The Return of Santiago

Part 5: SEPTEMBER MORN'S BOOK

33.

He's not what he seems, he's not what he claims,

He's as fake as his phony arm.

He lives on Valhalla, playing his games,

And he means you nothing but harm.

That was the second poem to appear in the Hadrian newsdisc. The first was the one Dante had written while Silvermane was watching him.

The third one made it clear that there was a real Santiago, and that he would soon take his vengeance upon the One-Armed Bandit for impersonating him.

The fourth and fifth named two of the Bandit's most-trusted henchmen.

The next half dozen told more details, details the Bandit would gladly have killed to keep secret, and, Dante was sure, would now kill to punish the poet for making them public.

By the time the Deepsleep Chamber gently roused him from his sleep to inform him that he was in orbit around Hadrian II, 22 stanzas had appeared, and there actually wasn't much more to reveal.

Dante lay still for a moment, his brain coming back to life more quickly than his body. Then he sat up, climbed out of the pod, realized that he was starving, and headed off to the galley, where he assuaged his hunger. He took a Dryshower, changed clothes, and finally went to the control cabin, where he found that his navigational computer had already answered all of the spaceport's questions and was preparing to break out of orbit and land.

The radio hummed to life. "May I speak to the captain, please?" said a voice.

Dante took over manual control of the radio and opened a channel.

"This is Dante Alighieri, captain of The Far Traveler, registration number R26SM362, 5 days out of Brandywine. What's the problem?"

"Your ship is registered to Virgil Soaring Hawk."

"Contact him on Brandywine. He'll confirm that he loaned it to me. In the meantime, let me land, and you can hold the ship until you speak to him."

A brief pause. Then: "Agreed."

"I also need a favor."

"How may we help you, Mr. Alighieri?" said the voice at the other end of the transmission.

"I'm supposed to meet a business associate on Hadrian. If he's already landed, it would surely be within the past six Standard hours. He travels under two names—The One-Armed Bandit and Santiago—and I don't know which he's using. Can you tell me if he's arrived yet?"

"Santiago? He's got a sense of humor."

Dante ignored the comment. "Has he landed?"

Another pause. "Let me check . . . No, no one of either name has landed."

"All right," said Dante. "I need one more favor. I'm a writer, and I'm supposed to interview one of your local poets, a woman who called herself September Morn. Can you tell me where to find her?"

"We can't give out addresses or even computer ID codes," came the answer. "I can transmit your message to her and have her contact you."

"Tell her I'm staying at . . ." He checked the computer screen. "At the Windsor Arms, wherever the hell that is. And tell her I've got to speak to her at her earliest convenience, and not to make her presence known to anyone else."

"You're making this sound more like espionage than an interview," commented the voice sardonically. I can't tell you the truth. If you even hint that you know why the Bandit is coming to Hadrian, if you make any attempt whatsoever to protect her, he'll blow the whole spaceport to Kingdom Come.

"There's a rival reporter coming out to interview her," said Dante, making it up as he went along. "It's the man I asked you about, the one who writes under the pen-name of Santiago. If he gets to her first, I could lose my job." He paused. "Please. This means a lot to me."

There was a final pause.

"All right, Mr. Alighieri, we'll do what we can to help you keep your job."

"Thank you," said Dante. "And I can't overstress the need for speed and secrecy."

"You journalists!" said the voice, half-amused, half- disgusted. "You'd slit each other's throats for a scoop. Signing off."

Dante leaned back and watched the viewscreen as the ship approached the surface. There were six cities spread across the face of the planet, more than usual for a colony world, especially one on the Inner Frontier, where small Tradertowns were the order of the day. He had no idea which city September Morn lived in, but then, neither did the Bandit, and he was getting here first, so with any luck he'd make contact with her first. If nothing else, he was sure the Bandit wasn't subtle enough to fabricate a story about why she should seek him out.

He touched down and cleared Customs. To make things go more smoothly he identified himself as Danny Briggs; the ID would check, and no one on the Frontier except the occasional bounty hunter would give a damn if the Democracy had put a price on his head. Finally he hired a limo to skim above the surface and take him into Trajan, the planet's capital city, which was home to the Windsor Arms Hotel.

He stopped at the desk to register, took an airlift up to the eighth floor, found his room, waited for the security system to scan his retina and compare it with the scan he'd just undergone downstairs, and finally entered the room as the door dilated to let him pass through.

The first thing he did was walk across to the desk that was positioned by a corner window and activate the computer that sat atop it.

"Good morning, Mr. Alighieri," said the computer in a soft feminine voice that startled him. "How may I help you?"

"I need to find a woman named September Morn. I know she lives on Hadrian II," replied Dante. "Check all the vidphone directories and see if she's listed."

"Checking . . . no, she is not," announced the computer. "This means that she either does not possess a vidphone, or else she possesses an unlisted number."

"Tie into the Master Computer on Deluros VIII and access any information it has on her."

"That will be a extra charge of 500 credits, or 1,228 New Kenya shillings. Press your left thumb against the spot indicated on my screen if you agree to the charges."

Dante pressed his thumb against the screen, then waited almost two minutes for the computer to address him again.

"The only information the Master Computer possesses is that September Morn is a writer residing on Hadrian II, that she has sold four novels and two volumes of poetry, and that her poem entitled The King of the Outlaws won this year's Questada Prize for literature."

"Contact her publisher and see if you can get her address, or her ID, if she's got one."

"Contacting . . . It is against their policy to give out such information."

"The local newsdisc must have a morgue with all prior issues. See if you can find any information on how to contact her directly."

"That could take as much as ten minutes, Mr. Alighieri."

"Why so long?"

"They use a primitive filing system, and I will have to re-access it by year."

"Don't go back more than a four or five years. I need current information."

"Understood."

"One more thing. Let me know if a man named either Santiago or the One-Armed Bandit lands at the spaceport."

"Yes, Mr. Alighieri. Is there anything else?"

"No."

"My screen will go blank, and I will not speak until I have finished my assignments, but although I will appear to have shut down all systems, this is not the case, so please do not mistakenly report me as broken or inactive to the management."

"No problem," said Dante. The computer went dead so quickly he wasn't sure it heard him.

He ordered the wet bar to pour him a beer, and had just taken his first swallow when there was a knock at the door.

"Open," he ordered, and the door dilated again to reveal Dimitrios of the Three Burners.

"I got Matilda's message," he said, entering the room. "What the hell's going on?"

"To borrow an ancient saying, we put our money on the wrong horse."

"So he's turned pure outlaw instead of helping the Frontier?" asked Dimitrios.

"It's not that simple," replied Dante. "He's become a fanatic. If it has anything to do with the Democracy, it can't be permitted to survive."

"Isn't that the purpose of the exercise?"

"He just slaughtered 300 children who might have someday grown up to be Democracy soldiers or bureaucrats."

"Ah," said the bounty hunter. I see."

"The original plan was for me to lure him out here and never even show up myself—but everything's gone to hell. If we can't find some way to stop him, he's going to kill a woman who doesn't even know he's alive, let alone after her."

"Back up a minute," said Dimitrios, frowning. "Why did you want to lure him here in the first place? What's so special about Hadrian II?"

"It's about as far as you can get from Valhalla and still be on the Inner Frontier."

"Valhalla. That's the planet where he's set up his headquarters, right?"

"Right."

"So what is supposed to happen while he's gone?" asked Dimitrios.

"His successor will move in and take over, and present him with a fait accompli."

"And who is this successor?"

"Joshua Silvermane." Dante couldn't help but notice that Dimitrios grimaced at the mention of the name. "Do you disapprove?"

"He's as good a symbol as you could ever find," began Dimitrios. "He looks like a statue, and he's certainly as good with his weapons as the Bandit."

