Authors: Mike Resnick
"How long have you been on Mozart?"
"A few months. It's a pleasant enough world. A little on the dull side, as you've already noticed, but the climate's nice, the people are friendly, and your money goes a long way here.” He paused. “It's no worse than most worlds, and probably better than a lot of them."
"Where are you from originally?” asked the Kid, picking up his new beer and taking a swallow.
"Back in the Democracy,” said Mboya with an expression of contempt. “A little world named Far London.” He paused. “I decided that a man with my talents could go a lot farther on the Inner Frontier."
"What
are
your talents?"
"You'll laugh."
"No, I won't,” said the Kid.
Mboya shrugged. “Right at the moment, I'm in pest control."
"Pest control?” repeated the Kid, surprised.
"You have a pest problem, you send for me and I cure it."
"Well, at least I understand why you're on an agricultural world,” said the Kid. “They must have a lot of work for you here."
"I keep busy,” answered Mboya, finishing off his beer and putting the empty glass back on the table.
"Sounds like dull work, if you don't mind my saying so,” said the Kid.
"I rather enjoy it,” replied Mboya.
"To each his own."
"True,” agreed Mboya. “As for myself, I'd go crazy spending all my time creating computer chips."
"So would I,” answered the Kid. “That's why I was looking for a little action."
"If you don't like gambling, you're out of luck in Minuet,” said Mboya.
"It occurs to me that the Prophet could break the bank if she's all she's supposed up to be,” said the Kid.
"I doubt they'd allow her to play,” responded Mboya.
"She's that good?"
"If you owned the casino, would you take the chance that she might be?” asked Mboya.
"I wonder what the hell someone like her is doing out here on a world like this in the first place,” said the Kid.
"You seem very interested in her,” observed Mboya.
"She sounds like a very interesting person,” answered the Kid. “And I really
could
use some investment advice."
"What, exactly, have you heard about her?"
"Just that she's supposed to be able to foresee the future,” answered the Kid.
"Nothing more?"
"Well, I heard some rumors that she used to be the Oracle, but I don't believe it.” The Kid watched Mboya to see if there was any reaction. There wasn't. “Hell, everyone knows that the Iceman killed the Oracle a few years back."
"The Iceman!” said Mboya. “Now
there's
a name to conjure with!"
"You've heard of him?"
"Who hasn't?” replied Mboya. “He's a legend out here.” He paused. “I'd like to meet him someday—if he's still alive, that is."
The Kid looked at the empty glasses. “Care for another round?” he asked.
"No,” said Mboya. “I think I'm going to go try my luck at the roulette table down the street."
"I never much liked roulette,” said the Kid. “Too big a percentage for the house."
"I don't like it all that much myself,” said Mboya. Suddenly he grinned. “But as the old saying goes, it's the only game in town. In this case, literally."
"Good luck,” said the Kid.
"Perhaps you'd care to come along?” suggested Mboya, getting to his feet. “They've also got blackjack, poker, and
jabob
."
"I'll probably be along later,” said the Kid. “I think I'll have another beer first. I had a long nap this afternoon; I'm good for hours yet."
"Well, thank you for the beer, Mr. Cayman,” said Mboya. “I hope you'll let me return the favor if you show up at the casino before I leave."
"It's a deal,” said the Kid.
Mboya grinned. “That's always assuming I haven't gone broke in the interim."
"One of those gold teeth ought to buy the best bottle in the house,” said the Kid.
Mboya laughed and walked out into the night, and the Kid picked up his glass and walked over to the bar.
"I'll have another,” he said.
"Coming right up,” said the bartender, bringing him a fresh glass.
"Interesting guy, that Mboya,” said the Kid. “Does he come here often?"
"Oh, he comes by every now and then, when his boss sends him,” answered the bartender. “But I've never heard him called Mboya before."
"That's not his real name?” asked the Kid.
The bartender shrugged. “For all I know it is—but out here on the Frontier they call him The Black Death."
"The Black Death?” repeated the Kid.
"The way you two were getting on, I thought you knew him."
The Kid shook his head. “He just walked up and introduced himself. Told me he was in pest control."
