Authors: Mike Resnick
"Well?” said Chandler, facing the dapper criminal.
"Finding a way to smuggle you onto Hades is proving to be more difficult than I thought,” replied Lord Lucifer. “Since Boma's death the Blue Devils have taken additional security measures on their shuttle flights. It can be done, of course, but it will take a lot more time and planning than I had anticipated.” He paused and smiled. “She's definitely not very anxious to see you in the flesh, Mr. Chandler."
"If she's everything she's supposed to be, I don't imagine she's losing any sleep over the prospect,” replied Chandler. “This is probably the Blue Devils’ idea.” He stopped speaking, struck by a sudden thought.
"What is it, Mr. Chandler?” asked Lord Lucifer, staring at him intently.
"Consider what I just said,” answered Chandler. “There's no reason why a woman who can foresee the future should be worried about me trying to kill her. Therefore, this has to be the Blue Devils’ idea.” He stared at Lord Lucifer. “What does that imply to you?"
"That they don't want you to reach her."
"Of course they don't,” said Chandler impatiently. “But why not? They know the extent of her power—it's what's kept them out of the Democracy—so why should this worry them?"
"I see!” said Lord Lucifer, suddenly grinning.
"Well, I don't see a damned thing,” interjected Gin. “Would someone please tell me what you two think you know?"
Chandler turned to the driver. “I've been hired to bring her out, and to kill her only as a last resort. I haven't figured out how to kill her yet, and they have no reason to think she can be killed. What does that imply to you?"
Gin shrugged. “I don't know,” he said, confused. “What should it imply?"
"That they're afraid she'll leave voluntarily with Mr. Chandler,” said Lord Lucifer.
"I've been operating on the assumption that she's remained on Hades by choice,” added Chandler. “But what if that assumption was false?"
"You've told me about her,” said Gin. “How could they hold someone with her powers against her will?"
"You lock her in an electrified cell, surround it with a force field, and leave two guards on duty, and all the foresight in the world isn't going to do her a bit of good,” said Chandler. “If every possible future has her incarcerated against her will, then that's where she'll stay."
"It still doesn't make sense,” protested Gin. “If she can see the future, why would she let herself be locked up to begin with?"
Chandler shrugged. “Who knows? She was only eight years old when she came to Hades. Maybe her powers weren't that well developed then. She arrived with an alien called the Mock Turtle—maybe he betrayed her. Maybe she simply didn't understand what they intended to do with her.” He paused. “Or maybe they were all bosom buddies until the day she decided to leave, and they realized that without her they were going to be assimilated into the Democracy."
"Or maybe you're dead wrong,” said Gin, unconvinced.
"Maybe,” said Chandler. “But lets assume for the sake of argument that I'm right.” He paused again. “It would also explain why the Democracy wants me dead. If they think there's a chance she'll come out with me, they'll just have to go to the trouble of tracking her down again, and I gather she wasn't an easy lady to find.” He paused. “Look at it from their point of view: the Blue Devils aren't much of a military threat, and they haven't made any major alliances with the Democracy's enemies. If they can't kill her, this is probably as safe a place to keep her as any. If she leaves, she could go to the Canphor Twins or Lodin XI or some other world that can make war on the Democracy."
"I still think you're making a mistake,” said Gin adamantly.
"Prove it."
"Easy,” said the driver. “If she wants you to rescue her, why did she send the Blue Devil to kill you?"
"She didn't. That was his idea—his or his government's."
"Then how did he know who you were and where to find you?"
"A very good point,” said Lord Lucifer. He turned to Chandler. “Have you an answer?"
"There are no answers when we're dealing with such minimal information, just suppositions,” said Chandler. “But suppose she could foresee that Boma couldn't kill me, that I'd spot the glass in the food—and suppose further that she knew it would lead me to the very conclusion I've just reached.” He paused. “Wouldn't that be the best way she had of telling me that she was willing to leave?"
"That's a lot of supposing,” said Gin dubiously. “I sure wouldn't risk my life on it."
"I don't plan to risk my life on it, either,” answered Chandler. “Not yet, anyway.” He fell silent for a moment, collecting his thought. “Still, I've got a gut feeling that I'm right. I think a new course of action is called for."
