The Best Rootin' Tootin' Shootin' Gunslinger in the Whole Damned Galaxy (18 page)

      
“Once they disassemble the wrestling ring—I gather it breaks down in just a minute or so—the gunfighters will face off in the center of the arena, and I'll be over there”—he pointed—“by those box seats."

      
“Yeah?” said Flint, a note of concern creeping into his voice. “Well, if this guy the Dancer is facing looks like he might actually be able to wiggle his hand like you say, make sure you hit the deck."

      
“I will, Thaddeus."

      
“I'm not kidding."

      
“I know,” said Tojo. “I appreciate your concern."

      
“I just don't want all that money we spent on that gold whistle to go down the drain,” replied Flint gruffly. He turned as he saw Jiminy approaching. “Aren't you supposed to be selling Mystical Magical Rejuvenation Pills or something like that?” he asked, grateful for the interruption.

      
“I'm all sold out,” replied Jiminy, looking inordinately pleased with himself. “Besides, I promised Billybuck I'd watch the contest."

      
“I saw you talking to him half an hour ago,” said Flint. “Are you trying to tell me you sold out your whole stock since then?"

      
Jiminy grinned and pulled out a thick wad of bills. “I told you I was good at this kind of thing."

      
“We sure could have used you back in Vermont,” said Tojo admiringly.

      
“Wish I'd been there,” replied Jiminy pleasantly. “Well, where do we sit?"

      
“They gave me a box over there across from the wrestling ring,” said Flint.

      
He looked around and saw that the stands were almost full. “Come on. We might as well go there now.” He turned to Tojo. “See you later."

      
“Okay,” said the hunchback.

      
“And remember what I told you."

      
“I will, Thaddeus."

      
Flint and Jiminy walked across the floor of the arena, found an almost invisible door in the transparent barrier, and were sitting in the box a moment later.

      
“Sure is a nice crowd,” said Jiminy. “There's got to be five times as many people here as we could squeeze into the tent."

      
“That's why we agreed to it,” replied Flint. “How's the Rigger doing?"

      
“He says to tell you that it's like taking candy from babies."

      
“I hope he remembers that most of these babies wear guns,” said Flint, looking at some of his neighbors.

      
“They seem like a pleasant enough batch of people,” said Jiminy.

      
“Let's just hope they don't get ugly after Julius and the Dancer beat their heroes."

      
“You think they might?” asked Jiminy, alarmed.

      
“It's been known to happen,” replied Flint. “I can remember hearing about some full-scale riots that started at South American soccer games.” He smiled at Jiminy's sudden consternation. “Don't worry about it. You can always change into a Darbeenan if you have to."

      
“Change in front of them?” said Jiminy, genuinely shocked. He shook his head vigorously. “Believe me, they're much more likely to tear me limb from limb for being a Jimorian than an Earthman."

      
“The worst of two possible worlds,” commented Flint ironically.

      
Suddenly the lights dimmed and an unseen band began playing very atonal music on instruments that Flint couldn't identify. Then a spotlight raced across the arena and came to rest on Tojo, who was standing behind a microphone. He blew his whistle twice, then activated his translating device and began speaking. “Would you like me to translate for you?” asked Jiminy when he noticed that Flint had no device of his own.

      
“Not necessary,” replied Flint. “I know what he's saying."

      
Tojo spoke for a few minutes, then paused as another spotlight hit Kargennian and the little alien stood up and took a long, lingering bow. The light then sought out his Darbeenan counterpart on the far side of the arena, the red-skinned humanoid bowed even lower and longer than Kargennian, and suddenly the building was dark again.

      
A moment later a cheer began building through the crowd, and Flint knew that the Darbeenan wrestler must be making his way to the ring. The spotlight came on and found him when he had completed half his journey and followed him the rest of the way, as the screams built to an ear-shattering crescendo.

      
Then Julius Squeezer entered the arena, wrapped in a gold satin robe, and approached the ring amid polite applause.

      
“What the hell is that on the back of his robe?” asked Flint.

      
“An ad for the pills we're selling,” replied Jiminy with a smile. “Billybuck told me that it's quite common on Earth."

      
“He's seen too many second-rate fighters and bad movies,” commented Flint. Then he shrugged. “What the hell—if it'll sell one extra bottle, why not?"

      
The two wrestlers removed their robes and moved to the center of the ring, where a Darbeenan referee issued instructions, first through a translator to Julius, then in his native tongue to the huge green muscleman's opponent.

      
“Well,” remarked Flint, “I'd say Julius has a good hundred and fifty pounds on him."

      
“True,” said Jiminy, as the wrestlers circled each other, then reached out their hands tentatively. “But the Darbeenan looks very quick."

      
“He'd better be,” said Flint confidently. “A ring's a hell of a hard place to hide."

      
Suddenly the Darbeenan grabbed Julius Squeezer's outstretched hand, slipped under a brawny arm, and twisted sharply. The green giant spun through the air and fell heavily to the canvas as the crowd screamed its approval.

      
Julius was on his feet in an instant, but as he lunged for his smaller opponent his incredibly powerful hands closed only on empty air, and he received a swift kick in the stomach for his trouble.

      
“It's gonna be a long night,” muttered Flint.

      
“If Julius can just get hold of him!” said Jiminy plaintively.

