The Best Rootin' Tootin' Shootin' Gunslinger in the Whole Damned Galaxy (14 page)

      
“You were the Dancer's closest friend back on Earth,” said Flint.

      
“I suppose so,” admitted Monk. “But that's kind of like being a starving tiger's least favorite dinner."

      
“I'm having a little problem figuring him out."

      
Monk laughed. “Lots of luck."

      
“For example,” continued Flint, ignoring his remark, “you used to risk your life every night in the lion cage."

      
“I never looked at it that way."

      
“Neither does the Dancer,” replied Flint, “but the fact remains that both of you faced the possibility of death every time you walked into the ring."

      
“If you say so . . .” sighed Monk.

      
“I do. But
you
never took any chances you didn't have to take. You always had a whip, and someone riding shotgun just outside the ring, and—"

      
“Hold it,” said Monk. “You're making me sound like some kind of fucking coward."

      
Flint shook his head. “No. You were just a guy who tried to see to it that the odds were in his favor."

      
“Not all the time,” protested Monk. “What about all the times I was in the cage with Batman?"

      
“The one night you went at it with all the wraps off, you both wound up in the hospital for a month,” Flint reminded him. “Or maybe you forgot that you walked without a limp and could see out of your left eye before that night?” Monk offered no answer and Flint continued. “So I thought maybe you could give me a little insight as to why the Dancer goes out of the way to stack the odds against himself."

      
“Why do you care?” asked Monk. “Forgive me for saying it, but sympathy was never your strong suit."

      
“He's pulling in more money than the rest of the carnival put together, and he's trying as hard as he can to get himself killed. I need to know why."

      
“He's always been kind of nuts."

      
“But he's never been suicidal."

      
“Who knows?” shrugged Monk. “I never watch him anymore."

      
“You must have heard what he's been doing lately,” persisted Flint.

      
“Batman and me, we keep pretty much to ourselves,” replied Monk. “I see bigger crowds at the specialty tent than there used to be, but that's all I know."

      
“The Dancer is taking on four and five guys at once."

      
“He's good enough to do it,” said Monk with an approving nod. “How many has he killed so far?"

      
“Just one."

      
“Call
that
an act?” scoffed Monk. “He ought to get in the cage with Batman if he's looking for a little action."

      
“I have a feeling that we're not connecting,” said Flint wryly. He tossed his cigarette onto the ground and stepped on it. “Break time's over."

      
“Not until that goldbricking bat gets back, it isn't,” said Monk.

      
Flint grimaced, shook his head, and walked back to the ship. He stopped by the mess hall for a sandwich, then went up to his room to ponder the Dancer's behavior and promptly fell asleep.

      
He awoke to the sound of bodies scurrying down the ship's corridors as his crew went out to meet the crowds that had flocked in from three nearby cities.

      
His clothes were moist with perspiration, and so he showered and shaved before heading back to the Midway. Diggs had things well under control, and all Jiminy needed was a swaybacked horse and a fancy painted buckboard to complete the picture of an old-time huckster on the make. Monk was in the Bozo cage, and Batman seemed mildly irritated that the crowd was so large that he himself had almost no opportunity to throw balls at his partner. Julius Squeezer was trying to make himself useful by selling candy at one of the concession stands, but after Flint saw him sneeze on the food a couple of times he sent the green wrestler back to bed.

      
Finally he wandered over to the specialty tent, climbed up to his accustomed position in the lighting booth, and watched as Stogie and Schnoozle warmed up the crowd. Mr. Ahasuerus arrived just as the Dancer was being announced.

      
“Tojo tells me you had another problem today,” remarked the blue man as the Dancer went through his preliminary routine.

      
“It's taken care of,” said Flint, staring at the sharpshooter. “At least, it had damned well better be."

      
Finally the act reached the point the audience had been waiting for, and five Robodenians—bright-pink bipeds covered with scales—walked to the center of the ring. Tojo announced that they had been practicing with the guns they were carrying all afternoon, and that they would shortly be trying to win a million credits by killing the Dancer with these weapons.

      
Evidently the five beings had discussed the situation, for at a signal from one of them they began fanning out to form a large semicircle around the Dancer, who stood watching them, his arms folded loosely across his chest, a mildly amused smile on his handsome face.

      
“If he goes for a knife, I'll shoot him myself,” muttered Flint.

      
Finally one of the Robodenians raised his pistol and pointed it at the Dancer, and the Dancer went into action, drawing both pistols and firing them as he whirled around to face his various targets.

      
“Son of a bitch!” said Flint in amazement. “He missed!"

      
The Dancer suddenly spun around, and a small red spot appeared on his left shoulder. He kept firing, though, and in another instant all five Robodenians had been disarmed.

      
The crowd roared its applause as the Dancer tipped his hat, congratulated his opponents, and made his exit. Then Stogie was back in the ring, entertaining the Robodenians as they made their exit, while Flint and the blue man headed back to the ship. They found the Dancer sipping a glass of milk in the deserted mess hall.

      
“How bad are you hurt?” asked Flint, walking over and looking at the marksman's arm.

