Amid general applause begun by Quantrill, the android stopped, began a bow, stopped again. Then it squatted and—barely—performed a back flip. The Mexican laughed, then easily leaped over in a tucked position, landing with one foot only slightly behind the other. The android's handstand was quite steady, its one-armed handstand not so steady. Neither was the Mexican's, but his cheering audience did not care. Only when the android ended a cartwheel with a forward flip did the man throw up his arms, laughing. "I would break my neck," he said, accepting defeat gracefully, and made a mocking bow to the machine before walking to the exit. He did not carry himself like a man who had lost, and Quantrill clapped him on the back as they met in the hallway.
Strapping his boot closures on as he sat with his back turned to his companions, the Mexican stood up and clapped his hands together as he turned. "Somewhere in this maze." he said happily, "there must be a machine we can defeat."
"I think you licked that one. on points," Quantrill joked.
"I seen a game called 'Solo' over yonder," said Longo, nodding into the depths of the building. "That ought to tickle your balls, if you wanta kill yourself a plastic gunsel."
The heavyset Longo led them to the game, and they watched one patron gamely go through the act of getting himself painlessly "killed" by utter strangers. This was one game, Quantrill thought, that belonged over the next hill in Faro. You paid, strapped on a black sensor-covered vest and a gunbelt with a Colt peacemaker, and strode into a small western saloon furnished with a one-way mirror behind the bar. Kibitzers watched the action through the mirror, and while that action might last only two minutes, it seemed a lifetime to some. The Colt fired a low-power laser and would do it six times, with appropriate six-gun sound effects. Your opponents were among the score of androids, some sitting in a corner at an endless poker game, some lounging at the bar or positioned above the stairway. A blowsy female leaned its ample bazooms on the top of an upright player piano and sang off key to the other machines as the piano tinkled. One android, an apparent fat drunk, roused itself now and then to vent Bronx cheers at the chanteuse. It was funny, but it broke your concentration. It was supposed to.
Because "Solo" required all the concentration you could muster. You were supposed to watch for anyone who looked your way. Every android in the place was capable of drawing some kind of old-fashioned gun, but only six—and they varied—would do so. You were not entitled to draw when you saw a face turn toward you, but when its eyes flashed crimson you had better draw fast. If you hit any part of your target, it reacted as if the laser were a slug. The android fired only at your vest, but if it hit you first the piano played a brief dirge while the androids sneered at you. Quantrill ruled out that game the instant he saw it.
"I might go for that," said the man called Johnny, watching the patron blow one mean customer off his stool.
"I just bet you would," said the one called Leo. "Busted arm and all."
"So who draws with his left?"
"I believe Sam Coulter would," said the Mexican, squeezing Quantrill's left bicep gently.
Quantrill allowed the liberty, putting aside a vague momentary feeling that his new friend had a look of fondness that verged on the feminine. Matthias, he decided, was sharp as hell to spot a left-hander so quickly. He put up both hands in surrender. "Not me. Games like that give me a pounder of a headache. You go ahead; I'll cheer."
Sorel elected to wait until the two Anglos had taken their turns, watching the action closely. Quantrill noted that two of the androids seemed always to be among the six bad dudes, and that their movements seemed choreographed to the millisecond. By waiting and watching for hours, a player might greatly improve his chances. His friend Matthias, he decided, was probably making the same calculation.
After the two Anglos had their turns, the Mexican took his time checking the freedom of his Colt in its holster before walking into the game of Solo. He seemed to have planned his moves well, drawing carefully at a moderately slow gunsel at the bar. The tall Anglo had won three of his encounters, the chunky one only two. "One down," they called. It was impossible to tell whether the Mexican heard them, for he wasted none of his concentration on a reply.
Number two flashed its eyes from the poker table, and Sorel fired from a prone position. He almost missed number three, a lounger at the top of the stairwell, but turned sideways as he drew and got the shot off quickly. The android fell backward in satisfyingly realistic fashion, and Quantrill realized that the Mexican was cleverly twisting so that, while the vest told the machines where to aim, those vest sensors made almost no target at the instant of truth.
