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****** Oracle ******

by Mike Resnick

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Fictionwise Contemporary - Science Fiction

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ORACLE

by Mike Resnick

Volume 2 of the Oracle Trilogy

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To Carol, as always,

And to Mark and Lynne Aronson,

close friends for half a lifetime

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Table of Contents

Prologue

Part 1: The Whistler's Book

Part 2: The Injun's Book

Part 3: The Jade Queen's Book

Part 4: The Iceman's Book

Part 5: The Oracle's Book

===============================================================================

PROLOGUE

It was a time of giants.

There was no room for them to breathe and flex their muscles in mankind's

sprawling Democracy, so they gravitated to the distant, barren worlds of the

Inner Frontier, drawn ever closer to the bright galactic Core like moths to a

flame.

Oh, they fit into human frames, most of them, but they were giants nonetheless.

No one knew what had brought them forth in such quantity at this particular

moment in human history. Perhaps there was a need for them in a galaxy filled

to overflowing with little people possessed of even smaller dreams. Possibly it

was the savage splendor of Inner Frontier itself, for it was certainly not a

place for ordinary men and women. Or maybe it was simply time for a race that

had been notably short of giants in recent eons to begin producing them once

again.

But whatever the reason, they swarmed out beyond the furthest reaches of the

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explored galaxy, spreading the seed of Man to hundreds of new worlds, and in

the process creating a cycle of legends that would never die as long as men

could tell tales of heroic deeds.

There was Faraway Jones, who set foot on more than 500 new worlds, never quite

certain what he was looking for, always sure that he hadn't yet found it.

There was a shadowy figure known only as the Whistler, who had killed more than

one hundred men and aliens.

There was Friday Nellie, who turned her whorehouse into a hospital during the

war against the Setts, and finally saw it declared a shrine by the very men who

once tried to close it down.

There was Jamal, who left no fingerprints or footprints, but had plundered

palaces that to this day do not know they were plundered.

There was Bet-a-World Murphy, who at various times owned nine different gold-

mining worlds, and lost every one of them at the gaming tables.

There was Backbreaker Ben Ami, who wrestled aliens for money and killed men for

pleasure. There was the Marquis of Queensbury, who fought by no rules at all,

and the White Knight, albino killer of fifty men, and Sally the Blade, and the

Forever Kid, who reached the age of nineteen and just stopped growing for the

next two centuries, and Catastrophe Baker, who made whole planets shake beneath

his feet, and the exotic Pearl of Maracaibo, and the Jade Queen, whose sins

were condemned by every race in the galaxy, and Father Christmas, and the One-

Armed Bandit with his deadly prosthetic arm, and the Earth Mother, and Lizard

Malloy, and the deceptively mild-mannered Cemetery Smith.

Giants all.

Yet there was one giant who was destined to tower over all of the others, to

juggle the lives of men and worlds as if they were so many toys, to rewrite the

history of the Inner Frontier, and the Outer Frontier, and the Spiral Arm, and

even the all-powerful Democracy itself. At various times in her short,

turbulent life she was known as the Soothsayer, and the Oracle, and the

Prophet. By the time she had passed from the galactic scene, only a handful of

survivors knew her true name, or her planet of origin, or even her early

history, for such is the way with giants and legends.

But she had an origin, and a history, and a name.

This is her story.

===============================================================================

Part 1:

THE WHISTLER'S BOOK

His real name was Carlos Mendoza, but it had been so many years since he used

it that it seemed almost alien to him.

Here on the Inner Frontier, among the sparsely-populated worlds that lay

between Man's sprawling Democracy and the galactic core, men changed names with

the ease, and occasionally the frequency, that their brothers in the Democracy

changed clothes. Mendoza had had many occupations in his 61 years, some of

which he wished to forget and some that he wished his enemies would forget, and

he had had almost as many names, but the one that had stuck was the Iceman.

There were people who said he was the Iceman because he had once been the ruler

of a planet totally covered by a mile-thick glacier. Others said no, that he

got the name because he was a cold-blooded killer. A few suggested that he

possessed a rare disease that threatened to kill him by lowering his body

temperature, and that's why he had finally settled on the hot, desert world of

Last Chance.

