Mike Resnick - 3 - Prophet

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****** Prophet ******

by Mike Resnick

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Fictionwise Contemporary - Science Fiction

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Prophet

by Mike Resnick

Volume 3 of the Oracle Trilogy

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

To Carol, as always,

And to absent friends:

Lou Tabakow

Bea Mahaffey

John F. Roy

Isaac Asimov

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

Table of Contents

Prologue

Part 1: The Gravedancer's Book

Part 2: The Iceman's Book

Part 3: The Silicon Kid's Book

Part 4: The Anointed One's Book

Part 5: The Prophet's Book

Epilogue

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

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

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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

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 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, 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 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 GRAVEDANCER'S BOOK

A hot, dry wind swept across the surface of Last Chance, a remote world on the

edge of the Inner Frontier. Dust devils swirled up to heights of 60 feet,

breathing became almost impossible, and the few indigenous animals burrowed

into the ground to wait out the duststorm.

A lone figure, his clothing nondescript, his face protected against the

elements by a dust mask, walked down the main street of the planet's only

Tradertown, looking neither right nor left. The door of an abandoned building

suddenly buckled from the force of the wind, and he quickly crouched, withdrew

a hand weapon, and fired at the source of the noise. The door briefly turned a

bright blue and then vanished. The man remained motionless for a moment, then

holstered his weapon and continued walking toward the brightly-lit building at

the end of the street.

He came to a stop about twenty yards from his destination, then placed his

hands on his hips and studied the structure before him. The walls were made of

a titanium alloy with a tight molecular bonding, finished to look like wood.

The front veranda possessed two large doorways, both leading to the crowded

interior of The End of the Line. From where he was standing, he couldn't tell

which section was the bar and which was the casino, though he suspected the

casino was at the back, where it could be more easily protected against any

potential robberies.

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A door slid open for a moment, and the man ducked behind a vehicle and withdrew

his weapon again as a tall woman emerged, took one step into the dust, then

shook her head and went back into the building, coughing heavily.

The man strode back out into the middle of the street and continued staring at

the building. Finally he began walking again, turning to his left after a

moment and circling the entire building. There weren't any windows, which

didn't surprise him given the force of the duststorm, but he hadn't survived

this long by not being thorough, and he methodically checked out every means of

ingress. All the various doors were closed, probably locked, certainly tied in

to a security system. Briefly he considered climbing to the roof—it was not

beyond his capabilities to scale the side of the building, made rough by the

abrasive action of the wind and the dust—but he couldn't see any advantage to

be gained, and he rejected the idea.

He finally decided that he had no choice but to enter through one of the

doorways at the front of the building. He was unhappy about it—not that he

minded being identified after his work was done, but he preferred not to call

any attention to himself before he'd earned his money—but no viable alternative

had presented itself, and the dust mask made him feel constricted, even

claustrophobic.

He realized that he was still holding his weapon in his hand, that he had been

holding it since the woman had temporarily emerged from the building, and he

once again replaced it in his holster. Then he climbed the three stairs to the

veranda, walked across it, entered The End of the Line, and removed his mask.

He would get the feel of the place, spot his quarry, wash the dust in his mouth

away with a beer or two, and then go to work.

The place was as crowded as he had anticipated. A long chrome bar lined the

left side of the front room, with perhaps a dozen tables scattered around the

right side. The clientele was primarily human, for this was a human outpost

world, but here and there were Canphorites, Lodinites, and a pair of beings of

a type he had never seen before.

The back room was as large as the tavern, and even more crowded. There were

roulette tables, dice tables, poker tables, two tables boasting alien games of

chance. He scanned the faces at the tables, wondering which of them, if any,

was his quarry. Then, finally, he turned and walked over to the bar.

A balding, overweight man with a slight limp approached him from the other side

of the bar.

“Good evening,” he said. “What can I get for you?”

“A beer.”

