The Best Rootin' Tootin' Shootin' Gunslinger in the Whole Damned Galaxy (7 page)

      
They spent the next two hours indulging in the carny's particular brand of public relations—greasing palms, mollifying officials, making sure that the games boasted some big winners early in the evening. Then, as showtime neared, they returned to the ship, where Tojo donned his candy-striped jacket and straw boater, and Flint had a couple of lukewarm beers and a sandwich.

      
Finally they walked over to the specialty tent, where Tojo went backstage to go over the details of the new act with the Dancer, and Flint climbed up to his accustomed spot beside his partner in the lighting control booth.

      
“All set?” he asked, unzipping his coat and lighting a cigarette.

      
The blue man nodded. “My understanding is that three members of the audience have agreed to challenge him. At least, three Tilarbans have been taking target practice for the past hour."

      
“I didn't hear them."

      
“Diggs suggested we use silencers, so as not to alarm those potential spectators who have never heard the explosive report of a pistol before," answered Mr. Ahasuerus.

      
“Makes sense,” said Flint with an approving nod. “Have we got any holsters that'll fit 'em?"

      
“I asked Billybuck about it,” said the blue man, “and he told me not to worry about it."

      
Flint chuckled. “That's like telling the ocean not to be wet.” He stretched his arms, grunted pleasantly, and leaned back in his chair. “Well, we'll just have to wait to see what he has in mind."

      
“You don't seem very concerned."

      
“Piece of cake,” said Flint. “I don't know if he's the fastest draw or the best shot who ever lived, but he's sure as hell the fastest and best who's going to be standing in the ring tonight.” He looked around the nearly full tent. “Where the hell is Stogie?”
 

      
As if on cue, Max Bloom, carrying the cigar stub that had given birth to his nickname, walked into the ring with Schnoozle, his miniature schnauzer, and began his routine. The dog leaped up and grabbed the cigar out of his mouth, and the next three minutes consisted primarily of a number of pratfalls as Stogie fruitlessly chased the small animal around the tent. This was followed by an old Harpo Marx routine, in which he managed to drop about two hundred pieces of silverware from his baggy overcoat, capped off by a huge coffeepot. Then he was back behind a tent flap, and Tojo was introducing the Dancer.

      
“What's going on?” demanded Flint, as the gunfighter appeared in his denim jeans and shirt. “Where's his costume?"

      
“He says that gunfighters don't dress like whores,” replied Mr. Ahasuerus.

      
“Yeah?” said Flint irritably as he settled back in his chair. “Well, they don't get paid like whores, either. Remind me to discuss that little point with him."

      
The Dancer went through his preliminary routine, was joined by a scantily clad Jenny after a few minutes, and quickly performed his version of a card trick.

      
Then the house lights lowered, a prerecorded drumroll played over the public address system, and Tojo once again activated his microphone.

      
“And now, ladies and gentlemen,” cried the little hunchback, “for the first time anywhere, Billybuck Dancer challenges any and all members of the audience to a gunfight!"

      
The crowd seemed puzzled, and Tojo continued: “The object of the contest is this. A member of the audience will be given a pistol, the very same weapon Billybuck Dancer has been using during this performance. Billybuck Dancer will begin with his pistol in his holster, the leather container that is at his side; his opponent will begin with the weapon in his hand. If the contestant from the audience can fire his weapon and shoot Billybuck Dancer, he will not only leave here with the certain knowledge that he has defeated the greatest gunslinger of all time, but he will be given a prize of”—he paused for effect—“one million credits!” There was a roar from the crowd, and Tojo waited for it to die down. “For his part, Billybuck Dancer will not reach for his weapon until his opponent has begun to aim and fire, and he will only disarm his opponent. I have here in my hand”—he held up a sheet of white paper covered by barely legible handwriting—“a release signed by Billybuck Dancer absolving his opponent of all liability or responsibility should this contest result in his death. Now, for one million credits, who will be the first to challenge Billybuck Dancer, the fastest gun in the galaxy?"

      
“Am I to understand that the Tilarbans will begin with their weapons already drawn?” asked Mr. Ahasuerus, as three members of the audience walked down the aisle into the ring.

      
“He doesn't believe in making things easy for himself, does he?" commented Flint, leaning forward in his chair.

      
Tojo arbitrarily selected one of the three Tilarbans to be the Dancer's first opponent. The slender Texan watched the orange being as Tojo positioned him some fifty feet away and placed a gun in his hand. “Contestant, are you ready?” said Tojo from his announcer's platform.

      
The Tilarban muttered something Flint couldn't hear, but obviously it was an affirmative.

      
“Billybuck Dancer, are
you
ready?"

      
The Dancer, arms folded loosely across his chest, looking more asleep than awake, nodded almost imperceptibly.

      
“Then contestant,” said Tojo, “the first move is yours. Let the battle begin!"

      
The Tilarban eyed the Dancer cautiously, then swiftly began bringing the gun up to where he could aim it. From fifty feet away came a sudden blur of motion, followed by the sharp explosion of a gunshot, and then three things happened almost simultaneously: The Tilarban's pistol flew across the ring and wound up in the second row of the audience.

      
The Dancer twirled his own gun and replaced it in its holster.

      
And the Tilarban fell heavily to the ground.