"But?" said Dante. "You look like there's a 'But'."

"But he's a cold, passionless son of a bitch," continued the bounty hunter, "and he's so self-sufficient that he doesn't inspire much loyalty, if only because it's apparent he doesn't need it or want it."

"But he's a moral man without being a fanatic."

"He's a man of his word," agreed Dimitrios. "He's so beautiful and so deadly that people will watch him in awe, but I don't know if he's the kind of man other men will follow." He paused. "I guess you'll find out—if the Bandit doesn't go back and kill him once he's done here. Exactly what's drawing him here in the first place?"

Dante explained his plan, and even quotes a few of the poems to Dimitrios.

"Sounds fine to me," said the bounty hunter. "What went wrong?"

"Just a stroke of bad luck," replied Dante. "Of all the goddamned planets on the Frontier, this is the one that's home to a woman who just wrote an award-winning poem about, of all things, Santiago."

"Suddenly things make a lot more sense."

"Her name is September Morn," Dante concluded. "And we've got to find her before he does."

"Well, on your behalf, you couldn't know she'd gone and won a prize for a poem about Santiago," said Dimitrios. "It was a hell of a good idea except for that."

"Thanks," said Dante with grim irony.

"Problem is, you've endangered this woman, and we don't know how to reach her to protect her or warn her off."

"Neither does he," Dante pointed out.

"That's one thing in our favor. If we're starting out even, I'll put my money on you to out-think him."

The computer suddenly hummed to life.

"I am sorry, Mr. Alighieri," it said, "but the newsdisc morgue gives no indication of how to contact September Morn. All I could learn is that as of two years ago she resided in Trajan."

"Well, that's a start," said Dante. "What's Trajan's population?"

"110,463 at the last census."

"So much for going door-to-door." The poet paused. "Thank you, computer. You may deactivate until I need you again."

"This contradicts your order that I alert you if a man named Santiago or the One-Armed Bandit lands on Hadrian II," the computer reminded him.

"I forgot that," admitted Dante. "All right, do that and nothing more."

"Understood."

The machine seemed too go dormant again, but Dante knew it was monitoring the spaceport.

"So what do you suggest we do?" asked Dimitrios. "I'm at your disposal."

"I asked the authorities to contact September Morn and let her know I had urgent business with her," replied Dante. "And I gave the Windsor Arms as my address. I don't think we should leave the place until I hear from her."

"I haven't eaten today," said Dimitrios. "I saw a restaurant in the hotel, just off the lobby. Let's grab a bite there. If she tries to contact you by vidphone or computer, the hotel can transfer it to our table, and if she shows up in person they can point us out to her."

"I don't see any harm in that," agreed Dante, getting to his feet. "Let's go."

They took the airlift down to the main floor, and were soon sitting in the restaurant. Dimitrios ordered a steak from a mutated beef animal. Dante just had coffee.

"You're not hungry?" asked Dimitrios.

"No."

"Don't be so nervous. We'll find her."

"We'd better."

"Get some calories into you," said Dimitrios. "Maybe they'll get that brain of yours working again."

"All right, all right," muttered Dante irritably. He called up the menu and placed a finger on a holograph of a pastry.

"They have wonderful meat," said Dimitrios.

"You said calories. This has calories."

"What the hell—do what you want," said the bounty hunter with a shrug.

They ate in silence, got up, and were walking to the airlift when Dante glanced out the window and suddenly froze.

"Do you see her?" asked Dimitrios.

"I don't even know what she looks like," replied the poet. "I saw him."

Dimitrios walked to the window. "I don't see anyone. The street's empty."

"He's in the hotel right across the street. Probably looking for her."

"Or you."

"Or me. If he sees me here, that lets her off the hook. He'll know I wrote those verses."

"You're not seriously considering walking out there?" demanded Dimitrios.

"I can't let him kill her."

"Are you going to challenge him to a thinking match?" said Dimitrios angrily. "Or maybe a poetry contest? They're the only two things you can beat him at."

"What do you suggest?" snapped Dante. "I don't want to die, but I can't let him find and kill September Morn!"

"What do I suggest?" repeated Dimitrios. "I suggest you step aside and let someone face him who's at least got a chance!"

And before Dante could stop him, Dimitrios had stepped out into the street. He stood there patiently for a few seconds, and then the Bandit came out of the hotel.

"Dimitrios?" said the Bandit, surprised. "It's been a long time. What are you doing here?"

"I'm here on business," replied Dimitrios.

"Who is he? Maybe I know him."

"I'm sure you do. He wiped out a schoolhouse on Madras."

"Forget your business," said the Bandit. "You're a good man, and you're no friend of the Democracy. Go in peace."

"You're a good man, too," said Dimitrios. "But you've gone a little overboard. We should talk, Bandit."

"My name is Santiago," the Bandit corrected him.

"Not any more. That's what we have to talk about. You can work for him, you can help him, but you can't be him."

"Stand aside, Dimitrios. I'm only giving you one more chance to walk away."

"I can't," said Dimitrios.

"I know," said the Bandit sadly. He pointed a finger at Dimitrios. The bounty hunter went for his burners, but never got them out of their holsters. An instant later he was dead, a black, bubbling, smoking hole in the middle of his forehead.

"Shit!" muttered Dante. "He'll kill the whole fucking city if he doesn't find what he's after."

He walked to the hotel's doorway and stepped outside.

"I knew I'd find you here," said the Bandit.

"You killed my friend."

"I'll kill more than your friend if I don't find the woman who writes poems about Santiago."

"She only writes about the real Santiago," said Dante. "I wrote the ones you read."

The Bandit stared at him. "Why?"

"To lure you out here."

"Still why?" asked the Bandit, frowning and scanning the area for hidden gunmen.

"To get you away from Valhalla. You'll find some changes when you get back." Dante smiled grimly. "Dimitrios was telling the truth. You're not Santiago any more."

"We'll see about that when I return to Valhalla," said the Bandit, pointing his finger at Dante. "In the meantime, I told you that the next time we met I'd—"

Suddenly he stopped speaking. A puzzled expression crossed his face. He opened his mouth, but only blood came out. Then he pitched forward on the street, stone cold dead.

As he fell, the figure of a woman was revealed. She was standing behind him, a burner in her hand.

Dante stood motionless, finding it difficult to believe he was still alive.

The woman approached him. "I believe you were looking for me," she said. "I'm September Morn."

34.

She sings, she dances, she writes novels too.

There's nothing that she isn't able to do.

Just set her a task that all have foresworn:

Of course she can do it—she's September Morn.

They were sitting in the restaurant, which management had closed to all other customers. A lone waiter stood in the most distant corner, awaiting their pleasure.

September Morn poured Dante a stiff drink. "Take this," she said. "You look like you need it."

"Thank you," said Dante, swallowing it in a single gulp, then watching as she poured him another. "I owe you my life. If there's ever anything I can do for you . . ."

"You can tell me why he came here to kill me," said September Morn.

"I will," said Dante, looking out the window where medical crews were removing the two corpses from the blood-stained street. Finally the last vehicle raced away, bearing the Bandit's body, and he turned back to her. "But shouldn't we be expecting a visit from the authorities any minute now? I mean, you did kill him out there in broad daylight. I'll testify that you were saving my life, but surely they're going to want to ask us both some questions."

She shook her head. "Don't worry," she said. "They won't bother us."

Dante downed a second drink, and felt the tension finally ease.

"Why not? There are two dead men out there."

"It's very complicated," replied September Morn. "Let simply say that I'm not without a certain amount of cachet here on Hadrian."

"Oh?" He stared at her, waiting for her to continue, and finally she did.