The Iceman didn't care what people thought about the genesis of his name. In

fact, there wasn't much that he did care about. Money, of course; and the power

he exercised as the owner of the End of the Line, the only tavern on Last

Chance—but over the years he had lost interest in most other things.

Except gossip.

Miners, traders, explorers, adventurers, and bounty hunters would stop on Last

Chance to refuel their ships, or lay in their supplies, or register their

claims, or occasionally to wait for their mail or their rewards to catch up

with them, and they would come to the End of the Line, and they would talk. The

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Iceman never asked any questions, never volunteered any information, but he

listened intently, and once in a long while he would hear some tidbit that

momentarily brought a touch of animation to his impassive face. When that

happened he would disappear for a week or a month, after which he would return

to Last Chance as suddenly as he had left. Then he would sit in the bar and

listen to more gossip, more tales of adventure and derring-do, of fortunes made

and fortunes lost, of battles won and empires fallen, his face expressionless.

Those who cared about him—and they were few and far between—occasionally asked

him precisely what he was hoping to hear, what it was that he went off to find

on his rare excursions. He would politely sidestep their questions, for despite

his reputation he was a courteous man, and shortly thereafter they would see

him sitting at another table, listening to another traveler's tale.

He was not a physically impressive man. He was an inch or two below normal

height, and he carried about 30 pounds of excess weight, and his hair was

thinning on the top and white on the sides. He walked with a decided limp; most

people assumed that he had a prosthetic leg, but no one ever asked him and he

never volunteered any information about it. His voice was neither deep nor

rich, though when he spoke on Last Chance it carried a ring of absolute

authority that very few men challenged (and none ever challenged it twice.)

He was known throughout the Inner Frontier, but nobody knew quite what he had

done to acquire his notoriety. He had killed some men, of course, but that was

hardly sufficient to establish a reputation on the lawless frontier worlds. It

was rumored that he had once worked for the Democracy in some covert capacity,

but by its very nature nothing was known about his job. Once, fourteen years

ago, he had disappeared from Last Chance for a number of months, and word had

it that he had been responsible for the deaths of quite a few bounty hunters,

but no one could verify it and the details were so vague that very few people

put much credence in the story.

There was one woman who had heard the story and believed it, and after many

false starts she finally tracked him down in his refuge on Last Chance, half a

galaxy away from the affluent, populous worlds of the Democracy. She was

middle-aged, with blue eyes and nondescript, sand-colored hair. Her nose had a

small lump at the bridge, as if it had been broken many years ago, and her

teeth were too white and too even to be her own.

The End of the Line was filled with the usual crowd of adventurers and misfits,

humans and aliens, when she entered it. The aliens—seven Canphorites, a pair of

Lodinites, two Domarians, and one each from a trio of races she had never seen

before—were clustered together at a number of small tables. Most of them

couldn't metabolize the bar's offerings, and were obviously waiting for the

large casino, which consisted of some two dozen tables and an equal number of

exotic games of chance, to open its doors. A small sign, written in various

human and alien languages, announced that that happy moment would occur at

sunset.

The heads of a quartet of alien carnivores, each snarling in mute defiance,

were positioned above the long hardwood bar, and in a glass case just next to

the changemaker was a tattered copy of a poem written by Black Orpheus, the

Bard of the Inner Frontier, which he had created and autographed when he had

stopped on Last Chance for an evening some two centuries ago.

Twenty humans, some dressed in colorful and expensive garments, others wearing

the dull browns and grays of miners and prospectors, stood at the bar or sat at

tables. None of them paid her any attention as she entered the tavern, looked

around for a moment, and finally approached the bartender.

“I'm looking for a man known as the Iceman,” she said. “Is he here?”

The bartender nodded his head. “Right over there, sitting by the window.”

“Will he speak to me?” she asked.

The bartender chuckled. “That depends on his mood. But he'll listen to you.”

She thanked him and walked over to the Iceman's table, giving the aliens a wide

berth as she did so.

“May I join you?” she asked.

“Pull up a chair, Mrs. Bailey,” he said.

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She looked surprised. “You know who I am?”

“No,” he answered. “But I know your name.”

“How?”

“You had to identify yourself when you requested landing coordinates,” said the

Iceman. “Nobody lands on Last Chance without my approval.”

“I see,” she said, sitting down. She stared across the table. “I can't believe

that I've finally found you!”

“I wasn't lost, Mrs. Bailey,” he said expressionlessly.

