The Best Rootin' Tootin' Shootin' Gunslinger in the Whole Damned Galaxy (30 page)

      
“I
suspect
that he can't,” said Flint. “I don't
know
anything. Neither do you, and neither does the Dancer. All we can do is hope he's right."

      
“He isn't,” said Jiminy. “I was there when the robot killed those five Darbeenans. Nothing can beat it."

      
“Can't you call it off?” asked Tojo.

      
“You don't understand,” said Flint patiently. “He knows about the replay you two saw, and he doesn't care. He's spent his whole life hunting for someone who could push him to his limits.” Flint smiled bitterly. “Now he's found him."

      
“Does Mr. Ahasuerus know yet?” asked Tojo.

      
Flint shook his head. “I'm going to tell him as soon as I see him."

      
“Maybe
he
can find some way to call it off,” said Jiminy hopefully.

      
“You don't listen real well, do you?” said Flint irritably. “The Dancer doesn't
want
it called off.” He looked around distractedly. “What the hell time is it, anyway?"

      
“Almost eleven-thirty,” said Tojo, pointing toward a large clock in the church steeple a furlong away. He turned back to Flint. “My God, Thaddeus— what are we going to do?"

      
“We're going to let him face the robot and hope he's as good as he thinks he is." Suddenly Flint saw Mr. Ahasuerus walking out of the barber shop, followed by a pair of video technicians, and he called the blue man over.

      
“Everything seems in order, Mr. Flint,” said Mr. Ahasuerus. “Billybuck stopped by my office before I left the ship this morning and told me that he'd show up at about eleven-forty."

      
“Everything's
not
in order,” said Flint.

      
“Oh?"

      
“I haven't got time to lay it on you gently, so I'm going to tell it to you straight. The Dancer's fighting the original robot."

      
“But how can this be?” asked the blue man, shocked.

      
“He discovered the ringer and destroyed it.” Flint spat on the wooden sidewalk. “It's too late to stop it."

      
“It's my fault,” murmured the blue man miserably. “I should never have listened to you."

      
“Knock it off!” snapped Flint. “You did everything you could to make sure he didn't get killed, and now you won't even be cheating the audience. It's nobody's fault."

      
“It is mine,” repeated the blue man. “I compromised my principles, and this is the result.” He looked off toward the O.K. Corral. “Mr. Flint, we've got to call it off."

      
Flint shook his head. “Not a chance. I think he'd kill anyone who tried."

      
“But he doesn't know what they discovered on Darbeena!"

      
“He knows."

      
“And he
still
wants the fight to proceed?” said the blue man incredulously.

      
“He thinks he can win,” said Flint.

      
“But that's insane! We must order him not to fight!"

      
“He'll fight no matter what you order him to do,” said Flint. “He's not here for the money, and he's not here for the audience. He was all set to shoot it out with the robot in the storage room last night. He'd have done it, too, if I hadn't promised him that we wouldn't cancel the fight."

      
“None of your other promises ever meant anything to you,” said Mr. Ahasuerus bitterly. “Why should this one?"

      
“It doesn't,” replied Flint. “But since nothing's going to stop him from facing the robot, he might as well do it here and now."

      
“I'll talk to Kargennian!” said the blue man suddenly. “Surely
he
will see the need to put a halt to this contest!"

      
“That little money-grubber?” snorted Flint. “He's got a couple of years' pay riding on the robot. How hard do you think he's going to try to stop it once he knows the score?"

      
“I can't just stand by and do nothing!"

      
“You can stand by and hope to hell that he wins, just like the rest of us will be doing,” said Flint. “And that's
all
you can do."

      
“Has he any chance at all?” asked Mr. Ahasuerus.

      
Flint shrugged. “We'll know in less than half an hour."

      
“This is terrible!” whispered the blue man. “There must be
something
we are overlooking. Does anyone have any suggestions? Tojo? Jiminy?” He looked around and discovered that the Jimorian was no longer to be seen.

      
“Where did Jiminy go?"

      
“I don't know,” said Flint. “He was here just a minute ago."

      
“I think he went into the
Epitaph
office,” volunteered Tojo.

      
“This is a hell of a time to be reading a newspaper,” remarked Flint disgustedly. He turned back to his partner. “You and the rest of the carnies are going to be in the Long Branch, right?"

      
“Yes,” said Mr. Ahasuerus.

      
“Make sure they stay inside until it's all over,” continued Flint. “I know the robot is only programmed to go for the Dancer, but who the hell knows what he'll do if he catches a flash of motion out of the corner of his eye?"

      
“I will attend to it,” said the blue man. “Will
you
try one last time to dissuade Billybuck from his course of action?"

      
“It won't do any good."

      
“But will you
try
?” persisted Mr. Ahasuerus.

      
“Yeah, I'll try,” said Flint.

      
“Maybe this time he will listen to reason."

      
“Don't hold your breath."

      
The blue man stared coldly at him, then turned on his heel and walked off toward the Long Branch Saloon.

      
“I can't believe this is happening, and that we're powerless to do anything about it,” remarked Tojo unhappily.