"I'm the only native who ever won a major award for anything, and they're very proud of that. When I considered moving to the Binder system, they passed a law declaring me a Living Monument. My mortgage was cancelled, all my outstanding debts were paid, and by definition I cannot break the law—within reason, of course." She grimaced. "All that's on the one side. On the other is that I can't leave the system without a military escort whose sole purpose is to see that I return."

"So no one's going to hassle you for shooting the Bandit?" he said.

"Was he a bandit?"

"No. That was just his name—the One-Armed Bandit. He lost his left arm years ago. You saw just a minor demonstration of what his prosthetic replacement could do."

"He called himself Santiago," she said.

"I know."

"There has to be a connection. I wrote about Santiago, and he thought he was Santiago." She paused. The waiter mistook it for a signal and instantly walked over to their table. She glanced at him and gestured him away. "But even if he was delusional, what did that have to do with me?"

"It's a long story." Dante leaned back, and his chair changed shape to accommodate him. He realized that he could no longer reach the table and eat his food comfortably, and he moved forward again.

"I've got all the time we need," said September Morn. "And it's about my two favorite subjects—Santiago and me."

"All right," he said, sampling a mouthful of mutated shellfish in a cream sauce, and deciding she had good taste in restaurants. "But let me begin with a question. When did Santiago die?"

"No one knows." She learned forward confidentially. "But do you know what I think? I didn't even put it in my poem, but I think there were two Santiagos!"

"Do you really?"

"And I'm almost certain the second was a bounty hunter named Sylvester Cain."

"Sebastian Cain," he corrected her, taking a sip of Belarban wine from a crystal goblet. "And he was the fourth, not the second."

"How do you know?" she demanded sharply.

"I've read Black Orpheus's original manuscript."

Her eyes widened with excitement as she considered his revelation. "You've actually seen it?"

"I own it."

"How do you know it's authentic?"

"First, because the style of the verses that no one's seen match those that we all know. Second, because everything he says in those verses checks out."

"Checks out how?"

"I know his great-granddaughter. She's verified a lot of it. Others have verified other parts. And my ship's computer tells me the paper is more than a century old."

She was silent for a long moment.

"So the Songbird was the fourth Santiago!" She looked directly into his eyes. "Do you want to repay me for saving your life? Let me see the poem!"

"It's on Valhalla."

"So what? We'll go to Valhalla."

"I thought you couldn't leave the planet without a bodyguard. Santiago's people will blow them out of the sky if they approach Valhalla."

"For this I'll find a way to leave them behind," she said. "Now tell me everything you know about Santiago. There were four, you say?"

"No, I didn't say that," replied the poet. "I said Cain was the fourth. There were actually five. The last one died in 3301 G.E."

"Five?"

"That's right."

"There couldn't have been that many!"

"I can give you names and dates of death for the last three, and I can prove to you that none of them can possibly have been the original Santiago."

"And only you know it?" exclaimed September Morn, her face and her voice reflecting her excitement. "We've got to find a way to make the poem public. All the lost verses, the apocrypha, everything!"

"There's thousands of pages."

"All the better."

"We'll talk about it," said Dante. "But I'm still waiting for you to ask the operative question."

"And what is that?"

"How many Santiagos have there been since then?"

"What are you talking about?" she asked, confused.

"After I found the poem, I thought my calling was to continue it, to bring it up to date, to continue describing the adventurers and misfits who come out from the Democracy—and in a way it was. But the more I delved into it, the more I realized that it was time for Santiago to come back to the Inner Frontier, that conditions were ripe for him. The Democracy was still oppressing and overtaxing the colonists out here, aliens were still being treated like animals, rights were being violated, and it was apparent to me that we needed Santiago more than we ever had . . . so it became my mission to find him." Talk about hubris, he thought; listen to me! He grimaced in embarrassment. "So I went looking for him," he concluded lamely.

"And the One-Armed Bandit was your candidate?"

"We were wrong."

"'We?'" she repeated. "Then you're not alone in this?"

"No."

"Good. It was too big a blunder for one man to make all by himself." September Morn stared at Dante. "So what will you do now? Go back to whatever you were doing before you found the poem?"

"Not a chance," he replied. "I was a small-time thief with big-time dreams who was going absolutely nowhere. I'm not going back."

"Then what?"

"Santiago's story isn't over yet," said Dante. "I'll keep writing it."

"What are you talking about?" she said. "He's dead. I just killed him."

"He wasn't Santiago," answered Dante. "He was just the One- Armed Bandit."

Her eyes widened. "You mean you've got another one?"

"Yes. That's why the Bandit was on Hadrian."

"I don't understand."

"We'd built him an organization, a couple of hundred strong. I found him the best financial brain on the Frontier to manage his money. He had a great-granddaughter of one of the original Santiagos helping him. Even Dimitrios of the Three Burners, the man he just killed, was part of the organization."

She placed a hand on the bottle. "Do you want another?"

"No, I'm okay now," answered Dante. "Anyway, there were two alternatives once we knew the Bandit had to go. Silvermane, our new candidate, could meet him face-to-face . . . but you saw what just happened to a top-notch bounty hunter who tried that. One or the other was bound to die, and we couldn't be sure which. The other option was to lure the Bandit thousands of light-years away from his headquarters and take control of the organization before he got back, to make the place impregnable. We felt there was even a slim chance that he might be willing to become the One-Armed Bandit again and work for Santiago. After all, he still believed in the cause."

"All right, I follow you so far," said September Morn. "But what does that have to do with me?"

"He knows . . . knew . . . that I've been continuing Orpheus's work," explained Dante. "I thought the best way to get him out here was to run some stanzas in the local paper that revealed secrets about the organization."

"I never saw any."

"They ran in the classified section."

"I never read the classified ads. Most people don't. So why run them there?"

"It's very complicated, but believe me, it was the surest way to bring them to his attention. I figured when he saw the information was in verse form, he'd know it was me, and he'd come out here to kill me." Dante sighed deeply. "I never planned to come within 50 parsecs of Hadrian. I was going to stay with Silvermane when he took over Santiago's organization. The one thing I never counted on was that there'd be a prize-winning poet on Hadrian II, and that you'd have won your prize for a poem about Santiago. As soon as I learned that, I knew I had to come out here and try to stop him before he killed you for writing the stanzas that I actually wrote."

"Now it all makes sense," said September Morn. She stared admiringly at him. "You're a very brave man, Dante Alighieri. You were willing to sacrifice your life for a woman you'd never even seen."

"It was guilt, not bravery," answered Dante, shifting uncomfortably on his chair. "I've been responsible for the deaths of enough innocent people."

"Whatever the reason, you went out there unarmed and faced a man who had just killed a skilled bounty hunter. That's the kind of courage I wrote about in my poem."

"I have to admit I haven't read it. I'm sorry."

"I'll give you a copy," she promised. "It's a Romance, with a capital R. There are heroes and villains, high adventure, Good and Evil in juxtaposition, and a man who isn't without fear but finds the strength to overcome it, which in my opinion is real bravery, the kind you displayed."

"What led you to write about him?"

"A feeling that we'd forgotten his values, that in the overpowering shadow of the Democracy we'd conceded one liberty after another for more and more security until we had no liberties left to give, and one day we woke up and found we needed protection from our protectors. I never thought of Santiago as a role model—I mean, whoever thought he might come back again?—but I felt it was time to remind people that the ideals he embodied didn't have to die with him." She smiled. "And here I was, just writing my daydreams about it, while you were actually going out and doing something about it."

"An awful lot of people have died because I went out and did something," said Dante grimly. "You were almost added to the list."

"This is real life, not a book or a play," answered September Morn. "Things don't always work out the way men of virtue hope they will, and sometimes the effort is every bit as important as the results."

"It sounds good," said Dante, "but right about now I'd say we need some results."

"It would be nice," she said. "The Frontier could use a Santiago again." A pause. "To tell the truth, I could use him more than most."