The bartender chuckled. “Well, in a way, I suppose he is."
"In what way?"
"He's the Prophet's bodyguard."
The Kid nursed his next beer for half an hour, then wandered over to the casino.
It was a large room, far larger than the Iceman's on Last Chance. There were half a dozen blackjack tables, four poker tables, a pair of roulette wheels, a craps table, a billiard table, two
jabob
games, and another alien game that he had never seen before.
The casino was relatively empty when the Kid arrived. There were perhaps fifteen men and women playing the various games, and not a single alien to be seen. The Kid immediately spotted Mboya, the solitary player at one of the roulette wheels, and walked over to him.
"Hello, Neil,” said Mboya with a friendly smile. “Glad you decided to come on over."
"There was nothing else to do,” said the Kid with a shrug. “By the way, do I call you Mr. Mboya or Mr. Death?"
Mboya laughed. “James will do."
"But you
are
The Black Death?” persisted the Kid.
"Some people call me that.” Mboya studied the table, then placed a pair of chips on Odd and another on Red.
"I see you like to play it safe,” noted the Kid.
"The odds are 35-to-1 that you'll lose if you bet on a number,” answered Mboya. “I don't really expect to win when I come here, but I'd like my money to last long enough for me to enjoy myself for a couple of hours."
"Why are you here at all?” asked the Kid.
"I like to gamble. Where
should
I be?"
"Talking to me. That was your assignment, wasn't it?"
"I
am
talking to you,” said Mboya easily. “No reason why I shouldn't enjoy myself while I'm doing it."
"Does she send you out to talk to every newcomer to Mozart?” asked the Kid.
"No,” said Mboya as the wheel started spinning. “Just the ones she's curious about."
"Why is she curious about me?"
Mboya shrugged. “Who knows what makes her curious, or why she does anything she does?” He cursed beneath his breath as the number came up Even and Black. “Damn! You wouldn't think anyone could lose this consistently! I bet Black four times in a row and it comes up Red all four times ... so I finally bet Red, and it comes up Black. If I didn't know better, I'd say the wheel was rigged."
"What makes you think it isn't?” asked the Kid.
"Because if it was, no man having anything to do with this casino would be alive tomorrow morning,” answered Mboya seriously. “And they know it.” He stared at the table again, trying to decide which number to bet, then finally shrugged and straightened up. “I've had enough of this game. It's time to find a slower way to lose my money.” He spotted the empty pool table. “You ever shoot any pool, Neil?"
"Once in a while."
"Good,” said Mboya, walking to the table and studying its green felt surface. “Care to play for a small stake, just to make it interesting?"
"It wouldn't be fair,” said the Kid.
"I'm not a hustler,” Mboya assured him.
"I know. It wouldn't be fair, because you can't win."
Mboya grinned. “Well, now, I wouldn't necessarily say
that
, either."
"It's the truth,” said the Kid.
"I thought you only played once in a while."
"That's right."
"Then why should I believe you?"
"Believe whatever you want.” Suddenly the Kid shrugged and smiled. “One hundred credits a game?"
"Sounds good to me,” said Mboya, selecting a cue and starting to chalk the tip of it.
"Just remember I warned you,” said the Kid, picking his cue and walking back to the table.
"I admire your confidence,” said Mboya. “Rack ‘em."
The Kid's confidence turned out to be well-placed, as he had known it would be. The chips that were tied into his eyes showed him every tiny irregularity in the table's surface; the chips in his shoulders allowed him to make every shot with the same sure stroke; the chip he'd had implanted on Sweetwater allowed him to lean far over the table without any discomfort or loss of balance. He easily beat Mboya three games in a row, and was about the rack the balls for a fourth game when The Black Death called it quits and pulled three hundred-credit notes out of his wallet.
"You ought to quit the chip business and turn pool shark,” he said ruefully, as he laid the money on the table.
"Maybe someday I will,” answered the Kid, picking it up and stuffing it into his wallet.
Mboya signaled to a lone waiter, who was wandering around the casino taking orders.