      
“Not tonight,” said Flint, as the Darbeenan ducked under Julius again and brought him to the floor with a leg lock. “It's like watching a rhinoceros trying to run down a sheepdog."

      
The spectacle continued for another five minutes, with Julius receiving a kick or a chop every time he tried to enfold the Darbeenan in his massive arms. His movements became slower and slower, his chest rose and fell heavily, and finally his opponent saw an opening, struck like a snake, and encircled the huge green wrestler's head and neck in an intricate grip that had him unconscious within ten seconds.

      
Flint opened the transparent door and walked quickly to the ring as the Darbeenan's hand was being raised in victory to thunderous applause. He climbed up the steps and was at Julius Squeezer's side just as the green muscleman was regaining consciousness. The wrestler was disoriented for a moment, then realized what had happened.

      
“I'm sorry, Thaddeus,” he said as Flint led him from the ring to some scattered applause. “I don't know what happened."

      
“It's okay,” said Flint, escorting him to the door that led to the dressing rooms. “You'll get him next time."

      
“I doubt it,” said the big alien with disarming honesty. “But if you want me to try, I will."

      
“Take a shower and get some rest,” said Flint. “We'll talk about it later."

      
“I'm really sorry,” said Julius Squeezer again. “I've lost before, but never like
that
."

      
“You just weren't ready for him,” said Flint soothingly. “You're still the best goddamned wrestler I've ever seen."

      
“Do you mean it?"

      
“Would I lie to you?” said Flint. “Now get yourself fixed up. I've got to get back to my seat."

      
“Yes, you would,” said Julius Squeezer.

      
“Yes I would
what
?"

      
“Yes, you would lie to me. And I thank you for it.” The green alien turned and went to his dressing room.

      
By the time Flint had rejoined Jiminy in the box, the stadium crew had disassembled the ring, and now the crowd was stirring restlessly, anticipating the main event.

      
“How is he?” asked Jiminy.

      
“He'll be all right."

      
“He just wasn't fast enough."

      
“Let's hope it's not an omen of things to come,” said Flint, fixing his eyes on the empty floor of the arena.

      
The tension built and finally an official-looking Darbeenan walked over to Tojo and said something. The little hunchback nodded, waited until the official had returned to the stands, and then blew his golden whistle once again.

      
The house lights, which had been turned up after the wrestling match, were once again dimmed, and Tojo began speaking into the microphone. He droned on for a few minutes, telling the audience the histories of the two participants, and of how Kargennian and his counterpart had put the contest together. Finally there was the Darbeenan equivalent of a drumroll from the hidden band, and Billybuck Dancer, dressed in his most worn-out faded denim pants and shirt, entered the arena from the north end of the building.

      
There was no scattered applause this time, just silence as the crowd studied this innocuous-looking killer.

      
Then Tojo spoke again, and a Darbeenan, clad in silver and blue, entered from the south end. This time the ovation was so loud that the entire stadium literally shook from the vibrations.

      
“What's his name?” asked Flint, staring at the lithe, confident red gunfighter.

      
“I'm not quite sure,” replied Jiminy, “the crowd was making so much noise. But it sounded like Dacklan.” He turned and said something to the Darbeenan sitting next to him, thanked him politely for his answer, and turned back to Flint. “I was right: Dacklan."

      
Tojo said something else, and the two gunmen, who had been coached by Kargennian and his counterpart, approached each other. Dacklan held his arm out in a salute, and the Dancer touched the brim of his hat with his fingers.

      
Then Tojo spoke once more, and the Dancer and Dacklan backed away from each other until the distance between them was about forty feet.

      
Tojo walked to the stands, opened a door, and was handed a small mechanism by one of the officials. He then returned to the microphone and said something further.

      
“It's a type of metronome,” explained Jiminy. “They are to draw on the fifth note."

      
“I know,” said Flint.

      
“I thought you couldn't speak—"

      
“It was my idea,” interrupted Flint, staring intently at the two combatants.

      
Tojo held the metronome up and activated it, and a musical chime was heard throughout the suddenly silent arena. Another second, another chime, and the Dancer's fingers, long and lean, snaked down toward his holster, while Dacklan's small tense hand was poised over his intricate weapon.

      
Two more chimes.

      
Damn it!
thought Flint.
He's too relaxed.

      
Then came the fifth chime and the sudden explosion of a gunshot, and Dacklan flew backward and fell heavily to the ground, his hand still on his weapon, his weapon still in its holster.

      
The crowd, which had been silent with suspense, remained silent with shock, while the Dancer twirled his pistol once and replaced it in his holster.

      
He looked at Tojo expectantly, and suddenly the little hunchback came to life and began speaking again. Finally, after almost a full minute, perhaps two hundred of the thirty thousand Darbeenans in the stadium applauded. The Dancer, looking slightly morose, tipped his hat and walked to his dressing room.

      
“Well, that's it,” said Flint, belatedly noticing that all of the carnival's human contingent except Monk had entered the building to watch the gunfight. “I sure as hell hope these jokers are good losers."

      
A team of eight Darbeenans, marching like an honor guard, walked onto the floor of the arena with a brass litter and began transferring Dacklan's body to it, while Tojo made some form of closing speech and turned off the microphone.