“Perhaps not, but I've been looking for you for more than four years.”

“And what's so important that you would spend four years of your life trying to

find me?”

“My name is Bettina Bailey,” she began.

“I know.”

“Does it mean anything to you?”

“Should it?”

“If the name Bailey doesn't, then I've wasted an enormous amount of time.”

“I've never heard of anyone called Bettina Bailey,” he replied noncommittally.

“I've heard stories—rumors, really, to be honest—that you may have known my

daughter.”

“Go on,” said the Iceman.

“Her name is Penelope.”

The Iceman pulled out a small cigar. “What did you hear?”

“I heard that you knew her.” Bettina Bailey paused, studying the Iceman's face.

“I've even heard that she spent some time on Last Chance.”

“That was fourteen years ago, Mrs. Bailey,” said the Iceman, lighting his

cigar. “I haven't seen her since.” He shrugged. “For all I know, she's dead

now.”

Bettina Bailey stared unblinking at him. “If we're talking about the same girl,

you know that's impossible.”

The Iceman returned her stare for a long moment, as if considering his answer.

Finally he took another puff of his cigar and nodded. “We're talking about the

same girl.”

“She would be 22 years old now.”

“That would be about right,” agreed the Iceman.

Bettina Bailey paused again. “I've heard other rumors, too,” she said at last.

“Such as?”

“That she's living with aliens.”

“An alien,” the Iceman corrected her.

“Then you know where she is?”

He shook his head. “No. I just know who she was with the last time I saw her.”

“I've also heard that you've spent a lot of time looking for her,” continued

Bettina Bailey.

He stared impassively at her and made no answer.

“And that you know more about her than any other man alive,” she continued.

“It's possible,” he agreed.

“It's more than possible. It's a fact.”

“All right, it's a fact. Now what?”

“I want my daughter back.”

“Pardon my pointing it out, Mrs. Bailey, but it took you long enough to come to

that decision.”

“I have been looking for her for sixteen years.” She paused. “She was taken

from me in the Democracy. The Democracy encompasses more than ten thousand

worlds; it took me more than a decade, and most of my late husband's money, to

discover that she was no longer there, but was on the Inner Frontier.”

“She was on the Inner Frontier fourteen years ago, Mrs. Bailey,” said the

Iceman. “She could be anywhere now—the Inner Frontier, the Rim, the Spiral Arm,

the Outer Frontier, even back in the Democracy. It wouldn't be difficult for

someone with her abilities to hide from anyone who was looking for her.”

“She's on the Inner Frontier,” repeated Bettina Bailey adamantly.

He stared at her, unable to totally conceal his interest. “How do you know?”

“When you are willing to be open and frank with me, I will respond in kind,”

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she replied. “For the moment, you will have to take my word that I know where

she is.”

He paused for a long moment. “All right,” he said at last. “You know where she

is.”

She nodded. “And I want her back.”

“And you want her back,” he repeated. “Why have you come to me? Why don't you

just go to wherever she is and take her home?”

“It's not that simple,” she said. “She may not recognize me—and even if she

does, she's been with aliens for most of her life. She may not want to come

back with me.”

“She's an adult by now,” said the Iceman. “That's her choice to make.”

“I'm willing to let her make it,” said Bettina Bailey. “But away from the

influence of the aliens.”

“There's only one alien that I know about.”

She shook her head. “She's on an alien planet.”

“Which one?”

“I'll tell you when we have an agreement.”

“What kind of agreement?” asked the Iceman.

“I want you to bring her back to me.”

“If you don't think she'll go with you, why do you think she'll come with me?”

“I told you—I've studied you. You've had experience dealing with aliens and

operating on the Inner Frontier. If you need help, you'll know what kind to get

and where to get it.”

The Iceman stared at her thoughtfully. “It could be very expensive, Mrs.

Bailey.”

“How expensive?”

“A million Maria Theresa dollars now, another million when the job is done.”

“Maria Theresa dollars?” she repeated, frowning. “I thought they were only in

use in the Corvus system. What's wrong with credits?”

“We don't have much faith in the longevity of the Democracy out here, Mrs.

Bailey,” answered the Iceman. “We have even less faith in its currency. Credits

are unacceptable. If you can't get the Maria Theresa dollars, I'll take double

the amount in New Stalin rubles.”

