The Return of Santiago: A Myth of the Far Future (41 page)

      
His name was Henry Marston, hardly a name to roll off frightened men's lips. And he wasn't black. He was a pale, chalky, sickly white; what pigment his skin had once possessed was almost totally gone.

      
He stood five feet seven inches, when he was strong enough to stand. His weight varied between 110 and 125 pounds; it had never in his life been more than 136.

      
His clothes were nondescript, wrinkled, a bit faded. The left elbow was patched; the right cuff frayed. He wore no primary colors; everything was neutral, fading and blending into one another.

      
The only belt he wore held his loose-fitting pants up. It housed no weapon of any kind. There were no tell-tale bulges pinpointing hidden knives or pistols anywhere on his body. His boots were so old they were past the point of holding a polish, and the large toe of his left foot poked out through a crack in the inexpensive material it was made of.

      
And there were the gloves.

      
They went halfway up his forearms, totally functional, totally unstylish.

      
There was also the mask. It was transparent, and covered his face from the bridge of his nose down to his Adam's apple, then all the way around to the back of his head.

      
If there was ever a man who looked less than formidable, it was Henry Marston.

      
So it was probably God's little cosmic joke that he was the deadliest man alive, far more dangerous than Dimitrios or the One-Armed Bandit or Tyrannosaur Bailey, with a sobriquet that was more accurate than most.

      
"No matter what you think," Virgil told his companions as they waited patiently to pass through Customs at the Tosca III spaceport, "he's everything I've said he is."

      
"Why shouldn't we believe you?" asked Dante.

      
"Well, he doesn't make a good first impression," admitted Virgil. He paused thoughtfully. "Come to think of it, his second and third impressions aren't much of an improvement."

      
"We came here on your say-so," said Dante angrily. "If you've been wasting our time, maybe you'd better tell us right now."

      
"Everything I said about the Black Death is true," said Virgil. He spat on his hand and held it up, palm out. "I give you an Injun's solemn oath on that."

      
"There's something you're not telling us," continued Dante.

      
"It'll probably be better if you find out for yourself."

      
"Why?"

      
"Because if I tell you any more about him, you won't want to meet him."

      
"He's that ineffectual?" asked Matilda.

      
Virgil smiled. "I told you: he's the deadliest killer out here—at least the deadliest I've ever seen."

      
"Then why won't we want to meet him?"

      
"You'll be afraid to."

      
Dante glared at him. "Just how much seed have you been chewing today?"

      
"None," Virgil assured him. "I'm depressingly sober."

      
"Then shut up," Dante ordered him. "The more we talk, the angrier I'm getting with you. Just take us to meet this Black Death and let's get it over with."

      
"You're the boss," said Virgil. They passed through Customs without incident. "By the way," added Virgil as they walked to a hovering limo, "call him Henry."

      
"Why?"

      
"Because that's his name. And he hates being the Black Death."

      
"You mean being
called
the Black Death," Matilda corrected him.

      
"That, too," agreed Virgil.

      
The limo took them into Red Dust, the nearest of Tosca's three towns. The buildings showed the effects of the wind constantly blowing the dust against them, and two of the slidewalks were closed for repairs, also due to the omnipresent dust.

      
The limo announced that they had reached the municipality of Red Dust and asked for a specific destination.

      
"Take us to the Weeping Willow," said Virgil.

      
"Done, sir," replied the limo so promptly and formally that Dante decided that it must be frustrated at its inability to offer a snappy salute.

      
The Weeping Willow was a nondescript tavern. small and unimpressive, filled with second-hand and oft-repaired chairs and tables. There was no back room for gambling, no upstairs rooms for sex, nothing but a small selection of mediocre liquor from various points on the Inner Frontier, an unused alien dart game hanging on one wall, and a much-dented metal bar in addition to the tables.

      
Dante glanced around the tavern. A small, sickly-looking man sat at a table in the corner. Two oversized women, smoking alien cigarettes and drinking alien whiskey, sat at another, playing a complex game using hundreds of cards with unfamiliar markings. The only other person in the place was the tall, muscular bartender, who looked hopefully at them when they entered, then lost interest when he saw they weren't there to drink.

      
"Your information was wrong," said Dante. "He's not here."

      
"Yes he is," answered Virgil calmly.

      
Dante looked at the small man with the transparent mask and the long gloves. "Is this some kind of joke?" he demanded.

      
"Why don't we talk to him, and then you can tell me if it's a joke or not," said Virgil, approaching the small man's table.

      
Henry Marston looked up and tried to smile at Virgil. It was evidently too much of an effort, and the smile froze halfway across his face, then vanished a few seconds later.

      
"Hi, Henry. It's been a while."

      
"Hello, Virgil," said Henry, stifling a cough. "What brings you to a little dirtball like Tosca?"

      
"I'd like you to meet two friends of mine—Dante and Matilda."

      
"I hope you'll forgive me if I don't get up," said Henry in a weak, hoarse whisper.

      
"I heard you were on Tosca," said Virgil, pulling up a chair and motioning for his companions to do the same. "Got a job to do here?"

      
"It's done," said Henry.

      
"Then why are you still here?"

