Authors: Mike Resnick
"I don't know,” answered the Iceman. “That's what I plan to find out.” He walked carefully to the galley, pulled out an exotically-shaped bottle and poured himself a drink. “You want some?” he asked.
"Sure,” said the Kid. “What is it?"
"Alphard brandy,” said the Iceman, handing the bottle and a glass to the Kid. “Not as good as the stuff they make in the Terrazane system, but it keeps better at light speeds."
"Thanks,” said the Kid, filling his glass and returning the bottle to the Iceman. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?"
"Go ahead."
"You didn't pick the Prophet out of a hat,” said the Kid, taking a swallow of the brandy and deciding that he liked it. “There's hundreds of bandits with strange names out there. What makes you think the Prophet might be Penelope Bailey? Why not Father Christmas or Undertaker McNair or the Border Lord?"
"Well, the name fits,” said the Iceman, returning to his seat and setting his glass down on a panel in front of the navigational computer. “But that's secondary; there have been Prophets before. There will be again.” He paused. “It was something 32 told me."
"What?"
"That the Anointed One was thought to be building up his forces for some military action against the Democracy, but during the past year he seems to have changed his target. Now he's hunting for the Prophet."
"So what?"
"Think it through,” said the Iceman, returning to his seat with his glass in his hand. “Here is this fanatic with two hundred million armed followers, all set to take on the Democracy—and suddenly he decides the Prophet is a greater threat.” He stared at the Kid. “The Democracy's got a navy of almost a billion ships, and a standing army of maybe ten billion men. Now, what do you think could possibly pose a greater threat than that?"
"You make it sound logical enough,” admitted the Kid. “But it's also possible that the Anointed One decided that he wasn't up to defeating the Democracy ... or maybe he's out to assimilate all the Prophet's followers into his fold."
"What followers?” demanded the Iceman. “According to 32, the Democracy hasn't got any hard information on the Prophet. Don't you think they'd know if she had millions of men ready to fight on her command?” He paused again. “You say that the Prophet is just a bandit on the Frontier. All right. Who has she robbed? What sector is she operating out of?"
"I don't know,” said the Kid. He stared at the Iceman. “But neither do you. For all you know, the Prophet is just some small-time bandit."
"Like I said, it's possible."
"Then why go on some wild goose chase after her—or him, as the case may be?"
"I'm going after Penelope Bailey because the Democracy thinks she's dead.
They
sure as hell aren't going to go looking for her.” He paused. “And the reason I'm going to try to find the Prophet is even simpler: I don't have any other leads.” He took a deep breath and released it slowly. “And there's one other thing."
"Oh? What?"
"I've never met the Anointed One in my life,” said the Iceman. “I never even heard of him until a couple of weeks ago."
"What has that got to do with the Prophet?"
"Maybe nothing,” admitted the Iceman, picking up his glass and taking another sip. “But if we've never met and I haven't hampered him in any way, then I can think of only one reason he wants me dead.” He paused again. “I'm the only person ever to meet Penelope Bailey and live to tell about it. That could imply that I'm working for her."
"But you're not,” the Kid pointed out.
The Iceman smiled. “You know it and I know it, but the Anointed One has no reason to know it. The only thing he knows is that I've been in her presence a number of times, and I'm still alive."
"You're working with even less information than he is,” responded the Kid, finishing his brandy in a single gulp. “Both in regards to the Anointed One's motives and Penelope Bailey's identity—if she's still alive."
"You're supposed to
sip
your brandy,” said the Iceman.
"I'll remember next time,” said the Kid.
"Please do. It's expensive stuff. If you're just thirty, I've got water and beer."
"All right,” said the Kid irritably. “I said I'd remember, and I will.” He paused. “So how do we go about learning if you're right or wrong about the Prophet?"
"We assume that I'm right, and that she's Penelope Bailey, and we proceed based on that supposition,” said the Iceman. “We'll start on Confucius IV. I don't know anything about the Prophet, you don't know anything about the Prophet, even the Democracy doesn't know anything about the Prophet. But we do know that the Prophet exists. People have heard of her. People talk about her.