"Oh?"

"There are some serious disadvantages to being a Living Monument," said September Morn as the waiter cleared the table and brought them their desert pastries and coffee.

"So you told me," replied Dante, watching the waiter retreat in utter silence to the kitchen.

"You mean having to stay here?" she said. "That's a minor annoyance."

"What's the major one?"

"When word of my official status got out, it didn't take long for anyone who heard about it to conclude that if they could steal me away, the government of Hadrian would pay quite a ransom to get me back."

"Have there been many attempts?"

"There have been a few. Nothing I couldn't handle." She paused. "Until now."

"Who's after you now?"

"Something even more formidable than your One-Armed Bandit," answered September Morn.

"I don't think there is anyone more formidable, except maybe Joshua Silvermane."

"I said something, not someone."

"Exactly who or what is it that's after you?" he asked, curious.

She took a bite of her pastry. "Fabulous stuff," she said. "You should try it."

"I will," he said. "But first tell me what's after you."

"Have you ever heard of Tweedledee and Tweedledum?"

"Dimitrios mentioned them once," said Dante. He chuckled and took a sip of his coffee. "Those names aren't exactly designed to strike fear into one's heart."

"Don't laugh!" she snapped angrily. "Their names may be childish, but there's nothing childish about them. They're they most dangerous creatures on the whole Frontier!"

His smile vanished. "What makes them so dangerous?"

"They conquer whole planets, just the two of them."

Dante frowned. "You're telling me these two aliens can defeat an entire military force?"

"Yes."

"And they're after you?"

"That's the word that's reached the planetary authorities," she replied. "That's why I was carrying the burner. When I heard that both you and the Bandit wanted to find me, I thought one or both of you worked for them."

"They work as a pair, this Tweedledee and Tweedledum?" he persisted.

"Yes."

"What do they look like? What makes them so formidable?"

"I don't know," admitted September Morn. "I've never actually seen them. All I know is what I've heard and read—and based on that, I hope I never see them. They conquer entire worlds, just the pair of them, and nobody who's tried to stand up to them has lived to tell about it." Her expression hardened. "And now they're after me."

Dante reached across the table and placed a reassuring hand on hers. "You saved my life," he said. "The least I can do is return the favor. No one's going to harm you."

She looked questioningly at him.

"I'll get Santiago to protect you," promised Dante. "The real Santiago."

35.

Mongaso Taylor, churchmouse poor,

Bites the hand that feeds him.

Embittered man, he will not save

The family that needs him.

Dante sat alone in his room, waiting for Silvermane's face to reappear. For almost a minute it had been popping into and out of existence, terribly distorted. Finally the signal came through, and his perfect features took shape.

"I got your message," he said. "I'm sorry about Dimitrios of the Three Burners."

"So am I," replied Dante.

"And the Bandit is really dead?"

"That's right." Dante smiled wryly. "The girl I came here to protect killed him and saved my life."

"I'm almost sorry," said Silvermane. "I was looking forward to meeting him."

"To killing him, you mean."

"If it had been necessary." He paused. "Well, you might as well come back to Valhalla. There's nothing to keep you there now, and I've got plenty of work for you here."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"The girl," said Dante.

"The one who saved your life?"

"Right. She's in danger."

"Just a minute," said Silvermane, frowning. "I thought you told me the Bandit was dead."

"He is. But—I'm not quite sure how to put this—she's the most important person on the planet. Or maybe I should say the most popular, or the most revered, or . . ."

"I get the picture," interrupted Silvermane irritably. "What about it?"

"The planetary government would pay any amount to get her back if she was kidnapped."

"Are you suggesting we kidnap her?" asked Silvermane, who didn't look unduly upset by the proposition.

"She killed the Bandit," Dante pointed out, lighting up a smokeless Antarean cigar he had picked up in the hotel's gift shop. "She's on our side. We owe her."

"Okay, you're my man on the scene. If you feel we should protect her, go ahead and do it." A pause. "Have you got any idea who's after her?"

"A pair of aliens—I gather they're called Tweedledee and Tweedledum."

Silvermane's expression darkened noticeably. "You're sure?"

"That's what she tells me."

"Get off the planet right now."

"I don't know if I can do it that quickly," said Dante. "She's been declared a living monument, whatever the hell that means, and there's all kinds of red tape, and—"

"I'm not talking about her!" said Silvermane sharply. "Get your ass off Hadrian II right now!"

"I can't."

"Trust me, you're not in their league, Rhymer," said Silvermane. "You can't even protect yourself from them, let alone your ladyfriend."

"Then send help."

"I'll send someone. Just get the hell out of there."

"Not without her," said Dante, fighting back a surge of frustration. "She stood up to the Bandit and saved my life. I can't desert her."

Silvermane sighed deeply. "All right," he said at last. "I can't argue with that kind of loyalty."

"Thanks."

"And arguing with that kind of stupidity hasn't gotten me anywhere," he added sharply. "Where are you staying?"

"The Windsor Arms Hotel."

"I know a man who's not too far from Hadrian, a man who owes me a favor. He's probably not up to taking the aliens either, but at least he'll buy you some time. I'll have him leave for Hadrian today; he should be there in two days' time, maybe sooner."

"Has he got a name?"

"Mongaso Taylor."

"I've heard that name before. I think maybe Dimitrios mentioned him."

"Could be," said Silvermane. "He used to be a hell of a commando for the Navy, back when he lived in the Democracy. They dropped him behind enemy lines on Cyrano IV during the Sett War. He took out 18 of the purple bastards and blew an ammunition dump all by himself."

"He sounds like he should be all we need."

"He hasn't got a chance," said Silvermane. His voice began crackling with static. "He'll buy you some time, that's all. Do your red tape or whatever's necessary, but get off the planet before Tweedledee and Tweedledum show up."

"It's difficult to take them seriously with those names," remarked Dante.

"Don't let the names fool you," said Silvermane. "I was eager to go up against the Bandit. I've no desire to ever find myself in the same sector with those two."

"Your picture's breaking up," said Dante. "Is there anything else?"

The holograph vanished before Silvermane could reply.

Dante went over to the bathroom, muttered "Cold", rinsed his face off in the flow of water, ordered the blower to dry him, ran a comb through his hair, and prepared to leave the hotel room.

"Open," he said as he approached the door.

The door remained shut.

"I said open."

The mechanical voice of a computer answered. "I must bring to your attention the fact that you have not shut off the water in the bathroom, and that if you leave it will continue running until you return. If that is your desire, say so and I will instruct the servo-mech not to disrupt the flow when it cleans the room. If it is not your desire, I will be happy to shut it off."

"Shut it off and let me out of here," said Dante.

He heard the water stop flowing as the door dilated and he stepped through to the corridor. He took the airlift down to the main floor, then climbed into a robotic rickshaw and had it take him to September Morn's house on the outskirts of town.

It was an old stone building that had a couple of additions grafted onto it, obviously signs of her success in the world of letters. The gardens were carefully tended, filled with flowers he had never seen before. Avian feeders abounded, and several leather-winged little creatures watched curiously him as he approached the from door. He answered a series of questions from the security system, and finally the door dilated. He entered the living room, where September Morn was waiting for him.

The walls were covered with holographic prints of pastoral artworks by human and alien artists alike. One small section held some holos of September Morn accepting various honors. There was a false fireplace, and the mantel was lined with trophies and awards.

"Where are all the books?"

"I actually have very few books," she replied. "They cost too much. My library consists mostly of discs and cubes."

He held up the thin book he'd been carrying. "I wonder if you'd autograph this for me."

"What is it?"

"The King of the Outlaws. I bought it last night at the hotel's gift shop."

"I'll be happy to," she said, producing a stylus as he carried the book over to her. "What did you think of it?"