“I'll get the dollars,” she replied.

“How soon?”

“I can have them transferred here in three days’ time.”

“Then I'll set the wheels in motion three days from now,” said the Iceman.

“What do you mean: set the wheels in motion?”

“I'll select who I want to find your daughter.”

“But I thought you would be going.”

He shook his head. “She knows me, Mrs. Bailey—and I don't think she'd be too

happy to see me again.”

“But I chose you precisely because she does know you!”

“That's not necessarily an advantage with your daughter,” he said dryly. “Now,

where is she?”

Bettina Bailey was silent for a moment. Then she shrugged. “She's on Alpha

Crepello III.”

“Never heard of it.”

“It's in the Quinellus Cluster.”

“And what makes you so sure she's there?”

She leaned forward intently. “We both know that my daughter has a rare talent.”

“Go on.”

“Word has gotten back to Deluros VIII that there is a human female on Alpha

Crepello III. The public isn't supposed to know about her, but I've bribed

sources within the government. No one seems to know if this female is in the

employ of the aliens who inhabit Alpha Crepello III, or if she is their

prisoner, but she is known as the Oracle.” She paused. “If I were to choose a

name for Penelope, I couldn't choose a more accurate one than that.”

“And that's the sum total of your knowledge?” asked the Iceman. “No

description? No communication with her or anyone who's dealt with her?”

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“Just that,” answered Bettina Bailey. “The Alpha Crepello system isn't part of

the Democracy, and has almost no commerce with it. It took me two years to

ascertain that the Oracle was a human, and another two to determine that she

was a female.”

The Iceman stared at her. “Do you know the odds against this being your

daughter, Mrs. Bailey?”

“I've spent sixteen years piecing together these bits of information,” she

replied. “I could die of old age before I came up with concrete proof.” She

paused. “Do we have a deal?”

For just an instant the interest he had tried so hard to conceal flashed across

his face. Then, just as quickly, the impassive mark was back in place.

“We have a deal,” said the Iceman.

===============================================================================

The star charts called it Boyson III. Locally it was known as The Frenchman's

World.

In the beginning it had been a wild, untamed jungle planet, covered with dense

vegetation and a plethora of exotic animals. Then Man had moved in, had killed

most of the animals and plowed under the jungle, and had turned it into an

agricultural world, supplying food for all the nearby mining planets. But

within twenty years alien viruses destroyed the imported meat animals, the

imported corn and wheat, and even the hybrid animals and crops. After that the

colonists all went elsewhere, and Boyson III slowly reverted back into a jungle

world over the next six centuries.

Then the Frenchman had arrived. They said that he'd spent his whole life

collecting alien animals for zoos back in the Democracy, and that he had

retired to Boyson III to spend his remaining years hunting for sport. He had

erected a sprawling white house on the banks of a wide river, had invited some

friends to join him, and eventually word of the hunting leaked out and a small

safari industry developed.

All that had been more than 200 years ago. The Frenchman's World hadn't changed

much in the interim, except that its wildlife had been pretty thoroughly

decimated, and only a handful of guides remained, the rest having migrated to

newly-opened worlds where their clients could fill their trophy rooms with less

effort.

It was estimated that the permanent human population of The Frenchman's World

was now less than two hundred. One of them, who was said to be the last man to

have been born on the planet, had moved into the Frenchman's old house and

created his own private landing strip by the river.

His name was Joshua Jeremiah Chandler. He had been a very successful hunter in

his youth, but no one had seen him on the safari trail in almost a decade. He

was known, initially on the Frenchman's World and finally all across the Inner

Frontier, as the Whistler, from a trick he had of whistling to get an animal's

attention just before he shot it. He was a very private, even secretive, man,

who kept his business and his thoughts to himself. He was gone from the planet

for long periods of time, and he did almost all his banking on other worlds. No

mail or radio messages ever came for him, though from time to time a small ship

landed at his strip by the river.

The Iceman's ship was the most recent to touch down, and as he walked up the

long, winding path to the house, he found himself sweating profusely in the

heat and the humidity, and wondering why anyone would choose to live in such

surroundings. He slapped a purple-and-gold flying insect that had landed on the

side of his neck, barely avoided stepping on a nasty-looking horned reptile

that hissed at him and scuttled off into the thick undergrowth, and mopped his

face with a handkerchief.