"What did you have in mind, Mr. Chandler?” asked Lord Lucifer.
"Well, we seem to be in agreement that I can't go to Hades right now, not if they're searching every shuttle."
"Then what do you plan to do?"
"I would think the answer was obvious,” answered Chandler. “If I can't go in after her, the only alternative is to get her to come to me."
"She'll never come up here,” said Lord Lucifer. “If she wants to leave with you, the Blue Devils will never let her. And if you're wrong and she wants you dead, she's got enough agents on Port Marrakech to do the job for her."
"I have no intention of remaining on Port Marrakech,” said Chandler. “The Blue Devils know who I am, and the Democracy is also trying to kill me."
"Then I still don't understand what you're going to do,” said Lord Lucifer, frowning.
"There are two other moons. Which one has the most Blue Devils on it?"
"Port Maracaibo,” offered Gin. “Port Samarkand is mostly farms and processing plants."
"Then the Whistler is going to be captured by that famed opportunist, Lord Lucifer, who will incarcerate him in the tunnels beneath the Platinum Quarter until someone pays a ransom of, oh, not to price myself too cheaply, ten million credits.” Chandler smiled. “No one will pay it, of course. The Democracy wants me out of the way, the Blue Devils want me out of the way, and the Iceman isn't about to dip into his own pocket to rescue me.” He paused. “And tomorrow, a man with a fresh and totally untraceable identity will show up on Port Maracaibo. He'll dwell in total obscurity, shunning the spotlight there every bit as much as the Whistler sought it on Port Marrakech, and before a month has gone by he'll have wrought such havoc among the Oracle's agents that the Blue Devils themselves will insist that she take a hand in finding and capturing him."
"You really think they'll send her to Port Maracaibo to find you?” asked Lord Lucifer.
"They're not going to be willing to live in a state of terror forever,” replied Chandler, “and they're certainly not going to declare war against the moons and give the Democracy any cause for moving in to protect its human population. Sooner or later they're going to decide that their best bet is to send the Oracle to Port Maracaibo to save them."
"And if they decide she's too valuable to risk losing?” persisted Lord Lucifer.
"Then,” answered Chandler wryly, “I've still got four months to think of something else."
"I don't mean to be insulting, Mr. Chandler, but that's a pretty feeble answer."
"It was facetious,” admitted Chandler. “Actually, if I can't draw her up to Port Maracaibo, I think my chances of getting her out may actually be enhanced."
"You lost me again,” said Gin.
"I'm afraid I don't quite follow you, either,” added Lord Lucifer.
"If she's totally committed to the Blue Devils, she'll come after me the instant I start putting pressure on them. She probably considers herself invulnerable, so from her point of view there's no risk involved; it's just a matter of tending to security. And if she actually wants to leave Hades and they let her come anyway, then they feel they can control her, and I've overestimated her power.” He paused. “But if they're afraid to let her come to Port Maracaibo, then her power is every bit as awesome as I've been led to believe it is and they don't dare risk giving her any freedom of action at all. If that's the case, all I have to do is figure out a way to open one door for her and she'll do the rest."
Lord Lucifer smiled. “You make it sound a lot simpler than I think it will prove to be."
"Well, if it was easy, someone would have gotten to her before now,” admitted Chandler. He paused. “I don't know about anyone else, but I think I'm ready for that cognac."
"Sounds good to me,” agreed Gin.
Chandler turned to the driver. “Why don't you go and tell the Wolfman to bring it in?"
"Sure thing, Whistler,” said Gin. He got up from the table and left the room.
"Find out everything you can about him,” said Chandler, lowering his voice.
"About Gin?” repeated Lord Lucifer. “He's been around for years."
"Do it anyway."
"Do you have some reason to suspect he might be in the employ of the Oracle?"
"If she's got any humans working for her, I'm not aware of it."
"Neither am I,” admitted Lord Lucifer. He frowned. “Then why are you suspicious of him?"
"The Oracle's not the only one trying to kill me, remember?"
"But Gin was almost killed by a Democracy assassin,” protested Lord Lucifer.
