The Best Rootin' Tootin' Shootin' Gunslinger in the Whole Damned Galaxy (9 page)

      
“What does your
real
language sound like?” asked Flint, spotting the highway that led out of town and back to the carnival and heading for it.

      
“You couldn't pronounce it, let alone understand it,” replied the man easily. “Stop worrying so much, Mr. Flint. I've got a lot more to fear from you than do you from me. I've never harmed a soul in my life, and I don't plan on starting now, not with two such interesting and pleasant companions."

      
“That must have been one hell of an impersonation,” remarked Flint dryly, trying to assimilate what he had just heard.

      
“Oh, it was,” replied the man with a chuckle. “You should have seen me."

      
“Was it as good as the job you're doing now?"

      
“Better,” admitted the man. ‘”I didn't mix up my dialects."

      
Flint reached the highway and increased his speed. “We'll be out of the city once we pass those three ugly-looking buildings on the left,” he said. “Now that the masquerade is over, do you want me to drop you off there?"

      
“Life is an unending masquerade, Mr. Flint. I prefer to remain as I am—and I really do want a job with your carnival."

      
“You haven't answered any of my questions. Why the hell should I put you on my payroll?"

      
“Because you need me, Mr. Flint. Jupiter Monk is no longer a viable performer, Gloria Stunkel has left the show, Max Bloom's health is deteriorating, and there is no call for strippers in a galaxy filled with nonhumans."

      
Flint turned to the Dancer. “Did you give him your home address and the combination to your safe, too?” he asked sardonically.

      
“He asked about the carnival, so I told him,” answered the Dancer.

      
“I thought you were supposed to be the strong, silent type,” muttered Flint.

      
“Please don't blame my good friend Billybuck,” said the man. “I nagged him mercilessly."

      
“Someday you must tell me exactly how you did it,” said Flint. “It took me the better part of three years just to find out his social security number."

      
“Kindness is usually repaid with kindness."

      
“Yeah. Well, I wouldn't know about that."

      
“You can say that again,” chimed in the Dancer.

      
“You got any platitudes about loyalty?” asked Flint wryly.

      
“Half a hundred of 'em,” came the reply. “Take me along and they're all yours, gratis."

      
“You've already told me why I need you,” said Flint. “Why do
you
need
me
?"

      
“Because if you leave me on Tilarba, I will almost certainly die here,” said the man seriously.

      
“Horseshit. You seem to be handling the air and the gravity as well as any of us."

      
“It will not be the atmosphere or the gravity that kills me, but the inhabitants."

      
Flint pulled the vehicle off the road and came to a stop. Then he turned in his seat and faced his passenger. “All right,” he said coldly. “You seem as friendly as the next guy, but in a carnival the next guy is probably a child molester. If you don't want me to leave you right here, you'd better tell me why the Tilarbans want to kill you and why you think I won't.
Dancer
!” he bellowed suddenly. “Will you please stop looking at the goddamned sky and pay attention?"

      
“What's the matter, Thaddeus?” asked the Dancer.

      
“Depending on what this so-called friend of yours says in the next couple of minutes, we're either going to take him along or return him to the cops or maybe have to kill him. If it's the second or third alternative, I might need a little help, since he's probably not a hell of a lot more anxious to die or go to jail than most people.” He paused. “Do you understand what I'm telling you?"

      
“Yep.” The Dancer smiled pleasantly and resumed staring at the sky, as Flint shook his head in disgust.

      
“Relax, Mr. Flint,” said his passenger. ‘”I already told you that you have nothing to fear from me."

      
“I know what you told me. What do the Tilarbans have to fear from you?"

      
“Nothing."

      
“Then why will they want to kill you?"

      
“Racial bigotry,” came the answer. “I believe it is not unknown to people of Earth."

      
“What particular reason have they got for hating you more than the rest of us?"

      
The man shrugged eloquently. “Absolutely none.” He paused and smiled. “Who ever said that bigotry was logical?"

      
“Just what race is it that you belong to?"

      
“You're going to find out sooner or later,” said the man with a sigh. “I am from the planet Jimor, of the star system Pirelliate."

      
“Never heard of it,” said Flint.

      
The Jimorian smiled. “Then you have no reason to be prejudiced against me, have you?"

      
“I don't know. What do you look like when you don't look like this?"

      
“You name it. I am a master of disguise."

      
“Are you trying to tell me that this is a makeup job?” said Flint with a sarcastic laugh.

      
“No. I am trying to tell you that I would like to be your friend, and that I mean no harm."

      
“What were you doing on Tilarba in the first place?"

      
“Hiding,” replied the Jimorian.

      
“From who?"

      
“There are many bigoted races in the galaxy, Mr. Flint."

      
“What is it about Jimorians that seems to bring this little character trait out?"

      
The Jimorian shrugged. “Since I'm not a bigot, I can hardly be expected to tell you what makes a bigot tick, can I?"

      
“You'd damned well better make the attempt if you want to come along."

      
“We frighten people."

      
“Why?"