"It depressed me terribly," said Dante.

She looked concerned. "Oh? What didn't you like about it?"

"I liked everything about it," said Dante. "I realized about three pages into it that the wrong person is trying to be the new Black Orpheus." He paused. "I envy the way you use words. I just write these little stanzas. You create textures and tapestries than I can only marvel it."

"I'm flattered. But what I write is far removed from the way Black Orpheus wrote. The person who carries on his work should write in his style."

"That's generous of you to say so, but you can write rings around me in any style you choose and we both know it." He took the book back and looked at the autograph. "I'll cherish this. It's one hell of a piece of work."

"I don't know how many times I can thank you before it starts sounding false," she said with an embarrassed smile. "So please stop praising me."

"All right."

"Besides, we have more important things to discuss."

He nodded. "I spoke to . . . Santiago."

"And?" said September Morn.

"He can't come himself, but he's sending help."

"Good."

"But he wants us off Hadrian as soon as possible."

"This is my home," she replied adamantly. "I'll leave it when I choose, but I won't be threatened or frightened into running."

"You're sure?"

"If I run once," said September Morn, "I'll run every time I'm threatened, and then every time I think I might be threatened, and one day I'll look around and realize I've spent most of my life running away from things rather than to them. That's not a life I care to live."

"All right," said Dante. "If I were a little bigger and a little stronger, maybe I could tie you up, sling you over a shoulder, and carry you to my ship. But one thing I know is that I'm not about to win an argument with the wordsmith who wrote the poem I just read."

"Thank you," she said. "And for what it's worth, you couldn't tie me up and carry me off even if you were twice your size."

"Probably not," he admitted.

"So I'm staying right here. I'm a crack shot, and I'm not afraid. I know how dangerous they are; they have no idea how dangerous I can be. My sister and I will be safe here."

"Your sister?" said Dante.

"Yes."

"I didn't know you had one. It's not in your bio," he said, holding up her book. "Does she live here?"

"Sometimes." He looked at her curiously, and she continued: "We don't get along very well. I suppose a lot of siblings are like that. But when push comes to shove, blood is thicker than . . . than whatever those aliens have coursing through their veins. She'll stand up and be counted if they come after me."

"Well, that's you, me, your sister, and Mongaso Taylor," said Dante. "Maybe it'll be enough."

"I doubt it," she said.

"So does Santiago."

"But even if we can't beat them, maybe we can convince them that kidnapping me is more effort than it's worth."

"We can try," agreed Dante.

"All right, we've covered that about as thoroughly as we can until your man Taylor gets here," she said. "Make yourself at home. I'm going to get us some drinks, and then you're going to spend the rest of the day telling me about Santiago—all the Santiagos."

It was a pleasant afternoon, and the next morning she showed him around the town of Trajan. They had just finished lunch at a local restaurant when his hotel paged him and told him he had a visitor.

"That's got to be him," said Dante. "Go home and lock all your doors, and don't let anyone in unless he's with me."

"You're overreacting," said September Morn. "They might be 20 systems away from here."

"And they might be 20 minutes away," answered Dante. "It doesn't hurt to play it safe."

"All right, I'll do what you say," she replied. "But I won't keep doing it. I value my freedom too much to stay locked up in my house."

"It's your freedom we're trying to protect," he said, getting up and walking out of the restaurant.

He reached the Windsor Arms in five minutes, and looked around the lobby. Standing by the artificial fireplace, his back to the desk, was a tall, slender, almost emaciated man dressed in muted shades of gray. There were a pair of telltale bulges under his tunic.

Dante approached him. "Mongaso Taylor?" he asked.

The man turned to face him. His face was long and lean, like the rest of him, and he had a thick handlebar mustache. "You must be Dante . . . Dante something. I've forgotten your last name."

"It's not important," said Dante. "The important thing is that you're here."

"I had to come," said Taylor bitterly. "I needed the money."

"Silvermane's paying you? I thought he told me you owed him a favor."

"I don't owe him a big enough favor to put my life on the line without money—five thousand credits up front, twenty more when I'm done."

"Well, that's between you and him. I'm just here to lay out the situation for you."

"You can buy me a drink in the bar while you're talking."

"I thought he just paid you five thousand credits," said Dante with a smile.

"That's more than I've seen in two years," said Taylor. His eyes became unfocused, as if he was looking back across the last few years. "You back out of one goddamned fight . . ."

He fell silent, and while Dante was curious, he decided it would be best not to ask any questions at present. He led Taylor to the bar and let the newcomer order for both of them.

"A pair of Dust Whores," Taylor told the bartender. "Light on the smoke." He turned to Dante. "Okay, I'm paid and I'm here. Who does Silvermane want me to kill?"

"Hopefully no one. But there are two sisters who live on the edge of town, and one of them seems to have become a prime kidnap target."

"You got to have more information than that," said Taylor. "I can't just hang around until some local makes a move. It could take months."

"We're not worried about locals."

"Off-worlders?"

"Aliens," said Dante.

"Lady must be worth a bundle," said Taylor, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

"Don't even think of it. You don't want Silvermane after you."

"You've got a point," admitted Taylor with a sigh. "So who are the aliens—Canphorites? Lodinites?"

"I don't know what they are. I've never seen them, and I don't think the ladies have either."

"Have you got anything I can go on?"

"Just their names—Tweedledee and Tweedledum."

Taylor didn't reply for a full minute. Finally he downed his drink, placed the empty glass on the bar, and turned to Dante.

"Nice to have met you," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I may be poor, but I'm not crazy." He reached into a pocket and pulled out a wad of banknotes. He counted through them, and placed a pile on the bar. "That's three thousand credits. You tell your boss I'm keeping the rest for expenses. If he doesn't like it, he can try to take it back."

"You can't just leave!"

Suddenly Dante was looking down the barrel of a screecher. "Are you gonna stop me?" asked Taylor softly.

"No, but—"

"Then get the hell out of my way."

And with that, he was gone.

Wonderful, just wonderful, thought Dante. I've got a woman who's too proud to leave and a gunman who's too scared to stay. What the hell do I do now?

36.

The little sister, Fortune's bane,

Wishes she had not been born.

Filled with rage and hate and pain,

There she slinks—October Morn.

"He did what?" demanded Silvermane's image.

"You heard me," said Dante, sitting in the pilot's seat of his stationary ship and staring at the holograph that appeared just above the subspace radio. "That's why I'm not transmitting from my room. I don't think anyone's watching me, but if they are I don't want this to be overheard."

"He can't get away with this! I don't give a damn about the three thousand he returned."

"I don't care about the money either," replied Dante. "I'm still here with a woman who's a target for these two aliens. What are we going to do about it?"

"Get off the planet," said Silvermane. "I told you that the last time we spoke."

"And I told you that it's not that easy."

"If she's still there when I get there, I'll convince her to leave," said Silvermane confidently.

"Then you're coming to Hadrian?" said Dante, relieved.

"Eventually. First I have to hunt down Mongaso Taylor and make an example of him, or others will think they can break their word to Santiago."

"Goddammit!" shouted Dante. "He's nothing but a has-been killer who's lost his nerve! I'm the one who made you Santiago, and I need your help right now!"

"Nobody made me Santiago," answered Silvermane coldly. "You merely pointed out the fact of it."

"And nobody made your fortress on Valhalla and presented you with two hundred loyal men and women, and nobody killed the Bandit for you!"

"You didn't kill the Bandit," was Silvermane's calm reply. "She did."

"And now she needs your help."

"Everything in its proper order—first Taylor, then Hadrian."

"What do we do in the meantime?"

"You're the bright one," said Silvermane. "Use that brain of yours."

Dante broke the connection, cursed under his breath, then left the ship and returned to his hotel. Once there, he tried to raise September Morn on the vidphone. There was no answer.

