Authors: Mike Resnick
"Well, I'll be damned!” muttered the man in black. “I guess you did make my job easier, at that."
"I'll take it out of your pay,” said the Iceman wryly.
"You know, one of these days someone's going to come out here who knows what you look like,” said the man in black. “What are you going to do then?"
"Duck, I suppose,” replied the Iceman. “In the meantime, let's move our late friend here into my office and see what we can learn about him."
"I have a feeling he's going to be just like the others you described to me,” predicted the man in black. “No identification, no fingerprints, surgically-altered retinagram."
"Probably,” agreed the Iceman. “But let's do it anyway."
The man in black shrugged and gestured for a couple of other men to pick up the corpse. They began carrying it toward the casino.
The Iceman immediately barred their way. “Out the front and around to the side,” he said. “We've got customers here. How would
you
like it if someone dragged a dead body right in front of you while you were drinking?” He paused, then sighed deeply. “Don't answer. Just do it."
They reversed their direction and carried the dead man out the front door.
"Well,” said the man in black, “are you finally going to tell me what this is all about?"
"I wish to hell I knew,” answered the Iceman, limping back to the bar and pouring himself a beer. He offered one to the man in black, who turned it down.
"Don't kill the next one and maybe you'll find out."
"Anyone who comes after me on Last Chance dies,” answered the Iceman firmly. “That's part of the myth I spent three decades creating. If I let even one of these bastards live, the myth becomes a fairy tale and they'll be coming after me every hour instead of every week. Lord knows I've made enough enemies over the years."
"Then why did you hire me at all?” asked the man in black in frustrated tones.
"As you say, one of them may know who I am—and I happen to be a 71-year-old man with a beer belly and an artificial leg. When I finally need you, you'll earn your money, never fear."
"You ought to let me cripple one of them,” said the man in black. “Then we'd get some answers."
"You want to cripple one?” asked the Iceman. He gestured to the door. “You've got the whole damned planet on which to do it. But once they walk through that door, my first concern is staying alive.” He finished his beer. “Now, if you want to practice on men who are here to kill
you
, that's your privilege and good luck to you—but I didn't get to be this old by taking chances."
"They say there was a time when you took chances,” replied the man in black. “Lots of ‘em."
"I was young. I learned better."
"That's not the way I heard it."
"Then someone must have lied to you,” said the Iceman.
"They even say,” continued the man in black, “that you're the only man who ever took on the Oracle and won."
The Iceman grimaced. “I didn't win anything."
"Is she still alive?"
"I suppose so,” replied the Iceman. “I can't imagine anything being able to kill her."
"Has the thought crossed your mind that she's behind all this?"
"Not for an instant."
"Why not?"
"Because if she was, I'd be dead,” said the Iceman with absolute certainty.
"You faced her before, and you're still alive,” persisted the man in black.
"Forget about her,” replied the Iceman. “She's got nothing to do with this."
"You're sure?"
"To her, I'm about as insignificant as a grain of sand on a deserted beach.” He paused. “If she's still alive, she's got more important things on her mind."
"What kind of things?"
"I hope to hell I never find out,” answered the Iceman seriously. “Come on,” he added. “Let's take a look at the body."
They walked over to his office and entered it, where they found the corpse laid out on a broad wooden desk.
The man in black examined the corpse's fingers closely.
"No prints,” he announced. “Damned nice job on that fake finger. I never spotted it.” He looked down at the dead man's face. “Got an ophthalmoscope?"
"A small one, inside the center drawer of the desk,” said the Iceman, going over the body for scars or identifying marks. “But it's not tied into any computers."
The man in black walked to the desk and returned with the instrument. “I have a feeling that tying into a computer won't do you a bit of good with this guy—but let's see.” He stared through the scope for a moment, then put it away. “Yeah, there's some scar tissue on the rods and cones. Five'll get you ten they're not on record anywhere in the galaxy."