"And he spent two days in the hospital with a shoulder burn,” responded Chandler. “He should have been out on the street the next morning. They knew he was my driver; they may have gotten to him while he was being patched up. If they did, I want to know who he reports to."
"I'll take care of it,” promised Lord Lucifer. He paused thoughtfully. “Still, I think your fears are groundless. Look at him—the man practically worships you."
"If I recall my theology, Judas practically worshipped Jesus, too,” answered Chandler wryly.
"Duly noted,” said Lord Lucifer. “By the way, it occurs to me that you could use a contact on Port Maracaibo."
"You have one in mind, no doubt?” suggested Chandler.
"The very best,” answered Lord Lucifer. “But I see Gin is returning with our cognac, so perhaps we'd best discuss it later."
"Right,” agreed Chandler.
"Good stuff,” said Gin, entering the room with a bottle and three glasses on a tray. “I had a little taste out there, just to make sure it was as represented.” He filled the glasses and passed them around.
"Let me propose a toast, Mr. Chandler."
"Be my guest."
"To the Oracle,” said Lord Lucifer. “She has certainly made our lives more interesting."
"I'll drink to that,” said Chandler, raising his glass to his lips. “Let's just hope she hasn't also made them briefer."
There were major differences between Port Maracaibo and Port Marrakech, although they had been terraformed by the same team and possessed almost identical atmospheres, gravities, and climates.
The structures on Port Maracaibo were less exotic, more rectangular, less formal, more closely clustered in the residential areas. The city, which like its counterpart on Port Marrakech bore the name of the moon—had been carefully planned: its streets were laid out in a grid, its commercial center had clearly-defined borders, and a series of public coaches, powered by superconductivity, skimmed a few inches above the streets between the city center and the outlying areas.
Chandler sat in a coach, studying a map of the city he had picked up while passing through customs. From time to time he looked up to make sure that no one was watching him, but he didn't seriously expect that he was being followed. Before leaving Port Marrakech he had died his auburn hair a dark brown, put brown-tinted contact lenses into his eyes, and had left all his weaponry on Port Marrakech. His new features perfectly matched the passport that Lord Lucifer had supplied him, and he hadn't set off any alarms while going through spaceport security. He was just a down-on-his-luck traveler, hoping to find work on the farthest of Hades’ three moons.
His new name was Preston Grange, and Lord Lucifer had even arranged to give him a history that included four arrests and a pair of convictions for minor crimes. He probably couldn't stand the kind of scrutiny he would receive if he were arrested, but then, if he were arrested he had more pressing problems to worry about anyway.
The address Lord Luficer had given him was on Cleopatra Street. He hunted it up on the map, realized that he had to change coaches in order to reach it, and walked to a door. An electronic sensor picked up the heat from his body, relayed it to the coach's brain, and the coach came to a stop at the next corner.
Chandler stepped out, looked for a public transit sign on the next cross street, and stood in front of it. A moment later he was in another coach, and a few minutes after that he was standing on Cleopatra Street. He checked a number and began walking toward the address he had been given.
The area quickly turned shabby and a bit rundown: bars, nightclubs and drug dens lined the street, and brightly-dressed men and women lingered in doorways, some beckoning, some engaged in whispered conversations, some merely staring out at the street in complete boredom.
Finally he came to number 719, a small, unobtrusive building stuck between an all-night restaurant and a sleazy nightclub promising acts that would shock any race in the galaxy, bar none.
He opened the door and found himself in a small octagonal foyer with no other doors. There was a small device on one wall, about five feet above the floor, and a recorded, slightly mechanical voice instructed him to peer into it. He did as he was told, and was soon staring at a hologram of a stunningly beautiful blonde woman doing a sensuous dance. The hologram vanished after thirty seconds, and the voice informed him that his retinagram had been taken, analyzed and cleared.
"Please step forward,” said the voice.
Chandler approached the wall, which slid aside to let him pass through, then moved back into place.
He followed a narrow corridor and emerged into a luxurious parlor, filled with plush furnishings, erotic paintings and holograms, and even a bronze sculpture of the same woman who had appeared in the little holo he had seen in the foyer.