      
“He's killed him!” cried Mr. Ahasuerus.

      
“The hell he has!” snapped Flint, starting to clamber down the stairs.

      
“There was only one shot. It hit the gun!"

      
Flint raced across the ring and knelt down beside the Tilarban, while the Dancer stood where he was, staring curiously at the alien's body as it lay sprawled in the sawdust.

      
Flint turned him over and placed his ear next to where he assumed the Tilarban's heart was.

      
“Is he alive?” asked Tojo, who had run over to join him.

      
“Not if he's supposed to have a heartbeat,” said Flint. “He doesn't seem to be breathing, either."

      
“Where was he hit?"

      
“He wasn't!” said Flint, examining the body for a bullet hole and finding none.

      
“Then what happened?"

      
“I don't know. But you'd better have Mr. Ahasuerus get the cops here before the audience starts turning mean."

      
“What about the Dancer?” said the hunchback. “We'd better get him out of here."

      
“I can't think of a quicker way to start a riot than to look like we're sneaking him away,” said Flint, still searching fruitlessly for a bullet wound. “After Ahasuerus calls the cops, hunt up Julius Squeezer and get him in here on the double. Maybe he can scare off any heroes who want to kill the Dancer."

      
The crowd, which had been whispering in shock, became louder and uglier, and the Dancer approached Flint.

      
“All I hit was his gun, Thaddeus,” he said calmly.

      
“I know,” replied Flint, massaging the Tilarban's chest and wondering if he even
had
any lungs.

      
“Got any plans if his friends and relations come on into the ring?"

      
“Just one,” said Flint. “Don't pull your gun out."

      
“They ain't taking me without a fight,” said the Dancer.

      
“Just once, will you try to remember that we're not in the goddamned Wild West?” snapped Flint. “The cops will be here any second. Your job is to not kill anyone else until then. Got it?"

      
“I didn't kill
this
one,” said the Dancer with a shrug. He turned and faced a portion of the audience, his arms once again folded across his chest.

      
Flint finally gave up working over the body, walked to the announcer's stand, and explained to the crowd that the police had been summoned and that everyone should remain seated, then had to do the whole thing over again when he realized that he hadn't activated the translating device.

      
Julius Squeezer entered the ring just as he finished, and took up a position next to the Dancer. A moment later the police arrived, two of the Tilarban's copiously weeping relatives were allowed to remain with his body, and the rest of the crowd was dispersed.

      
The police doctor made a brief examination, closed what passed for his little black bag, and announced that the Tilarban had almost certainly died from heart failure.

      
“I hope you'll make a public announcement to that effect,” said Flint.

      
“If you wish,” replied the doctor.

      
“I just want to make sure everyone knows that the Dancer didn't kill him."

      
“I didn't say that,” replied the doctor. “I said that the victim died from heart failure."

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

      
“
Something
precipitated the deceased's heart failure. Possibly it was the explosion from the weapon; I understand that he practiced with a silent version. Possibly it was the shock of having his own weapon shot from his hand. Possibly it was something else. But whatever the actual cause was, there can be very little doubt that your entertainer precipitated it."

      
“You're crazy!” said Flint. “This guy volunteered. The whole thing was explained to him before he stepped into the ring."

      
“Then doubtless a jury of his peers will find your entertainer innocent," replied the doctor coldly. “In the meantime, it is my opinion that he should be taken into custody."

      
Suddenly the Dancer was surrounded by four policemen. He slowly unfolded his arms and lowered his fingers lazily toward his pistols.

      
“Thaddeus?” he said questioningly.

      
“Shut up and give them your guns,” ordered Flint.

      
“I don't like jails, Thaddeus."

      
“Then don't kill any of them, and maybe I can get you out,” replied Flint, turning off his translating mechanism. “Just spend the goddamned night there while I find out who to pay off."

      
The Dancer reluctantly handed his holsters and pistols over to the police, and was led out of the tent a moment later.

      
“What are we to do, Mr. Flint?” asked the blue man, literally wringing his hands in dismay.

      
“Go to bed, Mr. Ahasuerus,” said Flint wearily. “I'll take care of it, just like I always do."

      
“But a sentient being has died here!” persisted Mr. Ahasuerus. “Surely we bear some moral responsibility. We must find a way to make restitution!"

      
“Yeah. Well, a sentient being is also on his way to the hoosegow, in case that little tidbit of information has already slipped your mind."

      
“But what shall we do about the dead Tilarban?"

      
“Mr. Ahasuerus?” said Flint softly.

      
“Yes?"

      
“
Shut up
!"

      
“But Mr. Flint—"

      
“Carnies take care of their own first, and in case you haven't figured it out, the only reason the Dancer gave up his guns is because he's still got a knife hidden in each boot.” Flint paused and sighed. “So if you want to make yourself useful, stop worrying about a corpse that's already on its way to the morgue and hunt me up a map of whatever city they've carted the Dancer off to."

      
“I'll do more than produce a map,” said the blue man firmly. “I'll go with you."

      
Flint shook his head. “Mr. Ahasuerus, I'm going into town to bribe my way up the ladder of justice. If I let you try to spread a little money around where it might do some good, I'll wind up having to get
two
carnies out of jail instead of just one."

      
“But surely there must be
something
I can do."