"No serial numbers on any of the weapons, either,” noted the Iceman. “Strange. Out here on the Inner Frontier, most killers pick colorful names and brag about their accomplishments. But this is the fourth one in a row who has no name, no identification, no reputation."
"Nice boots, though,” said the man in black.
"I suppose so."
"Very nice."
"I checked for labels or manufacturer's marks,” said the Iceman. “There aren't any."
The man in black continued staring at the boots.
"Do you see something I'm missing?” asked the Iceman, suddenly interested.
"It's possible,” said the man in black, taking a boot from the corpse's foot and examining it.
"Looks sort of blue when the light hits it,” commented the Iceman.
"I know,” said the man in black. He handed the boot to the Iceman. “There aren't a lot of blue reptiles on the Inner Frontier—and I only know of one that's got this circular pattern of scales."
"Oh?"
The man in black nodded. “Big sonuvabitch. It lives on a world called Greycloud, out by the Quinellus Cluster.” He paused. “They call it a Bluefire Dragon. It could swallow you whole and then look around for the main course."
"How big a world is Greycloud?"
"About the size of Last Chance, maybe a little smaller."
"Oxygen world?"
"Yes."
"Any sentient life forms?” asked the Iceman.
"Not since we colonized it a few centuries ago,” answered the man in black.
"How many Men?"
"Maybe seven thousand, mostly miners and aquaculturalists. It's mostly freshwater ocean, with a batch of islands and one very small continent."
"Does it do much exporting?"
The man in black shook his head. “Too small. Probably doesn't get a mail or cargo ship more than seven or eight times a year."
"So,” continued the Iceman, “if our killer was wearing boots made from the local lizard..."
"There's a pretty good chance that he bought them there,” concluded the man in black.
"They look relatively new,” said the Iceman, studying the boots. “I think maybe you'd better pay a little visit to Greycloud. Take a couple of holos of our friend here before we bury him, and see if anyone knows who he was or who he worked for."
"I assume you'll be all right while I'm gone?"
"I'll make do,” replied the Iceman dryly. “By the way, if Greycloud is so far off the beaten track, how come you know about this Bluefire Dragon?"
"I've been there."
"When?"
The man in black shrugged. “Oh, about eight or ten years ago."
"On business?"
"In a manner of speaking,” said the man in black noncommittally.
"Good,” said the Iceman. “You'll have some contacts there, some people you can talk to."
The man in black shook his head. “Everyone I knew there is dead."
"Recently?"
"About eight or ten years ago."
The Iceman smiled in grim amusement. “No wonder they call you the Gravedancer."
His real name was Felix Lomax, and he used it for the first 26 years of his life. But names have a way of changing on the Inner Frontier, metamorphizing to fit the natures of the men and women they're attached to.
Originally he'd been a Pioneer, one of that group of highly-trained specialists that opened new worlds for the Democracy, terraforming them when necessary, cataloging the various life forms, designing settlements, analyzing soils and minerals and water samples to determine exactly what type of colonists would be the most productive: miners, farmers, aquaculturalists, whatever. His specialty was Pacification, a euphemism for decimating native populations until such time as they were willing to allow colonization—or, in some instances, until there were none left to object.
During that period of his life he had been known as Double X, an easily-identifiable code name based on the spelling of his given name. (It was best not to use one's true name, just in case there were some survivors of the pacification process that resented the instrument of the policy rather than the formulators who were in their mile-high offices back on Deluros VIII, the capital world of Man, snug and secure in the heart of the Democracy.)
After four years of pacifying alien populations, something happened on the planet of Innesfree. He never spoke of it, never referred to it in any official document, but right in the middle of the campaign he quit and went off to the Inner Frontier. He bought a large ranch on Backgammon II, and spent the next two years raising mutated cattle, huge, 3,000-pound specimens that he sold to the Navy. During this time he was Felix Longface, for he never smiled, never joked, never seemed to take much of an interest in anything.