      
“You know,” said Flint wearily, “I listen to you and Jiminy, and I think about those tapes on Darbeena, and I know he can't win. And then I remember seeing him in action, and I can't imagine anything in the universe whipping him.” He sighed. “I have a feeling that this goddamned fight just may live up to its billing."

      
“Mr. Flint,” said one of the technicians, approaching the sheriff's office, “I absolutely
must
make a final check of your announcer's equipment. We're transmitting in five more minutes."

      
Flint nodded and stepped aside, and almost bumped into the Dancer. The young sharpshooter had cast aside his denims, and was wearing a straight-brimmed black hat, a handsomely tailored black frock coat over a white formal shirt, a black string tie, and black pants with thin, wide-set pinstripes on them.

      
“'Morning, Thaddeus,” he said pleasantly, no trace of tension about him.

      
“Where'd you get that outfit?” asked Flint, curious in spite of himself.

      
“Had it made up ten or twelve years back. I been saving it for today."

      
“You didn't know you'd be facing Doc Holliday on an alien world ten years ago."

      
The Dancer smiled. “I knew that I'd be facing someone, somewhere, who was worth facing in these duds."

      
“I assume you haven't changed your mind?"

      
“Nope."

      
“There's nothing I can do to make you postpone it?"

      
The Dancer shook his head.

      
Flint extended his hand. “Then I wish you good luck, Dancer."

      
“He's going to need it,” said a low voice from behind them.

      
Both men turned and found themselves facing Doc Holliday.

      
“No!” cried one of the technicians, rushing out across the street. “We're not ready for this yet!"

      
Doc Holliday turned his head toward the technician. “You in that much of a hurry to die, son?” he asked.

      
The alien stopped dead in his tracks, and the gray-clad gunfighter turned back to the Dancer.

      
“I'm ready when you are, Billybuck Dancer,” said Doc Holliday.

      
The Dancer moved two steps away from Flint, then pulled his frock coat back to expose his holster. Doc Holliday did the same—And suddenly he wasn't Doc Holliday any longer.

      
“What are you doing, Jiminy?” said the Dancer. “I could of killed you."

      
Flint saw an apelike alien standing where Holliday had been.

      
“I tried!” murmured Jiminy. “I tried my best! I was in control until it looked like he was going to draw . . ."

      
It took him a full minute to regain his composure, while the carnival crew stared at him curiously, and the technicians, we had never experienced a Jimorian before, gaped at him in shock. Finally he tensed, and was once again an aging Western snake oil salesman.

      
“Jiminy, what the hell is going on?” said Flint at last.

      
“I'm sorry, Mr. Flint,” said Jiminy unhappily. “I thought I could do it."

      
“But
why
? He would have shot you in another second."

      
“Better than the robot killing
him
,” said Jiminy, still badly shaken. “He's my
friend
, Mr. Flint."

      
“That was stupid,” muttered Flint with a sigh. “It's not as if you would have been sacrificing your life to save his. Two seconds after he fired everyone would have known you weren't the robot."

      
“I didn't think of that,” said the Jimorian, startled. “It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. I knew you couldn't talk him out of it, so I decided to see if I could trick him into fighting with me instead."

      
“I thank you for the thought, Jiminy,” said the Dancer slowly, “but there ain't no one forcing me to go up against the Doc.” He smiled. “Most of 'em are trying to do just the opposite."

      
“Then listen to them,” pleaded Jiminy. “They've got your interests at heart."

      
The Dancer shook his head sadly. “There ain't a one of 'em even knows what my interests
are
, except maybe Thaddeus.” He paused and sighed. “You better get off the street now."

      
“Go on over to the general store,” said Flint, not without compassion. “We'll watch it together."

      
Jiminy nodded and slowly trudged down the street.

      
“You'd better leave too, Thaddeus,” said the Dancer. “It's getting near time."

      
“In a minute,” said Flint. “But first I've got to ask you a question."

      
“Go ahead."

      
“How did you know it was Jiminy? I thought he looked like Doc Holliday to you when he let his guard down."

      
“I got a
real
Doc Holliday now,” said the Dancer. “I don't have to wish for him no more."

      
“Then what
did
he look like?” persisted Flint.

      
“That's hard to say,” replied the Dancer wistfully. “Like a real skinny old man. He was decked out in black, and he was all kind of hunched over."

      
“Do you know anyone like that?” asked Flint.

      
The Dancer shrugged. “Not as I can recall.” He paused. “Funny, ain't it?"

      
A sudden gust of wind whipped the artificial sagebrush down the street and stirred up a cloud of dust.

      
The Dancer looked off toward the church clock. “I got to go to the O.K. Corral now, Thaddeus. It's ten minutes to noon."

      
“Take care of yourself, Dancer,” said Flint softly.

      
“I will,” said the Dancer. “You do the same."

      
Then he turned and headed south down the middle of Fourth Street. Flint watched his tall, lean figure for a moment, then checked the clock once more and walked to the general store.

      
“I thought your people were supposed to be in the saloon,” said a bored, three-legged cameraman into his translating device as Flint walked through the door. “What are you two doing here?"