"Damn it!" he snapped to her holo-message tape, making sure his face looked properly grim. "I told you not to leave your place without me!"

He went out, had lunch, and returned to his room, where he tried again without success to contact her. He checked his timepiece; it was only an hour and a half since his first attempt. He left another message about staying put, then lay down and took a nap.

He awoke in late afternoon and called September Morn a third time. The result was the same.

He went down to the lobby, had the desk clerk summon a robotic rickshaw, and took it out to her house.

The door was missing.

Not broken, or melted, or shattered. Missing. Like it had never been there.

He wished he had a weapon of some kind. He looked cautiously into the interior, took a tentative step inside, then a second and a third.

The place was as neat as ever. Nothing was out of place. There were no signs of a struggle. There were no messages, written or transcribed.

And there was no September Morn.

He spent half an hour scouring the house for clues. There weren't any. Finally he sat down on a chair in the living room to consider his options.

He'd been sitting there pondering the situation for perhaps five minutes when he heard footsteps approaching the house.

"Who's there?" he said.

Suddenly the footsteps began retreating. He jumped to his feet and raced to the door, just in time to see a feminine figure racing away.

"September Morn!" he shouted. "Wait!"

The figure kept running, and he took off after her.

"Damn it! Wait for me!"

The figure kept ahead of him for perhaps 200 yards, then began slowing noticeably, and finally he was able to reach out and grab her by the arm.

"Stop!" he snapped. "What the hell is—?"

He stopped in mid-sentence as the girl turned to face him. There were similarities to September Morn—the same high cheekbones, the same light blue eyes, the same neck, the same rounded shoulders—but this girl had a stronger jaw, a broader mouth, and was between five and ten years younger.

"You're the sister," said Dante. It was not a question. "Why did you run away?"

"I wasn't sure who you were."

"Who did you think I might be?"

She wrenched her arm free. "I don't have to talk to you!"

"You have to talk to me now or Santiago later," he lied. "I'm a lot more pleasant."

She glared at him without answering.

"What's going on?" continued Dante. "You saw that the door was gone. That didn't frighten you. I frightened you." Still no reply. "But I'm not a frightening guy—at least not until you know me better—and besides, you didn't see me. You were frightened by who you thought I was." He gripped her arm harder. "Suppose you tell me who you were expecting?"

"No one!"

"Let me re-word that. I know you expected to come home to an empty house. But if it wasn't empty, who did you think would be waiting for you?"

"None of your business!" she snapped, trying to pull her arm free.

"I told you: it's Santiago's business, and he has very unpleasant ways of getting what he wants."

"Fuck off! He's been dead for a century!"

"The king is dead, long live the king. He's back, twice as big and three times as deadly. If you don't tell me what I want to know, I'll turn you over to him." He paused. "You won't enjoy it, take my word for it."

"Why should I believe you?"

Dante shrugged. "Okay," he said, pulling her by the arm. "We'll wait for him at your place."

"Stop pulling me!"

"Stop dragging your ass."

She stared at him. "He really exists?"

"I just told you he does."

Another paused. Then: "All right, I'll tell you what you want to know." Thank God for that. I don't know what I'd have done if we got to the house and you hadn't given in.

"Let's start with names," he said. "Mine is Dante. What's yours?"

"It depends on who you talk to."

"I'm talking to you."

"It's Belinda—but ever since my sister got famous, they call me October Morn."

"I take it you don't like the name?" said Dante.

"I hate it!"

"You don't like her much either, do you?"

"That's an understatement."

"She likes you," said Dante.

"She told you that?"

"In essence."

"Then she's an even bigger fool than I thought," said Belinda.

"Next question," said Dante. "Why did you run from the house?"

"I thought it had been broken into."

"One more lie and you can tell your story to Santiago." He continued pulling her toward the house. "Why did you run?"

"I thought they had come for me."

"They?" asked Dante.

"The aliens."

"Tweedledee and Tweedledum?"

"Yes." She came to a stop.

"Why would they come for you?" he asked. "Your sister's the one who's worth all the ransom money."

"I thought she had tricked them," said Belinda.

"Explain," said Dante, taking her hand and once more leading her to the house.

"I told them where we lived, when she was likely to be home, what she looked like, and—"

"You sold your sister out to aliens?" Dante interrupted.

"I didn't take any money!"

"Then why—?"

"Because I hate her!" yelled Belinda as they reached the house and entered it.

"Okay, you hate her and you gave her to the aliens. Why did you run?"

"She's smart, smarter than anyone suspects," said Belinda bitterly. "I was afraid she'd convinced them that she was me and I was September Morn. When I realized someone was inside the house, I was afraid they'd come back for me."

"Where would they have come back from?" asked Dante.

"I don't know."

"How did you contact them?"

"Through an intermediary."

"Who?"

"I can't tell you," she screamed, panic reflected in her face. "He'll kill me!"

"And I'll kill you if you don't," said Dante harshly. "I'm a lot closer to you at the moment than he is. I want you to consider that very carefully."

"If I tell you who, you've got to protect me from him!" whimpered Belinda.

"The way you protected your sister?" he asked.

"She never needed any protection or any help! She was always the smartest and the prettiest and the most popular and . . ." Her words trailed off into incoherent sobs.

"She needed protection from the aliens," said Dante coldly. "It may have been the only time in her life she needed help, and you betrayed her." He stared contemptuously at her. "I think Santiago and I are going to let you live, just so your sister can take her own revenge on you."

"If my sister isn't dead already, she will be soon."

"Don't bet on it," said Dante. He paused. "We're going to rescue her."

"Why?" asked Belinda, the tears suddenly gone. "What did she ever do for you?"

"She saved my life."

A look of fury crossed Belinda's face. "That figures. She's just the type."

"It's an admirable type," said Dante. "Certainly more admirable than an overgrown petulant brat who sells her sister out to aliens."

Belinda glared at him but made no answer.

"I'm still waiting," said Dante after a moment.

"For what?"

"The name of the man who can contact Tweedledee and Tweedledum."

She considered the question. "You'll protect me?"

"I'll let you live," said Dante coldly. "That's enough of a bargain."

She seemed torn, and finally slumped in resignation. "It's Moby Dick."

"Moby Dick?" he repeated. "Someone's really walking around with that name?"

"Yes."

"You know what will happen to you if you lied to me?"

"Yes, goddammit!" she snapped.

"Where do I find him?"

"The Fat Chance. It's a casino."

"Where is this Fat Chance in relation to the Windsor Arms?" asked Dante.

"A block north, two blocks west."

"Does Moby Dick work for the aliens?"

"He works for himself," said Belinda.

"What does he look like?"

"You'll know him when you see him."

"All right," said Dante. "I'm off to find him." He checked his timepiece. "You've got two hours to clear your stuff out of here."

"This is my house too!"

"You forfeited your right to it. I want you and all your possessions gone today, and I don't want to see you back here. If you disobey me, you'll have to answer to Santiago. Is that understood?" "

No answer.

He took a step toward her. "Is that understood?" he repeated ominously.

"Yes," she muttered.

"Then get going."

"I wish you as much luck with Moby Dick as Ahab had!" she said as he turned and headed off to the Fat Chance.

37.

He's bigger than big, he's whiter than white,

He's got an IQ that's plumb out of sight.

Moby Dick is his name, and his talent is vast:

He changes the future and toys with the past.

The Fat Chance wasn't like any casino Dante had ever been in. There were no craps tables, no roulette wheels, no poker games in progress. All but a handful of the customers were aliens—Canphorites, Lodinites, Mollutei, plus a few species he'd never seen before—and all the games were of alien origin.