Then he finally put whatever demons were bothering him to rest, and went further into the Inner Frontier, returning to the trade he knew best: killing. For a while he was known as The Man in Black, for it was the only color he ever wore, but there were four other Men in Black on the Frontier, and before long he picked up the sobriquet of the Gravedancer, and that was the name that stuck. Not that he ever danced or visited cemeteries, but when he landed on a planet, it was only a matter of time before
someone
would be visiting a graveyard, never to return.
His personality didn't change much. He still didn't smile, and he seemed to take no pride in his craft—which was strange for a man in his occupation—but before long his reputation preceded him, and he didn't lack for customers. He picked and chose those that interested him, which was how he came to work for the Iceman, who was as close to a living legend as a man could become on the Inner Frontier, where most legends died just about the time that they were recognized
as
legends.
He didn't know much about the Iceman—no one did—but he knew that he had, in his day, faced both the Soothsayer and the Oracle and had lived to tell about it, which was more than anyone else could claim. He would have thought that the Iceman would be the very last person on the Frontier to require protection, so when the offer came, his interest was sufficiently aroused to accept the commission. He hadn't realized at the time that it would require him to pay a return visit to Greycloud, but it wouldn't have made any difference to him if he had known it.
As his ship braked to sublight speeds and the water world came up on his viewscreen, he checked out his arsenal, selected those weapons that he thought would be most effective in this environment, and requested permission to land on the single continent's tiny spaceport.
"Please identify yourself,” said a metallic voice, crackling with static.
"This is the
Peacekeeper
, Felix Lomax commanding, five days out of Last Chance."
"Permission denied."
"Why?"
"You are the Felix Lomax who is also known as the Gravedancer, are you not?"
"I've been called that, yes."
"There are nine outstanding arrests warrants in your name, each for the crime of murder."
"All the more reason why you should want to get your hands on me,” replied Lomax.
"We have no one here capable of taking you into custody against your will, Gravedancer,” said the voice. “I assume you have not come to give yourself up to the authorities."
"A fair assumption."
"Then permission to land is denied. If you attempt to land on Greycloud, we will fire on your ship and destroy it before it can touch down."
"One moment,” said Lomax, breaking the connection.
He had his computer scan the spaceport and surrounding vicinity, searching for weaponry. It found none, nor had he expected so thinly-populated a world to have any defensive capabilities.
"Nice try, Greycloud,” he said, reactivating his radio. “Now please give me landing coordinates."
"Denied."
"I'm landing whether you like it or not. If you won't give me coordinates, you'd better clear the sky or risk a collision over the landing field. This is the
Peacekeeper
, over and out."
He broke out of orbit and entered an elliptical path toward the spaceport, touching down about twenty minutes later. Once on the ground, he had the ship's sensors scan the area for armed personnel, found none, activated a number of security devices, and finally emerged through the hatch, the boots and a holograph of the dead man secured in a leather holdall that he slung over his left shoulder.
He walked about half a mile, past two small hangars, to the main traffic control and reception building, and entered warily. There were four clerks going about their business, one man and three women; none of them looked up at him or gave any indication that they were aware of his presence until he cleared his throat and three of them fidgeted nervously. He walked up the fourth, a grey-haired woman, and stood before her.
"Yes?” she said coldly.
"I need transportation into town,” he said.
"Do I look like a chauffeur?” she demanded.
"If I can't find one, you'll do."
"Go away and leave me alone, Mr. Lomax,” she said. “I want nothing to do with you."
"Do I know you?” he asked.
"No, but I know you,” she said, her eyes reflecting her hatred.
"Then tell me where I can find a ride into town, and you won't have to keep looking at me."
"I wouldn't help you if you were bleeding to death on the street,” she said.
He stared at her for a long moment.
"Have it your way,” he said at last. “Before I leave, though,” he added, “I should point out that if anyone touches my ship, the ensuing explosion will flatten the spaceport and everything else within a radius of two miles."