The Best Rootin' Tootin' Shootin' Gunslinger in the Whole Damned Galaxy (8 page)

      
“Besides dithering, you mean?” he said sarcastically. “Yeah, there's one thing that pops to mind."

      
“Yes? And what is that?"

      
“Try just as hard as you can not to come up with any more bright ideas for a new act while I'm gone."

      
“That was an unfair remark, Mr. Flint,” said the blue man reproachfully. “You know it was Billybuck's idea."

      
“Well, I'm in an unfair mood tonight,” said Flint. “The sooner you get the hell out of here and hunt up that map, the sooner you won't have to listen to me."

      
Ten minutes later Flint was climbing into the poorly-heated landcar, an inadequate map in one pocket and a roll of bills in the other. As he punched the ignition combination and headed off to bully a bunch of orange aliens into releasing a demonstrably certifiable gunfighter, he concluded—for perhaps the hundredth time—that he was definitely getting too old for this kind of shit.

 

 

Chapter 5

 

      
"Hey, Dancer—are you awake?"

      
“Is that you, Thaddeus?"
 

      
“Right,” answered Flint, as the attendant unlocked the door to the Dancer's cell. The young Texan emerged into the brightly lit corridor a moment later, rubbing his eyes.

      
“What time is it?” he asked.

      
“It's seven-thirty in the morning, ship's time, and I've been freezing my ass off all fucking night finding out what strings to pull to get you out of here," growled Flint. He looked at the sharpshooter. “You didn't use your knife while you were here, did you?"

      
“I was in solitary."

      
“Not a bad place for a killer who's making headlines on all the newscasts."

      
“Really?” asked the Dancer, suddenly interested.

      
“Well, I don't know about
all
of them, but you were on the two I happened to see.” Flint stuck his head into the darkened cell. “Got anything in here?"

      
“Nope."

      
“Good. Then let's get the hell out of here, before someone decides not to stay bought."

      
“No trial?” asked the Dancer.

      
“None. You're a free man—and a damned expensive one.” He rubbed his hands together. “Jesus, you'd think a race that can travel through space would know how to heat their goddamned jails."

      
“How much did it cost?"

      
“More than they needed and less than you're worth,” replied Flint. “Let's go."

      
“Do you have any money left?"

      
Flint stared at the young marksman. “Why?"

      
“I got a friend in here. Can you make his bail?"

      
“I thought you were in solitary."

      
“He's in the next cell,” explained the Dancer. “We talked all night."

      
“How?” asked Flint skeptically. “You didn't bring a translator."

      
“He speaks English."

      
“Horseshit! Nobody on this dirtball speaks English."

      
The Dancer met Flint's gaze. “If I were you, Thaddeus, I'd be real careful who I called a liar."

      
Flint glared back at him. “And if I were you,” he responded, “I'd think twice before threatening the one man who could get me out of this pigsty."

      
The Dancer walked back into his cell and folded his arms across his chest resolutely. “I ain't leaving without him, Thaddeus. It ain't right to leave a human being all alone in a place like this."

      
“Except for Earth, there's a grand total of thirteen human beings abroad in the whole damned galaxy,” said Flint. “You want me to name 'em for you?"

      
“Him and me, we go together or we stay together,” said the Dancer firmly.

      
“You haven't even seen him!” yelled Flint. “Even granting for the sake of argument that he speaks English, how do you know he isn't some feathered dragon with five heads?"

      
“Six,” said an amused voice from the other side of the cell wall.

      
Flint jumped, startled, and stared at the wall. The Dancer smiled, and finally Flint walked over to the attendant, switched on his translating device, and asked him to find out the charges and the bail for the Dancer's unseen companion. He stood in the doorway, glaring silently at the marksman, until the alien returned and whispered to him in low tones.

      
“Three thousand credits,” announced Flint, turning the translator off again. “That's an awfully high bail for a guy who's only charged with impersonating an officer.” He paused. “Maybe I ought to let the pair of you rot in here."

      
“You won't, though,” said the Dancer.

      
“You're dead sure of that, are you?"

      
The Dancer nodded. “It ain't because you got a generous nature,” he said. “But whatever me and my friend cost you, you're still going to make more money taking me back than leaving me here."

      
“I might get more satisfaction leaving you here,” said Flint.

      
“Suit yourself,” said the Dancer, sitting down on a strangely-shaped cot and leaning back against the wall.

      
“You've got about five seconds to get off your ass and on your feet or I really
will
leave you,” said Flint disgustedly.

      
“And my friend?” asked the Dancer.

      
“Yeah, him too. Nobody who speaks English belongs in a hole like this. We'll turn him loose when we get out of the city."

      
The Dancer stood up and stretched. “I
told
him you'd make his bail,” he said with a satisfied smile.

      
“Wait here,” said Flint, following the attendant down the hall. He went up to the Tilarban equivalent of a magistrate, posted three thousand credits and signed a pair of papers that he couldn't read, and then returned to the Dancer's cell.

      
“You ready?” he asked.

      
“Yep.” The Dancer stepped into the corridor.

      
Flint nodded to the attendant, and a moment later the door to the adjoining cell was unlocked.

