The Best Rootin' Tootin' Shootin' Gunslinger in the Whole Damned Galaxy (21 page)

      
“What purpose would be served?"

      
“Hah!” said Flint. “Then they
could
look like people."

      
“Of course,” said Mr. Ahasuerus. “But the expense would be enormous."

      
“How much?” persisted Flint.

      
“For a ship's entire contingent of robots?” asked the blue man incredulously.

      
“No. For just one."

      
“To be virtually indistinguishable from a member of a sentient race?"
      
mused Mr. Ahasuerus. “It would depend on the race, of course. "

      
“Human beings."

      
The blue man shrugged. “I have no idea. Possibly as much as thirty or forty million credits."

      
“Good!” said Flint. “Then we're in business."

      
“I am afraid that none of this has made any sense to me,” protested Mr. Ahasuerus.

      
Flint finished his beer and tossed the can into a trash atomizer at the far end of the room. “We're going to build an opponent for the Dancer!” he said triumphantly.

      
“We are?"

      
Flint nodded. “We're going to make him the spitting image of Doc Holliday, and the Dancer will fight him all across the galaxy, twice a day and three times on Saturdays.” He got up and began pacing around the office in his excitement. “It's perfect! We'll rig the robot to lose, which means no one will get killed, so you'll be satisfied. He'll look just like Doc Holliday, so that the Dancer will be satisfied. We won't have to keep hunting up new opponents, so Kargennian will be satisfied. And I'll get everyone off my back, so I'll be the most satisfied of all."

      
He looked at his partner expectantly as the blue man considered the suggestion.

      
“We can only have one fight per planet,” said Mr. Ahasuerus at last. “If Billybuck outshoots the robot fifteen times a week the duel will lose all of its excitement. After all, it happens very fast, and no one can see the bullets flying through the air, so we will have to build up suspense and have the gunfight on getaway day."

      
“Then you like it?"

      
The blue man nodded his head. “No one else will die. And considering how much money we made last night, I doubt that Kargennian would be amenable to doing away with gunfights entirely. This compromise should satisfy everybody involved."

      
“And we're friends again?” asked Flint.

      
“We were never enemies, Mr. Flint,” said Mr. Ahasuerus. “We just have very different values. I am still quite upset about last night, and especially about how it came to be, but I am willing to let bygones be bygones provided that such a thing never happens again.” He paused. “How is Billybuck today?” he asked, his voice filled with concem.

      
“As unhappy about the gunfight as you are,” said Flint.

      
“I knew it!” exclaimed the blue man. “Surely now he understands the grievous cost, not just to the vanquished but to the victor as well, of taking a life."

      
“He's unhappy because he won too easily."

      
Mr. Ahasuerus slumped back in his chair, defeated. “I have been abroad in the galaxy for almost forty years, Mr. Flint,” he said softly. “And in all that time, I have never met anyone even remotely like you and your associates."

      
He began his litany of incomprehension. “Gloria underwent surgical alteration and left the show, Monk spent a full year trying to kill Batman in the ring, Diggs would probably die of a broken heart if he couldn't swindle at least one person a day, and Billybuck . . .” He shook his head.

      
“The Dancer's a little strange even for a carny,” Flint admitted. “Still, this ought to keep him happy. I suppose we'd better send for Kargennian and see how much financing we can wring out of the little red bastard."

      
The blue man nodded, activated his intercom, requested Kargennian's presence in his office, and made himself a cup of artificial Colombian coffee while Flint popped open a beer.

      
The rotund red alien entered the office a moment later.

      
“Good morning, Mr. Flint,” he said, mildly surprised to see the blue man's partner in attendance. He turned to Mr. Ahasuerus. “You wished to speak with me?"

      
“Sit down, Kargennian,” said Flint. “We're all friends again today, distasteful as the prospect may be.” The little alien sat down on a metal chair while Flint made some headway on his beer.

      
“Well?” said Kargennian at last.

      
“Right,” said Flint, wiping his mouth on his shirtsleeve. “We've got a little deal for you."

      
“I hope it doesn't concern Billybuck Dancer,” said Kargennian apprehensively.

      
“Oh? Why not?"

      
“Because he's a far less viable commodity this morning than he was last night."

      
“Yeah? What's changed?” asked Flint.

      
“I have been making certain inquiries on the ship's radio,” explained the alien, “trying to line up future matches for him—and it turns out that news of last night's performance has already spread throughout most of our Community of Worlds."

      
“Then they ought to be dying to see him,” said Flint.

      
“Oh, they are,” agreed Kargennian. “But I have only found three worlds that are willing to pit their champions against him, and none of the three would post more than half a million credits. I have a terrible feeling that wherever he goes from now on, his reputation will precede him."

      
“Then sit back and listen,” said Flint with a smile, “because you're gonna love what I have to say."

      
“That would be a pleasant change,” commented Kargennian. “Have you discussed whatever this scheme is with Mr. Ahasuerus?"

      
“Yes,” interjected the blue man. “And I am in total agreement."

      
“All right,” said Kargennian, turning back to Flint. “Let's hear your proposition."