You've
heard of her. Even Lomax mentioned her to me back on Last Chance. And we know that the Anointed One is searching the Inner Frontier for her.” The Iceman paused and drummed his fingers on the computer panel. “So we start going from one likely world to another, until we find someone who knows something more about her than her name. Maybe we'll get a location, maybe the scene of a recent crime, maybe the name of an associate—but sooner or later we'll get
something
."
"And then?"
"Then we keep piecing together bits of information until we know if she's Penelope Bailey or not."
"I don't know about this,” said the Kid doubtfully. “This whole scenario you've built, everything you've said—it's all supposition."
"True,” agreed the Iceman. “But it
feels
right."
"So we're going all over the Inner Frontier chasing some bandit because it
feels
right?” said the Kid displaying a sardonic smile.
"When you pay the bills, we'll do it your way,” said the Iceman. “In the meantime, if you have any objections, I can let you off on the nearest oxygen world."
"No, I'll stay with you,” said the Kid. “I've still got a lot of worlds to see. I might as well see them on salary.” He paused thoughtfully. “And if she really
is
alive, I want to see her.” Suddenly he smiled. “Who knows? Maybe I'll go down in history as the man who killed Penelope Bailey."
"I wouldn't bet my last credit on it,” said the Iceman dryly.
Confucius IV wasn't much of a world. It consisted of three abandoned Tradertowns, a handful of mines which were mostly played out, some enormous flat fields that didn't have rich enough soil or get enough rain, and one small city.
The city, New Macao, was pretty unimpressive even by the standards of the Inner Frontier. Its cobblestone streets, created to be charming, were in dire need of repair and caused equal havoc to feet and tires. The major hotel resembled a steel-and-glass pagoda, and the rooms were furnished with the same lack of taste displayed by the architect. Another hotel resembled an emperor's palace, as conceived by someone who had never seen either an emperor or a palace. The streets were narrow and winding, with an abundance of bars and drug dens and an absolute minimum of official supervision.
"I
like
it,” said the Silicon Kid, as he and the Iceman walked down the main street, past the two hotels and a trio of overpriced nightclubs.
"It's filthy and dangerous,” replied the Iceman.
"That's what I like about it. It's exotic."
"Your definition of exotic and mine differ considerably,” said the Iceman wryly.
"Look at the men standing in the doorways of some of those buildings!” said the Kid excitedly. “I'll bet I've seen half of them on wanted posters!"
"Probably,” said the Iceman. “I suppose I should warn you that that doesn't necessarily make them desirable companions."
"I've been rubbing shoulders with farmers all my life,” said the Kid. “At least these guys figure to be more interesting."
"When's the last time a farmer took your wallet, cut your throat, and left you for dead in the street?"
"I'd like to see someone try it, now that I've got my implants,” said the Kid confidently.
"You would?” said the Iceman with an amused smile. “Well, maybe I can accommodate you."
"What are you talking about?” asked the Kid, suddenly tense.
"When we turn off of this street, just keep twenty yards behind me. I guarantee you'll have a chance to try out the New Improved You."
"What about you?"
"Me? I gave up showing off half a century ago."
"No,” said the Kid. “I mean, if this place we're going is so dangerous, why won't they go after you, too?"
"Because they want to live."
The Kid laughed. “You're a fat old man with a limp."
"That's right."
"Then why should they leave you alone?"
"Because I'm the Iceman,” came the reply in such a cold voice that the Kid decided his aging companion was more formidable that he looked.
"So, where are we going?"
"A place even the police don't go,” answered the Iceman. “It's just a couple of more blocks."
"Has it got a name?"
"Nightmare Alley."
"Picturesque,” remarked the Kid.
"Accurate,” replied the Iceman.
They walked for another fifty yards, then turned down a narrow sidestreet.
"This is Nightmare Alley?” asked the Kid.
"Soon,” said the Iceman.
They walked past two dilapidated buildings, then came to a winding alleyway—and suddenly the character of the area changed from something that the Kid thought was exotic and Iceman thought was merely rundown, to something that both agreed was deeply weird.