      
“Well, damn it, Dancer!” boomed a loud, friendly voice. “You look just the way I had you pictured!"

      
Flint peered into the darkness, became aware of something moving toward him, and stepped back just in time to avoid bumping into the man who emerged from the cell. He was a bit under six feet tall, with clear blue eyes, black hair that was turning gray at the sideburns, a broad mustache, and a ruddy complexion. He was dressed in a long suede coat, a white silk shirt, a brocaded satin vest, carefully pressed pinstriped pants, and ornately embellished boots.

      
“
Just
the way I pictured you!” he repeated, stepping forward and shaking the sharpshooter's hand. “Pleased to meet you in the flesh, Billybuck Dancer!” He turned to Flint. “And you must be Thaddeus Flint. I heard all about you last night. I guess my friend Billybuck convinced you to pay my bail. How much do I owe you?"

      
“Three thousand credits,” said Flint. “Whatever the hell
that
comes up to in dollars and cents."

      
“I'm afraid you'll have to settle for my heartfelt thanks until I can get a grubstake together."

      
“We'll worry about that later,” said Flint distractedly. “Who the hell
are
you?"

      
“I'm the Dancer's friend and I'm a man who's grateful to you for setting me free,” came the answer. “Take your choice."

      
“Have you got a name?"

      
“Lots of 'em. What name do you like?"

      
Flint stared at him. “Where do you come from? How did you learn a word like ‘grubstake'?"

      
The man smiled. “I come from that airless little room,” he said, gesturing toward the cell, “and I know lots of words. Seems to me that as long as I'm beholden to you for my bail, maybe you and me and the carny can work something out. You ought to see me with a crowd of marks and a bottle of snake oil!"

      
“How about just seeing you with a couple of straight answers?” persisted Flint. “Who are you and where do you come from—and why do you sound like a cowboy?"

      
“I'll be happy to answer all your questions,” replied the man. “But I feel just a mite uncomfortable standing here in the middle of a jail. What say we go on back to the carnival and talk there?"

      
The attendant prodded Flint on the shoulder and said something in his native tongue.

      
“He's telling us to leave,” said the Dancer's friend.

      
“You speak
his
language, too?” asked Flint suddenly.

      
“Piece of cake,” he replied, and started walking down the corridor.

      
“That's one of
my
expressions,” muttered Flint. “What the hell is going on here?"

      
“Don't worry about nothing, Thaddeus,” said the Dancer easily. “I told you: he's my friend."

      
“Yeah. Well, when we pick up your guns on the way out, I want you to pull one of them out of its holster and keep it pointed at your friend all the way back to the ship."

      
“Not a chance, Thaddeus."

      
“You do it or I'm leaving both of you here,” said Flint. “I'm not kidding this time, Dancer."

      
The Dancer stared at him for a moment, then shrugged. “Whatever you say—but he ain't gonna hurt you."

      
“What makes you so sure of that?"

      
“I passed him my knife through the air vent last night,” said the Dancer. “If he wanted to slice you, he'd have done it already."

      
“You gave him your knife?” repeated Flint incredulously.

      
“Why not? I had another, and if you didn't make his bail he was gonna have to find some other way of getting out."

      
Flint shook his head in disbelief, then began walking down the corridor. When he arrived at the magistrate's office, there was no sign of the mysterious man. He picked up the sharpshooter's pistols and headed out the door. When he reached the groundcar he found the man sitting comfortably in the back seat.

      
“Sorry to rush off like that,” he said pleasantly, “but jails depress me."

      
“Right,” agreed the Dancer, climbing into the car.

      
“And speaking of things that depress me,” he added as Flint hit the ignition combination, “so does poverty. Billybuck tells me you might be able to use a person of my talents, Mr. Flint."

      
“And just what
are
your talents, besides ducking questions?” asked Flint as he began driving back toward the carnival.

      
“Well, I can juggle, I can do card tricks, I'm pretty good with a knife— though not as good as Billybuck here—I've worked with wild animals, I'll wager I can play a game of three-card monte every bit as good as your friend the Rigger, I can sing a song and tell a story and play a musical instrument or two. You just name what you want done and turn me loose."

      
Flint smiled in spite of himself. “I think we'll want to know a little bit more about you before springing you loose on an unsuspecting public,” he said, veering to avoid hitting a small domestic animal that had darted out between a pair of decrepit buildings.

      
“All in good time,” said the man. “Right now I'd just like to luxuriate in being free. Ah! Smell that fine fresh air!"

      
“Smells like dead fish to me,” said Flint, turning sharply onto a bumpy road that passed for a Tilarban boulevard, and vaguely wondering why all the houses and stores looked as if they had been made from cheap brown plasterboard.

      
“Well, it's not clean Texas air, I'll admit that—but on the other hand, it sure as hell beats what I've been breathing the last three days. I want to express my gratitude to you once again."

      
“How about being a little less grateful and a little more forthright?” said Flint. “And while you're at it,” he added, “choose one accent and stick to it. You're driving me crazy."

      
“With no disrespect to my friend Billybuck, I think I'll use this one,” came the answer. “It seems more functional, even if it is a bit less poetic."