When he emerged from the bush, he climbed a stone staircase and found himself

standing on a large deck that extended far out over the river. The water was

teeming with life: huge aquatic marsupials, delicate watersnakes, long ugly

reptiles, all swam among a plethora of colorful fish that dwelt near the

surface. The forest that lined the water had been cleared from the far bank, so

that observers on the deck could watch herbivores coming down to the river to

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drink. Right now there were clouds of butterflies flying low over the water,

and a score of avians walked methodically across the clearing, pecking at the

ground, while a handful of waterbirds waded in the shallows, searching for

small fish.

The Iceman heard a glass door slide into a wall, and a moment later a tall,

lean, auburn-haired man in his late thirties walked out onto the deck. He was

dressed in a nondescript brown outfit that seemed to have pockets everywhere. A

large-brimmed hat shaded his eyes from the glare of the sun.

“I see you made it,” said Chandler by way of greeting.

“You're a hard man to find, Whistler,” replied the Iceman.

“You managed.” Chandler paused. “Care for a drink?”

The Iceman nodded. “Please.”

“I really ought to charge you,” said Chandler with an amused smile as he led

the Iceman into the interior of the house. “I don't recall you ever giving me a

free drink back on Last Chance.”

“And you never will,” said the Iceman, returning Chandler's smile. The room in

which he found himself was quite large, and the cool stone floor, whitewashed

walls, and widespread eaves helped to dissipate the heat. There were a few

stuffed chairs, covered with the pelts of native animals, a rug made of the

head and fur of a large carnivore, a small book-and-tape case, a subspace radio

set, and a clock made of some strange translucent substance that seemed to be

forever shimmering and changing colors. The walls were lined with framed wanted

posters, each depicting an outlaw that Chandler had killed or captured.

“Interesting trophies,” commented the Iceman, gesturing to the posters.

“People make the best hunting,” answered Chandler. He walked behind a hardwood

bar and opened a small refrigerator. “What'll it be?”

“Anything cold.”

Chandler mixed two identical drinks and handed one to the Iceman. “This should

do it.”

The Iceman took a long swallow. “Thanks.”

“Anything for a client,” said Chandler. He looked intently at the Iceman. “You

are a client, aren't you?”

“Potentially.” The Iceman looked out across the river. “Do you mind if we go

back out on the deck? It may be a pain in the ass to get here, but it's really

lovely once you arrive.”

“Why not?” assented Chandler, leading him back out to the deck.

“It must be very convenient, to be able to stand right here and shoot dinner,”

continued the Iceman.

Chandler shrugged. “I wouldn't know.”

“Oh?”

“I never hunt within five miles of here. I don't want to frighten the game

away.” He paused. “Some animals are for eating, some are for sport, and some

are for looking at. These are for looking at.”

“You know,” said the Iceman, “now that I think of it, I haven't seen any

weapons around here.”

“Oh, there are weapons,” Chandler assured him. “But not for the game.”

A delicate white avian landed atop one of the aquatic marsupials and began

picking insects off its head.

“I miss this place whenever I'm away from it,” said Chandler, standing at the

edge of the deck and looking across the river. “If I take this assignment, how

long will I be gone?”

“I won't lie to you,” said the Iceman. “This job doesn't figure to be easy or

fast.”

“What does it entail?” asked Chandler, sipping his drink and staring out at the

river.

“I'm not sure yet.”

Chandler arched an eyebrow, but made no comment.

“Have you ever heard of Penelope Bailey?” continued the Iceman, after a pause.

“I think everyone must have heard of her, back about ten or fifteen years ago,”

answered Chandler. “They were offering one hell of a reward for her.”

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“That's the one.”

“As I recall, everybody wanted her: the Democracy, a couple of alien worlds,

even some pirate.” He paused. “I never did hear what happened to her, just that

one day a bunch of bounty hunters turned up dead, and after that nobody seemed

all that interested in trying to collect the reward.” He turned to the Iceman.

“There was a story making the rounds that that you were involved in some way.”

“I was.”

“What was all the fuss about?” asked Chandler. “Hundreds of people were after

her, but no one ever said what made a little girl worth five or six million

credits.”

“She wasn't exactly your normal, run-of-the-mill little girl,” said the Iceman

wryly.

