Authors: Mike Resnick
"Then try to find the third planet."
"You're telling me she destroyed an entire planet?” said Lomax, finally finishing his second drink and walking back to his chair.
"That's right."
"Why?"
"She was kept prisoner there for sixteen years."
"Then she had some cause, didn't she?"
"To kill everyone on an entire planet?” demanded the Iceman. “What happens if she doesn't like her tax bill next year? There are eleven billion Men on Deluros VIII; believe me when I tell you she can destroy it just as easily as she destroyed Hades."
"Hades?"
"Alpha Crepello III."
"To your knowledge, has she ever killed any human who wasn't trying to kill her?” persisted Lomax.
The Iceman's mind flashed back over the years, to an ever-youthful gunfighter lying dead in the street, and to a small, wiry woman with a pained, puzzled expression on her face as a red blotch spread across her shirt.
"You might say no,” answered the Iceman. “I say yes."
"What's the difference?"
"Because when you have the power to save people and you let them die, I call it murder."
"That's debatable."
"That's why I said you might not agree with me.” The Iceman paused. “It's academic anyway. Either you're with me, or you're not. And if you're not, then you're with her whether you know it or not."
"You're paying the bills,” said Lomax laconically. “Besides, who knows? I might get to take out the Anointed One as an added bonus."
The Iceman shook his head vigorously. “Absolutely not! We need him."
"We do? For what?"
"All in good time,” said the Iceman.
"You can trust me,” said Lomax.
"I know I can,” said the Iceman. “In fact, I can't do what I have to do without you. I'm just not quite sure of all the details yet."
"Once I leave here, how will you be able to let me know what you want me to do?"
"Give me a scramble code for your ship,” said the Iceman, putting his cigar out, withdrawing another from a pocket of his tunic, changing his mind, and replacing it. “When I'm ready to move, I'll contact you and give you your instructions."
"That may not be enough,” said Lomax. “The Anointed One moves around. We could be on any of fifty planets when you finally decide to get in touch with me. There's every chance I'll be out of sending range.” He paused. “Maybe
I
should contact
you
."
The Iceman shrugged. “As you wish."
"You'll be at The End of the Line?"
"I'll be on Last Chance, at any rate,” answered the Iceman. He scribbled a number on a piece of paper. “Here's my code. Load it into your ship's computer when you leave."
"Thanks,” said Lomax. “One more question."
"Go ahead."
"What if he's so impressed that I was able to kill you that he sends me after the Prophet?"
"He won't."
"How do you know? You've never met him."
"No man reaches his position without having a brain and using it,” answered the Iceman. “If you're good enough to kill me, you're too good to waste against Penelope Bailey. You'll be far more valuable to him as a bodyguard."
"Maybe he doesn't know she can read the future,” persisted Lomax. “Maybe he thinks she can be killed just like anyone else."
"Then stall."
"He's not the kind of man you can stall."
The Iceman stared at him for a moment. “All right, then—we'll just have to see to it that you're in no condition to go out after Penelope Bailey for a few weeks."
"I don't like the sound of this,” said Lomax.
"You won't like the feel of it, either,” said the Iceman. “But it's the only way to make sure he doesn't send you after her."
Lomax returned the Iceman's stare. “Let's have it."
"I think I'm going to have to bust you up a little bit in the bar tonight. It'll lend authenticity to your reason for shooting me down."
"How much?” asked Lomax suspiciously.
"Not too much. Maybe an arm or a leg, just enough to keep you from being able to go after Penelope."
"And what if the Silicon Kid shows up three days later?"
"Shit!” muttered the Iceman. “I forgot about him.” He sighed. “You can take him if you're one hundred percent, but not if you're crippled up. I suppose we'll have to fake it."
"That sounds like a lot of faking for two men who aren't exactly professional actors,” said Lomax.