      
“Just a scratch,” said the Dancer. “I'll be all right, Thaddeus."

      
“You're sure?” asked Mr. Ahasuerus solicitously. “I can call for the doctor."

      
The Dancer shook his head. “It ain't necessary."

      
“Well, if you had to miss,” said Flint, obviously relieved, “at least you did it against a bunch of people who couldn't shoot straight."

      
The Dancer finished his milk. “I didn't miss."

      
“I heard seven shots,” said Flint.

      
“Nine,” corrected the Dancer.

      
“Then you missed
four
times. You're one goddamned lucky gunslinger."

      
“I didn't miss. They were blanks."

      
“I don't quite follow you,” said Mr. Ahasuerus.

      
“
I
do,” said Flint furiously. “And I just may bust his idiot head open for it!"

      
“Will someone please explain what happened?” persisted the blue man.

      
“Five men, five bullets,” replied the Dancer. “The rest were blanks. I spun 'em just before the fight, so I wouldn't know where they were."

      
“But
why
?” asked Mr. Ahasuerus.

      
“To make it more interesting,” said the Dancer.

      
“And did it?"

      
The Dancer shook his head unhappily. “No."

      
“Then,” said Mr. Ahasuerus, “may we assume that we'll have no more contests involving blank shells?"

      
“Yep.” The Dancer stared at a wall for a long moment, while Flint and the blue man exchanged troubled glances. “I'll have to find something else."

      
“I've been asking everyone else about you,” said Flint at last, “so maybe it's time to get it straight from the horse's mouth. Just what the hell is it that you want, Dancer?"

      
“You wouldn't understand, Thaddeus."

      
“Try me."

      
“I want to be the best."

      
“You are,” said Flint decisively.

      
“Being told isn't enough. I want to
know
it."

      
“How? By killing yourself?"

      
“By challenging myself."

      
“Isn't there some way other than what you have been doing in the specialty tent?” asked Mr. Ahasuerus gently.

      
“A few weeks ago, for just a second or two, I thought there was,” said the Dancer quietly. “I was wrong."

      
“What happened a few weeks ago?” asked the blue man.

      
But the Dancer, oblivious to his question, was staring off into time and space, an expression of infinite sadness on his handsome face.

 

 

Chapter 9

 

      
"Mr. Flint—he's here."

      
Flint reached over Priscilla's sleeping body and activated the intercom speaker on his night table.

      
“Tell him to keep his pants on,” he said sleepily. “I'll be there in a couple of minutes.” He ran his fingers through his disheveled hair. “What time is it anyway?"

      
“A few minutes after noon,” replied Mr. Ahasuerus' voice.

      
“Figures,” grunted Flint. “That son of a bitch never did learn the difference between real time and carny time."

      
“Please, Mr. Flint,” protested the blue man. “He's sitting right here in my office. He can hear every word."

      
“Good. Then tell him that we don't close up the show until sunrise."

      
Flint flicked off the intercom, got out of bed without disturbing Priscilla, quickly slipped into his clothes, and walked over to the bathroom, where he brushed his teeth and made a half-hearted attempt to comb his hair. Then he walked softly to the door, opened it, and a moment later was taking the elevator up to the blue man's office. As he entered, a small, rotund, reddish alien got to his feet.

      
“Mr. Flint, what a pleasure it is to see you again!"

      
“How's tricks, Kargennian?” muttered Flint, walking directly to his partner's coffee pot and pouring himself a cup.

      
“I trust you've been well,” said Kargennian with polite formality.

      
“Until about ten minutes ago,” replied Flint, flopping down on a couch and trying unsuccessfully to make himself comfortable. His gaze fell on his partner's latest acquisition, an abstract montage consisting primarily of bright-pink wire and yellow ferns, and he winced.

      
“I apologize,” said Kargennian. “I had forgotten that you keep”—he paused disapprovingly—“rather unusual hours."

      
“It's okay,” said Flint, turning back to Kargennian and deciding that he didn't notice much of an improvement. “Until this year you'd have pissed blood before you apologized to me for
anything
, so I guess we're even."

      
“What's past is past,” said Kargennian coldly. “I was just telling Mr. Ahasuerus how pleased the Corporation is with your balance sheet for the last half year."

      
“Maybe you ought to tell the Dancer,” said Flint. “He's the guy who's responsible."

      
“In point of fact, Billybuck Dancer is the prime reason for my visit."

      
“Shucks,” said Flint sarcastically. “And I thought it was just because you liked to shoot the breeze with us."

      
“That too,” said Kargennian, wondering why Flint always seemed to remind him of a bomb about to explode.

      
“Yes, sir,” said Flint. “Things sure have changed since the days when you couldn't stand the sight of me."

      
“We're all working for the same team,” said the round little alien emotionlessly. “Such personality conflicts as we may have had are inconsequential under the present circumstances."

      
“Yeah. Well, I guess money spoils everything sooner or later, even a lovely hatred like ours.” Flint finished his coffee. “How about getting to the point, Kargennian? Ever since we heard you were stopping by, we've been making bets on what it is that you want."

      
“And what is your conclusion?” asked Kargennian, forcing a smile to his lips.