There was a long, polished metal bar, manned by two robot bartenders. Given the clientele, Dante hated to think of what was in all the oddly-shaped containers displayed behind the bar.

The poet stepped further into the casino, looking around, and finally he saw the man he knew had to be Moby Dick. He was a big man, big everywhere—he stood almost seven feet tall, and weighed close to 500 pounds. The wild part, decided Dante, was that he'd be willing to bet there weren't 25 pounds of useless fat on the man. He was huge, but he was hard as a rock, and despite his weight he somehow managed to look fit.

His eyes were an dull pink, his lips were thick, his ears small, his head almost bald. When he opened his mouth, he revealed two rows of shining gold teeth.

But the thing that drew Dante's immediate attention, even more than all his other features, was the fact that the man was an albino. It wasn't hard to see how he'd come by his name.

The man sat alone at a table, a drink in front of him, watching the action at a nearby jabob pit. Dante approached him slowly, and came to a stop a few feet away.

"You gonna stand there all day?" asked the albino. "Or are you gonna sit down and tell me why you've come looking for me?"

"I'll sit," replied Dante. The huge man snapped his fingers, and a chair floated over and adjusted to the poet's body. "And I'll have something to drink, too."

"Do I look like a bartender?"

"No," said Dante. "You look like a white whale."

Moby Dick smiled. "Most people are afraid to say that, even though it's true." He paused. "I like you already."

"Good," said Dante. "I wouldn't want anyone your size taking a dislike to me."

This time Moby Dick laughed. "Okay, you've ingratiated yourself enough. Now tell me why you want to see me—and don't deny that's why you're here. No human comes to the Fat Chance to gamble."

"Why are you here?"

"I own the place."

"A casino just for aliens?"

"My own kind doesn't go out of its way to make me feel wanted," said the albino. "So I repeat: why are you here?"

"I need some information," said Dante. "My name is Dante Alighieri, and—"

"How divine is your comedy?" interrupted Moby Dick.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Never mind. You're not the same one."

"But I chose his name for my own."

"Do you write poetry?" asked Moby Dick.

"After a fashion."

"Then it's a fine name for you. Unlike Herman Melville, I don't write epics about whaling. But I'm a whale among men, I'm whiter than any of them, and I'm ready to kill any one-legged man named Ahab." He smiled again. "Haven't found one yet."

"Maybe you'd like to go hunting more dangerous game?" suggested Dante.

The table glowed, and the albino stared at a holocube. "That's his limit," he said to it. "No more credit for him until he makes good his losses." He turned back to Dante. "Why do I think you have someone in mind?"

"Maybe because I haven't got a poker face."

"Go home, Dante Alighieri," said Moby Dick. "You don't want any part of them."

"Any part of whom?"

"We've finished the social niceties," said the albino. "I'd really appreciate if you didn't play stupid with me."

"All right," said Dante. "October Morn told me you can contact Tweedledee and Tweedledum."

He chuckled. "The little bitch would love to see them kill the pair of us."

"Probably," agreed Dante. "But was she telling the truth?"

"Yeah, I can contact them," said Moby Dick. "But you don't want me to."

"Why not let me be the judge of that?"

"Because you've never met them, and your courage is born of ignorance," was the reply. "Believe me, no sane man wants to mess with them."

"The man I work for does."

"Then the man you work for's not long for this plane of existence," said the huge man.

"Nevertheless."

One of the jabob pit bosses, a Lodinite, waddled up and showed a slip of paper to Moby Dick. He grunted, signed it, watched the alien waddle away, and then looked at Dante. "Maybe I should talk to your boss myself."

"He'll be here in a few days' time," said Dante. He paused. "His name is Santiago."

Moby Dick seemed amused. "Why not Caligula or Conrad Bland, while he was at it?"

"Because he is Santiago."

"Somebody's been feeding you a fairy tale, Dante Alighieri," said the albino. "Santiago died 70 or 80 years ago, maybe even longer than that."

"A galaxy that can produce you and Tweedledee and Tweedledum and some of the aliens walking around this casino can produce a man who doesn't age and die like other men. I work for the King of the Outlaws."

Moby Dick was silent for a long moment, analyzing what he'd heard. Finally he spoke. "If he really on his way to Hadrian, I'd like to meet him."

"I thought you didn't believe in him half a minute ago," noted Dante.

"I don't necessarily believe in him now," said Moby Dick amiably. "All the more reason to want to meet him."

"In the meantime, can you set up a meeting between the two aliens and me?"

Moby Dick shrugged. "I can ask. What should I tell them you want to talk about? The lady poet?"

Dante considered his reply for a moment. "Tell them Santiago's coming to kill them, but I might be able to bargain for their lives. I might be able to convince him to take September Morn and hold her for ransom if they'll turn her over peacefully."

"They can't laugh," said Moby Dick. "They're physically incapable of it. But if they could, they'd laugh in your face."

"Just deliver it."

"You're bluffing, of course," said the albino. "Or out-and- out lying. It won't work. They don't understand bluffs. They'll believe what you say."

"I want them to."

"No you don't," said Moby Dick. "I keep telling you: you don't want any part of them. Neither does your boss, whoever he is."

"How is it that you alone know how to contact them?" asked Dante, changing the subject.

"Lots of people know how. I might be the only one currently on Hadrian, or the only one the little bitch sister knows, but there are lots of us."

"Why are you and this small handful of men and women so favored?"

"There are only two of them in the whole damned universe," answered Moby Dick. "There's just so much they can do, so they rule through hand-picked men and women."

"And they picked you?"

The huge man shook his head. "Do I look like a ruler? I'm just a supplicant. If things work out, they may toss me a couple of crumbs someday."

"Would I be correct in assuming one of those crumbs will be Hadrian II?" asked Dante.

"Why not?" Moby Dick shot back. "They can't live everywhere. They can't be everywhere. Someone has to bring order to their empire."

"How many planets do they control right now?"

"Maybe eight or nine."

"That's not much of an empire. The Democracy controls about 150,000 worlds, and they influence at least than many more."

"It's a start. Even Man started out with just one world, you know," said Moby Dick.

"So you're going to fight for them?"

"They may never ask me to, and if I do it'll be without much enthusiasm," answered Moby Dick. "Show me a better side to fight for."

"I intend to," said Dante. "Order something to drink. This is going to take a while."

For the next two hours, Dante filled the huge albino in on what had been transpiring for the past few months, about the poem, and Matilda, and the Bandit, and Silvermane, and—always—the ideal of Santiago. When he finally finished, Moby Dick stared at him for a very long time, and then spoke:

"It's an interesting idea," said the albino. "If you had the right Santiago, I'd join up this minute. But you don't."

"You haven't even met him."

"I don't have to. You've described him. That was the giveaway."

"The giveaway?" repeated Dante, puzzled.

"Yeah. You described his gun and his bullets, you told me how tall and graceful he is, you told me that he looks like some artist's dream, you told me about his silver hair. You told me almost everything I need to know about him—except who and what he is."

"I told you: he's Joshua—" began Dante.

"You described a very beautiful and efficient killer," interrupted Moby Dick. "And except for being very beautiful, I don't see much to differentiate him from your last killer, the Santiago you and September Morn . . . ah . . . deposed right here on Hadrian II."

"He's totally different," said Dante. "For one thing, he's not a fanatic. For another, he really does understand what being Santiago means, what's required of him."

"I don't know," said Moby Dick. "I think they're both dead ends."

"Would you care to explain that?"

"Sure. But first let's generalize a bit. What causes a species to evolve?"

"What are you talking about?" asked Dante irritably.

"You heard me," said the huge albino. "What makes a species evolve?"

"How the hell do I know?"

"You would, if you were using your brain. If you don't, you're just like them."

Dante stared at him, but made no reply.