"It'll work,” said the Iceman. “By the time anyone pays much attention, it'll all be over. You'll walk out immediately—I'll instruct my men to let you go, and there will be a couple of them outside waiting to rush you to your ship, just in case someone wants to avenge me, or more likely add to his reputation by killing the man who killed me—and I'll be carried into my office before anyone can examine me. The word will get out by tomorrow morning, and Last Chance will issue formal denials for a few days and then admit that I was killed by the Gravedancer.” He grinned. “Once I'm sure you're safe inside the Anointed One's sphere of influence, we might even put a price on your head, just to make it look legitimate."
"You're
sure
this is all necessary?” asked Lomax. “I mean, you could just go into hiding for awhile and I could pass the word that I've killed you."
The Iceman shook his head. “No, we've got to go through with it. Somebody told your boss that I was on Last Chance. That means somebody saw me here. For all we know, he's still on the planet, and if he is, he'll certainly be at the bar or the casino tonight; I mean, hell, there's nowhere else to go here. Whoever he is, he's
got
to see you kill me and confirm your story, or there's every chance the Anointed One won't believe it."
"All right,” said Lomax, settling back in his chair and smiling. “I suppose I can live with being known as the man who killed the Iceman.” He paused. “I wonder how many men died trying to get that title?"
"More than I hope you can imagine,” said the Iceman grimly.
The End of the Line was crowded.
Lomax arrived after taking a dryshower and dining in his room, and found himself in the midst of the usual miners, traders, explorers, adventurers, bounty hunters, whores and misfits, some dressed in brilliantly-colored silks and satins, some in outfits that would look more at home in the midst of a war. There was a fair-sized alien contingent there, too: a few Canphorites, some Lodinites and Robelians, an enormous Torqual, and even a pair of diminutive, faerie-like Andricans, the first of that species Lomax had ever seen.
The Iceman wasn't in evidence, so Lomax strolled over to the gaming tables. He passed up the roulette wheel and the blackjack games, and spent a few minutes losing a quick seventy credits at a
jabob
game. The Andrican who beat him look so childishly pleased with itself, strutting and waving its money around with a laugh that sounded like the delicate tinkling of wind chimes, that even Lomax was amused, and finally he wandered back to the tavern.
Most of the tables were full. There were a pair available near the casino, but the last thing he needed to do was make his escape past half a dozen bounty hunters, some of whom might start wondering if they would post a reward for the Iceman's murderer, and so he waited until one opened up by the outside door.
He sat down, ordered a bottle of Cygnian cognac, poured himself a glass, and once again surveyed the room. His path to the door was clear; he was in plain sight of the huge one-way mirror behind the bar, where the Iceman would have a couple of men stationed to protect him. He was partially in shadow, so if he didn't jerk his supposedly-wounded arm just right, no one would see it. The best of the bounty hunters—by reputation, anyway—were some sixty feet away at the gaming tables, and they wouldn't risk hitting any customers as he walked out the door.
He gingerly felt his left arm with the fingers of his right hand. The artificial blood was there, right over his bicep, where the Iceman could slit it open with a knife. Then he checked his weaponry again: the projectile weapon, filled with blanks, sat on his right hip, where he could reach it with his “good” arm. And on his left hip was a laser pistol, just in case the Iceman's protection wasn't quite as promised.
Lomax forced his body to relax, content that he had done everything he could do to help carry off the ruse. Now it was just a matter of waiting for the Iceman, who in turn was undoubtedly waiting long enough to be sure that the Anointed One's informant was on the premises.
One of the whores sidled up to him, and he spoke to her for a few minutes. When she realized that he had no interest in transacting any business with her, she moved off to a likelier target, and something about her body language conveyed to the other whores the fact that the man in black wasn't in a buying mood.
Finally, after another hour had passed, the Iceman emerged from his office. He walked past Lomax's table with no sign of recognition, spent a few minutes glad-handing the customers, checked with his gamesmen and dealers to see how the casino was doing, then stopped by the bar for a beer. He downed it, asked for a refill, and carried his glass over to Lomax's table.
"You all set?” he asked softly.
Lomax nodded. “As ready as I'll ever be."
"Good. Let's wait a few more minutes, just in case our man is a late sleeper."
"Even if he is, you'll have a hundred eyewitnesses,” noted Lomax.
"True,” admitted the Iceman. “But I'm sure the Anointed One would rather have a first-hand report.