      
“What would you think of building a robot—” began Flint.

      
“This ship has more robots than it needs,” interrupted Kargennian.

      
“Not the kind
I'm
talking about,” said Flint. “This one will be identical to a human being in every way. He'll look like one, walk like one, maybe even talk like one. And more to the point, he'll shoot like one."

      
“For what reason?"

      
“So he can go up against the Dancer."

      
“I
like
it!” said Kargennian, a look of enthusiasm spreading across his pudgy face.

      
“We won't have to hunt up any more opponents,” Flint continued. “It'd just be the Dancer and Doc Holliday—that's what we're calling him—man to man, or man to robot as the case may be."

      
“Excellent!” exclaimed Kargennian. He got up and began walking excitedly around and around his chair. “Of course, the robot will need a few preliminary fights, but that can be arranged. After all, I have three worlds on tap already."

      
“
Preliminary
fights?” repeated Flint. “What the hell are you talking about?"

      
“Before the big one,” said Kargennian.

      
“What big one?” asked Mr. Ahasuerus.

      
“Why, his duel to the death with Billybuck Dancer!” said Kargennian, as if speaking to an uncomprehending child. “We've got to build his reputation, so the fight won't seem one-sided. This will be a one-time-only chance to cash in big, so we have to cover every angle. The pre-fight publicity may take as much as a year, but when it's done, I'll have all three thousand Community planets subscribing to a live transmission of the fight.” He slapped his hands together. “Better still—the carnival will book bets on the fight! Even if we return ninety percent of the money wagered, we could clear close to a billion credits!"

      
“Don't go understanding me so goddamned fast, Kargennian,” said Flint. “This isn't what we had in mind.'"

      
“Of course not,” said Kargennian smugly. “That's why the Corporation has given me freedom of action in respect to its entertainment division— because I see opportunities that others miss.” He continued his frenzied pacing. “I know just the person to create the robot. I've seen his work, and it's excellent. He won't be cheap, but he'll be worth what we pay him."

      
“
Kargennian
!” cried Mr. Ahasuerus. “Will you be quiet and listen for a moment?"

      
“No,” said the little alien. “
You
listen! This is a chance for the carnival to show a profit such as never before seemed possible, and I'm not going to let Mr. Flint's pigheadedness and your moral fastidiousness stand in the way of it. There's money in this for everyone, and a promotion for me, and I won't have you interfering. I'll be happy to have your help, but if you try to dissuade me, I'll simply put the matter up to Billybuck Dancer, and we all know whose side he'll be on.” He slapped his little hands together again. “I must talk to Diggs! He'll have suggestions on setting up a wagering network."

      
He walked to the door and left without another word.

      
The blue man sat in his chair, staring silently at his interlaced fingers for more than a minute. Finally he looked up.

      
“I realize that this isn't exactly your fault, Mr. Flint,” he began. “But the next time you have an idea . . ."

      
He let the sentence dangle, unfinished.

      
“I think I'll go down and wring that little bastard's neck,” said Flint grimly.

      
“Just once,” said the blue man, “why don't you try to deal with a problem in a manner that doesn't involve anyone's being killed?"

      
“It's getting harder than you might think,” replied Flint with more than a touch of irony in his voice.

 

 

Chapter 13

 

From the heart of Legend,
 

From the mists of Time,

There came a man all dressed in gray,
 

There came a man who lived to slay,
 

There came a man: Doc Holliday.

From the heart of Legend,
 

From the mists of Time.

 

From the wealth of Fable,
 

From the fruit of Lore,
 

The Dancer cast a nameless spell,
 

The Dancer chimed a mystic bell,
 

The Dancer called him up from Hell.

From the wealth of Fable,
 

From the fruit of Lore.

—from “The Ballad of Billybuck Dancer"

 

      
No,” said the Dancer, standing back and looking at his companion. “A little thinner."

      
“Thinner
still
?” asked Jiminy, adjusting his appearance to the Dancer's directions. “I wonder what kept him alive."

      
“Not much besides guts."

      
The two of them were standing in the middle of the Dancer's poster-laden room, while a small red alien of Kargennian's race watched them.

      
“There!” exclaimed the Dancer. “Now you've got it!"

      
“You're sure?” asked Borilliot, the robotics expert who had arrived earlier that day. He was sitting on the Dancer's bed, taking copious notes on a pocket computer.

      
“Yeah, that's the height and weight, more or less,” said the Dancer, stepping back with his hands on his hips and staring at Jiminy. “I still ain't happy with the face, though. Try making it a little sharper around the cheekbones."

      
Jiminy altered his image again, and the Dancer looked from him to the photograph of Doc Holliday that he held in his hand, and then back again.

      
“A little thicker mustache,” he suggested at last.

      
“Thicker?” repeated Jiminy, puzzled.

      
“More hair. But not bushier. Keep it neat."

      
Jiminy did as he was told.

      
The Dancer stared, nodded, and turned to Borilliot. “That's as close as we're gonna get."

      
The rotund red alien, who looked as if he could have been Kargennian's twin, nodded, grunted, and began taking holographs of Jiminy from every possible angle.