Chandler picked a few pieces of stale bread out of one of his pockets and laid

them out on the railing, then watched as a trio of colorful avians descended,

picked them up, and flew off with them. “If you want me to find her and bring

her back, you're going to have to tell me what made her worth all that money,”

he said at last.

“I will,” said the Iceman, taking a sip of his drink. “And you won't have to

find her.”

“You know where she is?”

“Perhaps.”

“Either you do or you don't.”

“I know the location of the person I'm sending you after,” replied the Iceman.

“I don't know if she's Penelope Bailey.”

“Would you know Penelope Bailey if you saw her?” asked Chandler.

“It's been a long time, and she's a grown woman now,” answered the Iceman. “I

honestly don't know if I'd recognize her.”

“Then how will you know if I bring you the right woman?”

“There are other ways of telling.” The Iceman paused. “Also, if she is Penelope

Bailey, there's every likelihood that you won't be able to bring her back.”

Chandler looked up at sky, which had suddenly clouded over. “It rains every

afternoon about this time,” he said. “Let's go inside and make ourselves

comfortable, and you can lay it out for me.”

He led the Iceman back inside the house, ordered the glass portals to slide

shut, and walked over to a pair of chairs that had been carved out of the

native hardwood of the surrounding forest and covered with the pelts of some

blue-skinned animals.

“All right,” he said, when both men had seated themselves. “I'm listening.”

“Penelope Bailey was eight years old when I met her,” said the Iceman. “The

Democracy had taken her away from her parents when she was five or six, and an

alien had stolen her from the Democracy. By the time I ran across her, she was

in the company of a woman who used to work for me.”

“Why did the Democracy seize her in the first place?” asked Chandler.

“She has a gift—a talent, if you will—that they wanted.”

“What was it?”

“She's prescient.”

“You mean she can predict the future?”

The Iceman shook his head. “It's not that simple.” He paused. “She can see an

almost infinite number of possible futures, and she can manipulate events so

that the one most favorable to her comes to pass.”

Chandler stared at him for a long moment. “I don't believe it,” he said at

last.

“It's the truth. I've seen it in action.”

“Then why isn't she Queen of the whole damned universe?”

“When I first met her, she could only see those futures in which she faced

imminent danger. By the time we parted, she could see the outcome of everything

from poker hands to gunfights, and could manipulate things so they'd come out

the way she wanted them to—but she could only see a few hours into the future.”

He paused again. “If her power never extended beyond that, she could make

herself a very rich, very powerful woman, but in the larger scheme of things

she'd be no more than a nuisance.”

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“But you think her talent has continued to mature,” said Chandler. It was not a

question.

“I don't know why it shouldn't have,” replied the Iceman. “It grew more

powerful almost daily when I knew her.”

“I'm surprised you didn't try to kill her.”

“I did.” He patted his prosthetic leg. “This is what I got for my trouble.”

Chandler nodded, but said nothing.

“The last time I saw her she was with an alien called the Mock Turtle—I'll

swear that's what it looked like—and to the best of my knowledge, no human has

seen her since.”

“Why an alien?”

“It practically worshipped her, and it seemed convinced that once she developed

her powers, she could keep the Democracy from assimilating its world.”

“Is the girl on its world?” asked Chandler.

The Iceman shook his head. “No. I've been there twice, and there's no sign of

them.”

“So that's where you go when you're not on Last Chance,” said Chandler, not at

all surprised. “You're hunting for Penelope Bailey.”

“It hasn't done any good.” The Iceman grimaced and finished his drink. “If

there's someone better equipped to stay hidden than a woman who can see all

possible futures, I can't imagine who it is.”

“Then how did you find her?” asked Chandler.

“I didn't,” answered the Iceman. “But a week ago I was approached by a woman

who represented herself as Penelope's mother. She thinks she knows where the

girl is, and she hired me to bring her back.”

“Represented herself?” repeated Chandler. “That's a curious choice of words.”

“She lied from start to finish.”

“What makes you think so?”

“She knew things she had no business knowing.”

“Such as?”

“She knew that Penelope escaped with an alien—but only about ten people on a

little planet called Killhaven know that. She knew that I've been searching for

her—but I've never told that to anyone.” He paused. “She knew that she was

looking for the Iceman, and not for Carlos Mendoza.”