I
would."
"You're the boss,” said Lomax, picking up his glass and taking yet another sip of his cognac.
They passed a few minutes in silence, and finally the Iceman spoke again.
"I'd say it's about time.” He paused. “I almost hate to see you leave Last Chance,” he added wryly. “That's expensive stuff you're drinking."
"That's okay,” said Lomax with a smile. “It's on my tab, which I have no intention of paying."
"The hell you're not paying it!” yelled the Iceman in a voice that rang out throughout the tavern. “When you come into my establishment, you're no different than anyone else!"
"You'd be surprised how different I am, old man,” replied Lomax, not quite yelling, but making sure that he, too, could be heard.
"You bleed like anybody else!” snapped the Iceman, drawing a knife and slashing at Lomax's left arm, just below the elbow, and Lomax felt a bolt of pain surge through him, and blood—
real
blood—began discoloring his shirtsleeve.
"That was supposed to be my
upper
arm, you asshole!” he grated as the Iceman hurled his aging body at Lomax.
"I decided we couldn't take the chance,” whispered the Iceman. “Now shoot me before someone pulls us apart!"
Lomax managed to withdraw his projectile weapon, and an instant later four loud explosions echoed through the tavern. The Iceman clutched at his chest, managed to slit open the blood bag with his knife, spun around once so that everyone could see that his chest and stomach were drenched in blood, and collapsed to the floor.
While the attention had been focused on the Iceman, Lomax had holstered the projectile weapon, painfully withdrawn his laser pistol, and transferred it to his good hand. Now he began backing out of the tavern very carefully, watchful for any indication that one of the customers might try to stop him. Nothing happened, and a moment later he found himself in the street.
"Let's go!” whispered a voice, and he was instantly surrounded by three men.
"In just a second,” he said, his speech starting to slur. “I just have to get my bearings."
"What bearings?” whispered the voice. “You're standing right in front of The End of the Line."
"It must be raining,” mumbled Lomax. “I'm all wet."
"What's the matter?” demanded another voice. “Just how much did you drink tonight?"
"Not much,” answered Lomax. “What's the matter with me? I'm dizzy."
"Come on!” whispered the first voice. “Before someone comes after you!"
"Right,” said Lomax. Suddenly he dropped to his knees. “I can't stand up,” he murmured.
"Jesus!” hissed a third voice. “Look at his arm! I think the Iceman hit an artery. He's lost a lot of blood!"
"Then fix a tourniquet, but let's get out of here!"
"Hold him still! He's soaked with the stuff."
"Very good cognac,” muttered Lomax, and passed out.
He remembered nothing about the next four hours. Evidently they patched him up, put him in his ship, and set the navigational computer to take him a few hundred light years away and then brake to a stop in the void between star systems.
They could have doped him up a bit, he thought bitterly, as he tried to ignore the shooting pain whenever he moved his left arm, however slightly. They had cut his shirt off and bandaged his arm with the few strips of the cloth that weren't already blood-soaked, but the blood had congealed and he was in utter agony as he cut the material off. He had disinfectants galore in his medical kit, but nothing with which to sew up or cauterize the wound, and he instructed his ship to land at the first human outpost.
It was the Iceman's fault, he decided, trying to restrain his rage. Nobody could ever tell that fat old man anything. He had planned this from the start, and all that stuff during the afternoon about how he would fake a wound was just a smokescreen. He knew exactly what he was doing, old Mendoza; it was a deep and painful wound, and Lomax was weak enough from loss of blood that the Anointed One was sure to give him a few days to recuperate rather than send him out after the Prophet ... and yet, with the experience of a lifetime, the Iceman had managed to miss most of the major nerves and tendons while opening the artery. It was an ugly wound, and a painful one, but it wouldn't incapacitate him if he had to go up against the Kid in a few days’ time. A quick transfusion of blood and some painkillers and he'd be almost as good as new by the time the Kid showed up. He'd fake weakness, as the Iceman knew he would, rather than go after the Prophet, who seemed totally invincible to him anyway, and probably the rumors of his brush with death and his weakened condition would be just the edge he needed against the Kid.