Number four was the bartender, which had been "watching" the gunplay at the stair and hauled out a shotgun to drill the player with an awesome report. Sorel shook his head in a flash of irritation, reseated his Colt, then quickly moved up with his back to the bartender android.
Probably
, thought Quantrill with admiration,
he's counting on only one draw from a given source. Very quick thinking, and damned quick with his body
.
Number five was a special problem, an android that flashed its crimson blink and then stepped behind three others for cover before firing. The player that shot a noncombatant lost the rest of his turn. The Mexican turned sideways again, took a one-handed stance, and moved his body abruptly from side to side. The android missed by a hairsbrcadth and then, in accord with some programmer's fancy, put its hands up. Sorel shot it squarely in the chest, chuckling as he fired.
But while taking deliberate aim at his fifth opponent, Sorel had turned his torso to face the buxom machine at the piano. Though he did not see the crimson flash from its eyes, Quantrill did. Caught up in the game, Quantrill shouted, "To your left!" and actually felt his own left hand twitch in the direction of his right armpit. That would have been lovely, explaining a few explosive rounds from a Chiller through a one-way mirror.
No one noticed, for the chanteuse had drawn a derringer from its plastic cleavage and fired as the Mexican was whirling. The men outside whooped their enthusiasm, and the victim walked out muttering to himself, plainly disgusted with his performance.
Now the barrel-chested "Johnny" showed his first signs of beginning to enjoy himself. "Like my daddy said, you got to look out for them painted hussies," he rumbled. His tall companion only clucked his tongue in false sympathy.
"To be taken by a woman," the victim said, shaking his head a minute later as he handed over his gear to an attendant.
"Depends how she does it," Quantrill said slyly. "Anyhow, that was a damn fast machine made up like a woman." He was on the point of adding, like a bloody fool, that he might have done no better under the circumstances. Instead, he suggested they continue their tour.
They studied the game of Dee & Dee, reading its displays and looking over the pointedly skimpy holo maps, for the better part of half an hour before deciding against it. No doubt the maze would be tremendous fun for someone who knew all the nuances of dragons, dungeons, wizards, and trolls, but the welter of rules soon had the men laughing at the sheer complication of it all.
"Anyway, it takes a half hour, and it's as expensive as the Thrillkiller," Quantrill said.
"But it don't take the
cojones
," observed "Collier," going to the heart of it. "Why don't you go for the biggie?"
"Very well," said the Mexican. "We will follow you." His smile was innocent as a babe's.
"Collier" and "Cherry" made quite a show of unconcern as they strolled to the Thrillkiller. There was no long line of riders waiting, but the men needed a few minutes to study the paper they signed. Quantrill learned something new: it was possible to brake the capsule for an emergency stop. But if you did, you forfeited an additional fifty-dollar deposit because all capsules under way would also stop, then proceed slowly to the finish line. In case of a real malf, a huge device called a "cherry picker" slid along the maglev track to the site of the problem. Apparently, WCS and their LockLever designers had thought of everything—including the disclaimer for cardiac arrest while in a capsule.
First to climb into a capsule for his solitary ride was the heavyset Anglo, who was still smiling now, but not very convincingly. The lone attendant helped him snug into his restraint harness, including the "submarine" strap that passed between the legs and locked at the single-point disconnect low on the rider's belly. The canopy hinged at the side and snapped down with heavy thunks of probe locks. A moment later, the attendant checked a computer display and then punched a command. Inside the capsule a hidden loudspeaker began its special effects, sounding for all the world like a turbo boost. The linear electric drive, which did the real work, gradually accelerated the capsule away to the first bend. And kept accelerating through it.
The tall graying Anglo shook his head a little and sighed as his capsule trundled up to the start line. He turned to the Mexican: "Beats the shit outa me why I'm doin' this."
"You are at liberty to let the opportunity pass."
"No I ain't, and you know it." There was a hint of dark humor in the reply; Texans, even when otherwise mature, were often notorious suckers for a dare. He stepped over the high sill into his capsule and began to arrange his harness with the resignation of the damned.
"If it's any consolation," Quantrill said, "I feel the same way." This was only a slight exaggeration. Having flown government sprint choppers, he knew what to expect. But in a sprint chopper, you could plan every twist and lurch.