      
"I was paid to kill her," was the answer. "I have to stick around and make sure she died."
Wonderful,
thought Dante.
The old man's such a lousy shot he doesn't know if his victim will live or die. What are we wasting our time here?

      
"Excuse me for interrupting," said Dante, frowning, "but are you really the man known as the Black Death?"

      
"It's not a name of my own choosing," said Henry.

      
"I mean no disrespect, but you look like you're half-dead yourself."

      
"I am."

      
Dante turned to Virgil. "And this is the guy you think can take out the Bandit?"

      
"If he has to," said Virgil. "But I thought the plan was for him to ride herd, to kind of redirect him."

      
"Ride herd?" repeated Dante. "No offense, Henry, if that's your name, but he can barely sit up in his chair. What the hell got into you?"

      
Virgil chuckled. "Nothing got into me. That's why I'm still alive."

      
"I think your friend deserves an explanation, Virgil," said Henry.

      
"Yeah, I suppose so," agreed Virgil. "Too bad. I just love to watch him when he's confused."

      
"Is one of you going to tell me what this is all about?" said Dante, trying to control his temper.

      
"It's
him
," said Matilda, nodding her head toward Henry.

      
Henry smiled. "You're very perceptive, my dear."

      
"I'm getting really annoyed!" growled Dante. He turned to Matilda. "What do you know that I don't know?"

      
"You're not the Black Death at all," said Matilda, staring at Henry. "That may be what they call you, but that's not what you are. You're its carrier."

      
"What are you talking about?" demanded Dante.

      
"Look at him," said Matilda. "That mask isn't there to protect him from unfiltered air. It's to protect
us
from him. Look at his gloves. You can't touch him and he can't touch you." She paused. "What disease are you carrying, Henry?
Ybonia
?"

      
"
Ybonia
takes weeks to act," replied Henry. "I'm a carrier for
bharzia
."

      
"How fast does it act?"

      
"If I touch you, you're dead within an hour. If I breathe on you, it could take up to two days. They are not days you would wish on anyone."

      
"I've heard about
bharzia
," said Dante. "There's no cure for it."

      
"Not yet," agreed Henry. "Maybe in another ten or twelve years."

      
"I thought it killed everyone that was infected," continued Dante. "That once it showed up on a planet it decimated the whole population. How come you're still alive?"

      
"No one knows," said Henry. "Genetic sport, probably. I haven't had a healthy day in two decades, but I don't die. There are days, oh, thousands of them, when I
wish
I was dead, but it never happens."

      
"How did you decide to become the Black Death," asked Matilda.

      
"I figured that if God has such a vicious sense of humor that He'd leave me alive when all I wanted to do was die, the least I could do was even the score by killing men and women He wanted to live."

      
"An interesting philosophy," commented Dante.

      
"What do you do with your money?" asked Matilda.

      
"What
can
someone like me do?" responded Henry. "I spend some of it on moral lepers like Virgil, who allow me to vicariously experience some very out-of-the-ordinary things. And I donate millions to research. Without me, they'd be thirty years from a cure."

      
"It doesn't sound like much of a life."

      
"It's the only one I've got."

      
"Maybe you'd like to do something meaningful with it," said Dante.

      
"Are you suggesting that killing hundreds of men and women isn't meaningful?" said Henry sardonically.

      
"I'm being serious."

      
"All right, let's be serious," said Henry, staring back at him through watery eyes. "Who do you want me to kill?"

      
"Hopefully no one."

      
Henry looked amused. "My only skill is killing people. If you want me to let them live, that could run into real money."

      
Dante was silent for a long moment, studying the old man. Finally he spoke. "I'm sorry for wasting your time, Henry. You're not the man we want."

      
"I don't even know what the job is," complained Henry.

      
"It doesn't matter," said Dante. "It requires a man with a stronger moral compass than you possess."

      
"I resent your drawing moral and ethical judgments on my character before you've had a chance to know me," said Henry.

      
"Okay, you resent it," said Dante. "What are you going to do—take off your mask and breathe on me?"

      
"It's a possibility."

      
"That's why we can't use you," said Dante. "Killing the man in question was a last resort . . . but killing seems to be your only resort."

      
"You do what you're good at," replied Henry bitterly. "This is what
I'm
good at."

      
"I don't mind that it's what you're good at," said Dante. "I mind that it's
all
you're good at."

      
Henry stared at his gloved hands for a long moment. "Just out of curiosity, what would the job have paid?"

      
"I don't know."

      
"You don't know?" repeated Henry unbelievingly.

      
"It's too complicated to explain. You'd have been working for someone else."

      
"The man you wanted me to kill?"

      
"The man I hoped you wouldn't have to kill."

      
"This is getting very complicated," said Henry. "I'm a simple man. Show me who you want dead and I'll kill them. Show me who you want to live and I'll leave them alone. Black and white makes sense to me. I don't like grays."

      
"That's the problem, all right," said Dante. "I'm sorry to have bothered you."

      
"No bother at all," said Henry. "Leave 200 credits at the bar."

      
"Why?"

      
"For my time. I didn't ask for this interview."

      
Dante considered it, then nodded his agreement. "Fair enough."

      
"If you ever decide what you really want, come on back and we'll talk some business," said Henry.

      
"If you're still alive," said Virgil with a smile.