"The answer," continued Moby Dick, "is that evolution is a response to environmental need. Are the branches of a tree too high? Grow a long neck. Is the sun too bright? Grow bigger eyes and better ears and sleep all day. Are you too small to kill prey animals? Develop opposable thumbs and a brain, and learn to make weapons."

"You are going to get to the point sooner or later, aren't you?"

"The point is obvious. You found two of the most efficient killers on the Frontier, maybe the two best. But because they've always been able to get anything they wanted with their weapons and their physical skills, why should they develop social skills, or be adept at teamwork, or inspire loyalty when they've never required any help before? I'm sure your Silvermane is a dangerous man, and I'm sure he wants to be Santiago—but based on what you've told me, I don't think I'd be inclined to lay down my life for him, or to follow him into battle if the odds were against us."

"You wouldn't be asked to risk you life—or lose it—for him," said Dante, "but for the cause."

"The two should be indistinguishable," answered Moby Dick. "And I get the distinct impression that neither of your Santiagos could describe the cause in terms that would make people willing to die for it."

"All right," said Dante. "So you won't join us. Will you at least help us?"

"You really want me to contact them, even after what I've told you?" asked the albino.

"She saved my life. I owe her."

"Noble," commented Moby Dick. "That's not a trait I see much of out here—nobility."

Another pause. "Then you'll do it?"

"I'll do it. Where can I reach you?"

"The Windsor Arms."

"Wait for me there. I'll be in touch."

Dante got up. "Thanks."

"It's a pity," said Moby Dick.

"What is?"

"I like you, Dante Alighieri. You're a little too noble for your own good, but I really like you. I hate to send you and your boss to your deaths."

"I've got to at least try to save her," answered Dante simply.

"I know."

Dante turned and left the casino, window-shopped his way back to the hotel, and took the airlift up to his room, where he found a message from Virgil waiting for him.

"I'm on Laministra IV, encouraging a couple of drug dealers to voluntarily join our network of freedom fights"—a nasty grin—"and I realized I'm just a hop, skip and a jump from Hadrian, so I thought I'd pop over there and take my ship back if you're through with it. See you in the morning."

Dante wiped the message, waited a few minutes for Moby Dick to contact him, and finally lay down on the bed and closed his eyes.

He didn't know how long he'd slept, but his computer awoke him by gently repeating his name over and over. Finally he sat up groggily.

"All right, I'm awake," he mumbled. "What is it?"

"A Mr. Dick is attempting to communicate with you, Mr. Alighieri."

"I don't know any—" Suddenly he straightened up. "Put him through!"

Moby Dick's image flickered into existence above the computer.

"I've contacted them," he announced, staring straight at him.

"And?"

"As I told you, they can't laugh—but they did seem amused."

"Will they meet with me?"

"No. I gave them the message, exactly as you worded it. They'll meet only with Santiago."

"Where?"

"Kabal III."

"Never heard of it. How far away is it?"

"Perhaps ten light-years."

"Is it an oxygen world?"

"Yes," replied the albino. "That's their only concession to Santiago."

"Concession?" repeated Dante, surprised. "Don't they breathe oxygen?"

"I'm not aware that they breathe anything at all," answered Moby Dick.

"Why would they choose this particular world?"

" It's a deserted colony world, with a couple of empty Tradertowns. There won't be anyone there to interfere."

"Which means they'll have time to booby-trap every inch of it."

"They won't need to," said Moby Dick. "Try to understand: These are aliens who conquer entire worlds with no help from anyone. You have no conception of their powers, no idea what they're capable of."

"So tell me."

"I don't know the specifics. I just know that time after time they accomplish the seemingly-impossible with no visible effort."

Thanks for nothing, thought Dante. "I want you to get back to them and tell them Santiago will only meet them on a world of our choosing."

"If you insist, but . . ."

"But what?"

"But they have September Morn. It would seem to be a seller's market."

"Tell them anyway. If they don't know what a bluff is, they might think Santiago won't come under any other conditions. I mean, hell, he's never even met her. He has no reason to walk into a trap to try to save her."

"Whatever you say. Stay there."

Moby Dick broke the connection, and contacted him again twenty minutes later.

"Well?" demanded Dante.

"No deal. They may not know how to tell a lie, but they know how to spot one. They'll only meet him on Kabal III."

"At least we tried."

"What now?" asked Moby Dick.

"It's obviously a trap. We can't let him go there alone." Dante did some quick mental calculations. "I can have half our men here in six days' time. Let's set the meeting for then."

Moby Dick's expression said it was a hopeless request, but he agreed to pass it on. He was back in communication with Dante ten minutes later.

"Big mistake," he said. "We gave them a time frame. Now they say that if Santiago's not on Kabal III in one Standard day, they'll kill September Morn rather than continue holding her for ransom."

"Shit!" muttered Dante. "She's going to die, and it's my fault! If I'd left it alone, the goddamned government would have come up with the money!"

"Don't blame yourself too much," replied Moby Dick, not without sympathy. "You didn't know who or what you were dealing with."

"Excuse me, Mr. Alighieri," said the computer, "but there is a Priority communication coming in from a Mr. Santiago."

"No problem," said the albino. "I'll talk to you tomorrow. You can let me know what he said then."

He cut the connection, and an instant later Silvermane's visage replaced his.

"I found him," he announced.

"Mongaso Taylor?"

"That's right." Something in his manner precluded any questions about what had happened. "I should reach Hadrian II in about 13 Standard hours. I'll meet you in Trajan just before noon." He paused. "Did you talk any sense into the lady poet?"

"We have to talk about her. I'll go to my ship and get back to you in half an hour."

"I'm getting tired of that," said Silvermane. "Do you have any reason to think someone is monitoring this?"

"No, I'm just trying to be safe."

"Then talk to me now."

Dante sighed deeply. "The aliens kidnapped her."

Silvermane seemed unsurprised and unconcerned. "I told you to get her off the planet." He sighed. "Well, they'll pay the ransom and that'll be that. I hope you learned your lesson."

"It's not that simple."

"Oh?" asked Silvermane, suddenly alert.

"I made a terrible blunder," said Dante. "I tried to bluff them, to scare them with your name."

"Tell me about it."

Dante filled him in. "And their last message is that they've got her on Kabal III, and they'll kill her if you don't show up tomorrow."

"What are they asking for her?"

"You're not seriously thinking of going there?" demanded Dante. "It's a trap!"

"Of course it's a trap."

"I'm glad we agree on that," said Dante, relieved.

"I don't think my pistols will be much good against them. I can stop by Hadrian on the way to Kabal. Can you hunt up a molecular imploder by tomorrow morning?"

"What the hell are you talking about?" shouted Dante at the holographic image. "They're waiting there to kill you, and it's their world! They know every inch of it!"

"You don't seem to understand. They've called me out."

"So what?"

"This goes with the job, poet," explained Silvermane. "If I back down now and get away with it, I'll be tempted to back down again and again. What kind of Santiago would I be then?"

"A live one."

"Don't bury me just yet," he said wryly. "I plan to make a hell of a fight of it—and I've never lost."

"You told me once that you didn't ever want to be in the same sector with them," Dante reminded him.

"That was Joshua Silvermane talking," said the image. "I'm Santiago."

"Surely there's something I can say, something I can do . . ." said Dante.

"There is," replied Silvermane. "Make sure you have the imploder ready for me."

He broke the connection, though Dante stared at the spot where his image had been for a full minute before turning away.

He's going to die, and there's nothing I can do to prevent it, he thought miserably.

He walked over to a mirror and stared at the face that confronted him, searching for all the hidden flaws that he knew must be lurking there.

We're going to lose another Santiago, and it's going to be my fault again, just like the last one. I don't understand it. I try so hard to do the right thing. Why am I as good at getting them killed as I am at finding them?