By unspoken agreement, Quantrill was next. By the time he waved to the Mexican, he could see a capsule far ahead, going through the second of its free-fall arcs. It dropped to the lower "submach" track, and Quantrill decided to follow suit. No point in deliberately antagonizing the others. He had little doubt that "Matthias" would take the high road.
Quantrill soon felt glad of his decision. The damned capsule whipped him from side to side, hurled itself into a tunnel, and seemed likely to screw itself down to India before straightening, accelerating up, and giving him a brief taste of zero gee before meeting the rails again. The console display gave him his choice, and he ignored it, looking ahead. That free-fall choice up ahead interested him as a problem in vertical mass switching, neatly solved. For the submach track, you scarcely left the rails at all.
The high-speed straight on the return leg was fun because it was near enough to the valley floor to give the illusion of great speed. Quantrill found himself enjoying it, reminding himself to return one day and try the hypersonic option, and the last deceleration bends came too soon. Ahead, he could see his companions, tiny stick figures outside the capsules, leaning on balustrade rails.
He got out carefully, noting the other men who were shading their eyes, watching the near distance. Sure enough, a bright dart was hurtling down the hypersonic high road, across kilometers of track at a speed that was simply appalling so near to the ground. The boulder rocked into place across the rails, on cue, and opened on cue. Less than a minute later, their fourth member was climbing from his capsule, elated. Quantrill greeted him with what he wanted to hear: "I took the easy way. Gotta hand it to you, Matthias; you have more big brass balls than all the pawnshops in SanTone."
The Mexican placed his hand on Quantrill's shoulder and looked back at the rails stretching away behind them. Slowly, reflecting as he spoke, he said, "I think—it is a matter of faith."
"You mean like God won't let you down?"
"Oh, no. I merely remind myself that others have done this. And what anyone else can do…" He let his hand fall. It was unnecessary for him to finish the sentence: I
can do better
.
Quantrill could not recall all the details of the evening that followed. His only explanation—there could be no excuse short of an insanity plea—was that in his own mind he had closed the case, assuming too much. Someone had said that riding a Thrillkiller was thirsty work, and no one had denied it. After a few Dos Equis drafts in an excellent hotel lounge, they had returned by stage to Faro and downed a couple of tequila sours. Then Quantrill had accepted another—perhaps several. He did recall one special insult to his gut, a boiler-maker made not with ordinary whiskey but with Gusano Rojo mezcal, the stuff with a caterpillar embalmed in state right there in the bottle where you could see it. After three hefty swigs, you would drink to its health. After two more, you would swear it was drinking to yours.
At some point, he had wisely decided against calling on any of the security managers that night. Hadn't he already covered the necessary bases? And besides, you didn't ask with a slurred tongue about the possibility of a backup for your own sidearm. That, and the decision to go to his room and stash the Chiller, were the last pieces of wisdom he used that night—with one exception. He avoided the temptation to let his good buddy Matthias in on his real reason for coming to Faro.
They had wandered arm in arm, after dark, to another saloon. They'd played cards; "bucked the tiger" in the game of faro; gone bust at "twenty-one," accepted still more drinks at the poker table. Had he finally lost, or won? Quantrill could not recall, but in any case the Mexican had put up the stakes, drinking less. Vigilant more. Some time after midnight, the little party separated. The best that could be said for Quantrill at the time was that his gait had been reasonably steady. He had long since ceased to talk much. Why bother, when his tongue was developing a Castilian accent?
Morning brought a wake-up knock that infuriated him. But he reached through the cobwebs to recall he had left orders for a wake-up when registering. He lay inert for a time, leafing through his memory, cursing at the blank passages. He could recall most of the previous evening until ten or so, and not much after that. Seems that Ernst Matthias had suggested they bunk together. Now, why the hell…? No, that had to be wrong, as wrong as letting the joy of a new friendship trigger a drinking bout. If it
had
been a bout. If it had. Matthias had sure as hell won it by pacing his drinks. One more sure thing, in a booze bout nobody won the morning after. Jess Marrow had said it once: If you got hangovers, you lost then and there. If you didn't get hangovers, you lost your liver eventually.