced that he probably wouldn't live to see it again.

He turned control of the ship over to the navigational computer and began preparing the Deepsleep chamber.

I don't know how it happened, he thought. Suddenly everything's falling apart. 300 children are dead because of events I initiated. I don't know if Silvermane can beat the Bandit, or even if he's the right man for the job. And now I've endangered a brilliant poet who I didn't even know existed half an hour ago, and if I luck out and find her, then I'm going to become the prime target of the most competent killer I've ever seen.

He lay down in the pod, and as consciousness left him, he had time for one final thought: I wish I'd never found that goddamned poem.