      
“What difference does it make? I obviously don't frighten you or Billybuck."

      
“Not acceptable,” said Flint. “Try again."

      
“I would love to, Mr. Flint,” said the Jimorian, “but I feel I must point out that there is a Tilarban police car approaching us. Possibly they are merely going in the same direction, but there is every possibility that they wish to, shall we say, repossess either Billybuck or myself."

      
“I've been watching him,” replied Flint calmly.

      
“Shouldn't we try to get away?"

      
“What for? I've paid your bail, and the charges against the Dancer have been dropped."

      
“They may have changed their minds,” the Jimorian pointed out.

      
“They may have,” agreed Flint. “But we're beyond the city limits now."

      
“But—"

      
“If I run, they might arrest me too. We'll wait and see what they want. Besides, what have I got to worry about? They're supposed to be scared to death of you, and I've got the greatest bodyguard in the world sitting right next to me—if he hasn't gone blind from staring at the sun."

      
The police car came to a stop about fifty feet behind Flint's vehicle, and a Tilarban officer got out and began approaching them.

      
“Why are you smiling, Mr. Flint?'” asked the Jimorian.

      
“Either you're as harmless as you say, or he's so goddamned scared of you he's afraid to pull out his weapon."

      
The policeman arrived a moment later and leaned against Flint's door. Flint activated his translating device. “What can I do for you?"

      
“Our sensor devices had indicated you had come to a stop,” replied the policeman. “I'm here to make sure nothing untoward has happened to you."

      
“Nothing has,” Flint assured him.

      
“And to make sure,'” continued the officer, “that you proceed directly to your ship."

      
“Me, personally?'” smiled Flint.

      
“What
you
do is a matter of complete indifference to us. But we want
them
out of here.” He paused. “I will follow you the rest of the way to make sure that you get there without further delay or interference."

      
“We've been run off planets before,” said Flint with a wry smile as the Tilarban returned to his car, “but never with police protection.” He started his vehicle and pulled back onto the road.

      
“I realize that you have your doubts about me,” said his passenger after a moment's silence, “but all I can do is assure you that they're totally groundless. No Jimorian has ever harmed a member of another race."

      
“Our conversation isn't over, just suspended,” said Flint, increasing his acceleration and starting to pull well ahead of the police car.

      
“Just the same, I want you to know that I'm extremely grateful, and that I'll never give you cause to regret taking me in."

      
“That's what they all say,” muttered Flint as the cold, bleak Tilarban countryside sped by.

 

 

Chapter 6

 

      
"A Jimorian!” repeated Mr. Ahasuerus. “I thought that they were extinct."

      
“Well, either you were wrong, or I found an awfully weird Earthman doing time in a Tilarban jail,” commented Flint. “Take your choice."

      
They were sitting in the blue man's office on the top level of the ship. Mr. Ahasuerus sat behind his desk while Flint tried unsuccessfully to adapt his body to the awkward contours of one of his partner's decidedly inhuman couches. The walls were covered with the prints and holographs displaying the blue man's taste in art; Flint tried as hard as he could to keep his eyes averted. None of the pictures made sense, and quite a few of them imbued Flint with the fervent desire never to meet their creators.

      
Mr. Ahasuerus held a cup of coffee in his long, oddly-jointed blue fingers, and was stirring it thoughtfully with an intricately-embossed silver spoon, while Flint sipped from a stein of artificial beer—Mr. Ahasuerus had long since requested that he not drink directly from the can, a request Flint honored only in his partner's office—and tried to pretend that it tasted better than lukewarm dishwater.

      
“There are no other Earthmen,” announced the blue man at last. “He
must
be a Jimorian.” Suddenly Mr. Ahasuerus got up from his desk and began pacing excitedly around the office. “Then they are not extinct after all! What splendid fortune, Mr. Flint! I've never even seen a holograph of one."

      
“He looks just like me, only uglier,” said Flint sardonically.

      
The blue man seemed not to hear him. “What a fabulous opportunity we have before us! I have a very close friend back on my home world who has been studying and writing about Jimorians for almost half a century, and yet I'll wager even
he
has never seen one in the flesh. You should feel very lucky indeed, Mr. Flint."

      
“I'll settle for just being lucky enough to get you to tell me what a Jimorian
is
,” said Flint.

      
“A member of an ancient, ancient race,” replied the blue man. “No one knows very much about them."

      
“People seem to know enough to be scared shitless at the mention of them," replied Flint. “Why?"

      
The blue man sighed. “It is very difficult to separate truth from legend."

      
“Make the attempt,” said Flint dryly. “And while you're at it, try to sound a little less like a B movie."

      
“What is a B movie?” inquired the blue man curiously.

      
“Never mind,” said Flint. “Just tell me about Jimorians."

      
“I really don't know where to begin.” He returned to his desk, seated himself on the edge, and picked up his coffee again.

      
“Start with what our friend looks like when he's not decked out like an overripe frontier dandy."

      
“I don't know,” said Mr. Ahasuerus. “I doubt that anyone
does
know, except perhaps another Jimorian."