"A pair of beers, please,” he said when the waiter approached them. He wiped his brow and turned to the Kid. “Let's have a seat. Losing at roulette and pool is thirsty work."
"You never had a chance,” said the Kid, following him to an unoccupied card table.
"I knew that after about the fifth shot,” Mboya agreed with a wry smile as he sat down opposite the Kid. “I don't know where you learned to play, and your style is unorthodox as all hell—but somebody sure as hell taught you well."
It was the Kid's turn to smile. “I doubt that I've played half a dozen times in my life."
"I don't believe it!” said Mboya adamantly.
"I have no reason to lie to you,” said the Kid. “I didn't lie about your chances, either: I told you on the front end that I was going to win."
"So sue me,” said Mboya. “I didn't know you'd be that good."
"There's a lot about me you don't know,” replied the Kid. He paused. “That neither you nor your boss knows."
"I don't suppose you'd care to confide in me,” suggested Mboya with a smile.
The Kid shook his head. “Anything she wants to know, she can ask me directly."
"That's not her style, Neil."
"Then she'll have to change it,” said the Kid firmly.
Mboya seemed amused. “She doesn't change for other people; they change for her."
"Why?"
"Because she's the Prophet.” He paused. “Why are you so interested in meeting her?"
"I told you."
"I know what you told me,” said Mboya. “I just thought you might prefer to tell me the truth."
"Are you calling me a liar?” said the Kid.
"Not at all,” answered Mboya calmly. “If I called you a liar, you'd probably take offense, and then I'd have to kill you—and you seem like a nice enough young man."
"I might be a lot harder to kill than you think,” said the Kid.
"That's possible,” admitted Mboya. “A lot of men I've killed were harder to kill than I had thought they would be—but they're all dead, just the same.” He paused. “Maybe we ought to change the subject, before I start getting curious about just how hard you'd be to kill."
"Suits me,” said the Kid. “I've got no quarrel with you. You're just the hired help.” He paused. “Of course, you did lie to me over at the tavern."
"Why would I lie to you?"
"You said you were in pest control."
"I am,” answered Mboya easily. “That's why I'm here: to see just how much of a pest you intend to be, and how much controlling you'll need."
"I told you,” said the Kid. “I sell computer chips."
"I know what you told me,” said Mboya. “I didn't believe you then, and I don't believe you now."
"Order a chip from me and you'll see you were wrong.” The Kid smiled. “If nothing else, it'll improve your pool game."
The waiter finally arrived with their beers, and Mboya tossed a couple of coins on his tray.
"They make a lot of good things on Mozart,” said Mboya, grimacing as he emptied the container into his glass, “but beer, alas, isn't one of them."
"So order an import."
"As long as I'm here, I feel I ought to support the local industries."
The Kid stared at him curiously. “You're a strange kind of killer."
"Well, if it comes to that, you're a strange kind of traveling salesman,” replied Mboya.
The Kid stared at him. “I was minding my own business,” he said defensively. “
You
sought
me
out."
"That's my job."
"So you said,” replied the Kid. “I'd just like to know why she's curious about me."
Mboya grinned. “Mine is not to reason why."
"Yours is just to protect her with your life, right?"
"Wrong."
"The bartender at the tavern said you were her bodyguard,” said the Kid.
Mboya shook his head. “She doesn't need a bodyguard. I'm just her eyes and ears when she's occupied with other matters—which is most of the time."
"What's she like?"
"Different."
"In what way?"
"
I'm
supposed to be asking the questions,” said Mboya.
"I don't have to answer them."
"No,” agreed Mboya. “But you'd make my job much easier if you would."
The Kid finally took a long swallow of his beer, then stared at Mboya. “Why do I care if your job's easy or hard?"
"Because when I get frustrated in my work, I get ill-tempered,” said Mboya. “Believe me, you wouldn't like me when I'm ill-tempered."
"I don't think I like you all that much right now,” answered the Kid.
Mboya studied him carefully. “Do you know something else you're not telling me, Neil?"
"Like what?"
"I don't know. But most people don't talk to me like that unless they think they'd got some kind of an edge."
"What I know is
my
business,” answered the Kid. “And you can stop calling me Neil."