Club after club lined the alley, most with their own barkers. There was a drug den, a betting parlor, a bar, another drug den, a pornographic stage show, a whorehouse for men, a whorehouse for women, a whorehouse for aliens, and a whorehouse for those desiring that most taboo of vices—inter-species sex. Taverns, each darker and more disreputable than the last, catered to all races. Shrill screams and raucous laughter came from the whorehouses, and terrified screams emanated from one of the drug dens. There were a pair of weapon shops, one specializing in laser pistols and rifles, the other in projectile firearms, and the Kid had the feeling that not a single weapon in either shop possessed a serial number.
Every fifteen feet or so they came to a body lying on the pavement. Some appeared drunk, others comatose; the Iceman paid them no attention.
"I think I just saw Lizard Malloy in that bar across the alleyway!” whispered the Kid excitedly.
"Well, this is a good place to stay when there's a price on your head,” replied the Iceman.
A few faces peered out at the Iceman and the Kid from the interiors of the buildings they passed, but no one made any move to hinder them, and even the barkers stepped aside as the Iceman approached them.
"They seem to know you,” said the Kid, impressed.
"They know enough not to bother me, anyway,” answered the Iceman.
"I thought you hadn't left Last Chance in four years."
"That's right."
"You must have made quite an impression the last time you were here."
The Iceman made no reply, but began slowing down. “We're going in there,” he said, gesturing toward a doorway. “Once we're inside, keep your mouth shut and your eyes open. Got it?"
"Right,” said the Kid. He paused uncertainly. “What am I looking for?"
"You'll know it when you see it,” said the Iceman.
He entered the doorway, followed by the Kid.
"Welcome to the House of Usher,” said a tall man dressed in faded formal garb. He stared at the Iceman, and suddenly a look of recognition crossed his face. “It's been a long time, Mr. Mendoza. We heard rumors that you had been killed."
"I can only be killed with a silver bullet,” replied the Iceman with a wry smile. “I thought everyone knew that.” He pulled out a hundred-credit note and handed it to the man. “I'm renting a table near the bar. It's my office for the next two hours."
The man grabbed the note and nodded.
"There's another hundred credits for you for every person you bring to my office—if they have anything useful to sell."
"What are you buying?"
"Information."
"There's all kinds of information, Mr. Mendoza."
"Pass the word that the Iceman is interested in information about the Prophet."
The man rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “That may be more difficult than you imagine, Mr. Mendoza. I've only heard the Prophet mentioned twice in all the time I've been here."
"This is Nightmare Alley,” said the Iceman. “Someone will know something.” He pulled out two more notes. “Put the word on the street, too. Tell them I'll be here for two hours, and then I'm leaving Confucius."
"I'll pass the word as soon as I take you to your table."
"Don't bother,” said the Iceman. “I know the way."
As the tall man walked out the door, the Iceman turned to the Kid.
"Follow me, and don't stare."
"At what?"
"At anything you see. It's in bad taste."
The Iceman led him through a labyrinthian corridor that passed a number of dimly-lit rooms. In one, a number of men and women, all addicts of the alphanella seed, lay in various states of stupor and catatonia, their pupils dilated, their eyes wide open, their faces contorted in nightmarish smiles. In another three green-skinned aliens, mildly apelike in appearance, sat naked on the floor, surrounded by perhaps two hundred blue-glowing candles, each dissecting a small animal. The kid tried to ignore the little animals’ screams of pain, and wondered if he were observing a religious ritual or an illegal dinner, or both.
They passed three more cubicles, each with humans or aliens doing things that they were never meant to do, and finally they came to the bar. There were a dozen tables evenly spaced throughout the room, all but three of them occupied by a relatively equal number of humans and aliens, and the Iceman picked the one that was farthest from the corridor through which they had entered. The two men who were sitting there took one look at him and left hurriedly as he approached.
"Welcome back, Mr. Mendoza,” said the bartender, a grossly obese bald man with a handlebar mustache that had been dyed a bright blue. “It's been a long time."
"Not long enough,” said the Iceman distastefully, and the bartender chuckled. “Bring us a pair of beers."