“She works for the Democracy, of course.”

The Iceman nodded in agreement. “Nobody else has the resources to spy on me for

fourteen years.”

“They've been after her for fourteen years...” began Chandler.

“Sixteen,” interjected the Iceman.

“All right, sixteen. Why have they approached you now?”

“Because they think they've found her.”

“That's not good enough,” said Chandler. “Why did they lie to you? Or, better

still, if they've found her, why don't they just go in after her themselves?”

“I'm sure they've sent their best people in after her and failed, or else they

would never have approached me.” The Iceman suddenly noticed his drink, and

finished it with a single swallow. “As for why they sent someone who pretended

to be Penelope's mother, it's simple enough: the Inner Frontier doesn't owe any

allegiance to the Democracy, and they don't know if I'd be willing to help

them. Also,” he added, “I killed some of their bounty hunters fourteen years

ago.”

“Why did you want to save her from a bunch of bounty hunters?”

“She was never in any danger from them,” answered the Iceman. “I was trying to

save another member of her party.” He paused. “It didn't help.”

“You make Penelope Bailey sound very formidable,” commented Chandler.

“She is,” the Iceman assured him seriously. “Make no mistake about it.”

“Where do they think she is?”

“A planet called Alpha Crepello III, out in the Quinellus Cluster.”

“And they're sure it's her?”

The Iceman shook his head. “They think it is; they don't know for sure.”

“What makes them think so?”

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“There's supposed to be a young human woman there, living among the aliens,

who's known as the Oracle.”

“And that's it?”

“Probably not,” said the Iceman. He paused. “Almost certainly not. But that's

all I've been told.”

“That's not much to go on,” said Chandler. “What do you think they've kept

back?”

“Probably something about how many men they've sent in and never heard from

again. That's the kind of thing that would convince them they're right, and

it's also guaranteed to discourage a potential recruit.”

Chandler was silent for a long moment. Then he looked across at the Iceman.

“I've got a question for you.”

“What is it?”

“This little girl cost you a leg, and I gather she killed a friend of yours.”

“Indirectly.”

“Then why aren't you going after her yourself?”

“I'm a 61-year-old man with a pot belly and an artificial leg,” answered the

Iceman. “If it really is Penelope Bailey, I'd be dead before I could get close

to her. Maybe I could have done it 20 years ago, but not now.” He looked

directly at Chandler. “That's why I've come to you, Whistler—of all the men in

this business, you're just about the best. You've infiltrated half a dozen

worlds, and you're a better killer than I ever was.”

“Can she be killed?”

The Iceman shrugged. “I don't know.”

“What kind of money are we talking about here?”

“Half a million up front, another half million when the job is completed.”

“Credits?” asked Chandler with a frown.

“Maria Theresa dollars.”

Chandler nodded. “Time limit?”

“If you haven't gotten to her in six months’ time, you're never going to reach

her.”

“What if I come back empty-handed?”

“If you accept the assignment, the front money's yours no matter what happens,”

said the Iceman.

“Will Bettina Bailey agree to that?”

“Considering that she's not really Bettina Bailey, I don't see that she has any

choice.”

“What about expenses?” asked Chandler.

The Iceman chuckled. “Not with a half million up front.”

“I may need to hire some help along the way.”

“I'd advise against it,” said the Iceman.

“Why?”

“The less attention you attract to yourself, the more likely you are to come

out of this alive.”

“I may want to hire some men to draw attention away from me.”

“That's your privilege.” The Iceman stared at him thoughtfully. “If you're

successful and you can prove to me that you needed them, you'll be reimbursed.”

Chandler eyed him thoughtfully. “What do you get out of this?”

“Money, satisfaction, revenge—take your choice.”

Chandler smiled. “All of the above.” He paused. “Do they speak any Terran on

this planet?”

“I don't know ... but according to my star charts, it's got three terraformed

moons that are inhabited by humans. They're your logical starting point.”

“Why not just approach her directly?”

“If direct approaches worked, the Democracy wouldn't have sought me out,”

answered the Iceman. He paused. “Will you take the job?”

Chandler considered the proposition for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah, I'll take

it.”

“Good,” said the Iceman. “If it turns out that the Oracle isn't Penelope

Bailey, bring her out.”

“And if she is Penelope Bailey?”

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