“Coming right up,” said the man behind the bar, placing a mug under a tap and

activating it. “I haven't seen you around here before.”

“I just got here.”

“Sorry we have such lousy weather today,” continued the bartender. “Usually

Last Chance is a pretty pleasant place, even a bit on the cool side.”

“I didn't come here for the weather.”

“Good. Then you won't be disappointed.”

The man lifted the mug to his lips and downed half of it in a single long

swallow.

“I need a little information,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his

hand.

“If it's mine to give,” replied the bartender.

“I'm looking for someone.”

“Well, I know almost everyone here. Who is it?”

“A man named Carlos Mendoza. Some people call him the Iceman.”

“Mendoza, eh?” said the bartender. He looked around the room. “You owe him some

money? I can give it to him for you.”

“Just point him out to me.”

“I hope you're not looking for trouble,” said the bartender. “They say Mendoza

is a pretty tough customer.”

“What I'm looking for is none of your business,” said the man coldly.

“Fine by me,” said the bartender with a shrug. “I just figured that since you

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don't know him, probably you've been hired by someone who does know him.

Thought I could save you a little misery.”

“Save your thoughts for Mendoza.”

“Well,” said the bartender with a shrug, “at least you've been warned.”

“All right, I've been warned,” said the man. “Now point him out to me.”

“See that fellow sitting by himself in the corner?” asked the bartender. “The

one dressed all in black?”

The man nodded. “He's armed like he's going into battle,” he said. “Laser

pistol, sonic gun, projectile pistol. Probably got a knife tucked into that

boot, too.”

“Actually, he's got a knife in each boot,” said the bartender. He paused. “Are

you really sure you want to go through with this?”

“It's my work,” said the man, turning to face his prey.

“You could talk,” suggested the bartender. “The Iceman's always willing to talk

instead of fight.”

“He is, huh?”

“That's what I hear.”

“I don't get paid to talk,” answered the man.

He took a few steps toward the man in black, then stopped.

“Mendoza!” he said in a loud voice.

Most of the action at the gaming tables stopped as the man in black looked up

at him curiously.

“Are you talking to me?”

The man's fingers hovered above the hilt of his sonic pistol.

“Time to die, Mendoza.”

“Do I know you?” asked the man in black.

“All you have to know is that I'm the last thing you're ever going to see.”

Suddenly the newcomer flinched, and a puzzled expression crossed his face. He

blinked his eyes rapidly, as if trying to comprehend what had happened, then

groaned once and pitched forward on his face, a large knife protruding from his

back.

The bartender limped over to him, withdrew the knife he had thrown with deadly

accuracy, and wiped it off on a bar towel.

“They get younger and dumber every week,” he said, turning the dead man onto

his back with a foot. “No problem, friends,” he announced, raising his voice.

“Just our weekly visitor from wherever.”

And because of who he was, most of the patrons took his word for it and

returned to their drinks and their gambling.

The man in black walked over and stared at the corpse.

“Ever see him before?” asked the bartender.

“No,” said the man in black. “You know who he is, Iceman?”

The Iceman shook his balding head. “No idea. But that's four of them this

month. Somebody really wants me dead.” He paused. “I just wish I knew why. I

haven't been off the planet in damned near four years.”

“If you hadn't killed him, maybe we could have found out,” said the man in

black. “After all, that's what you hired me for. You're not making my job any

easier.”

“I made your job easier,” replied the Iceman. “He would have taken you.”

The man in black frowned. “What makes you think so?”

The Iceman knelt down, gripped the corpse's left hand in his own, and displayed

the index finger.

“Prosthetic,” he said. “I spotted it at the bar, and when he turned his back, I

saw the powerpack under his shirt. While you were drawing your weapon, he'd

have just pointed at you and burned a hole right through your chest.”

“Well, I'll be damned!” muttered the man in black. “I guess you did make my job

easier, at that.”

“I'll take it out of your pay,” said the Iceman wryly.

“You know, one of these days someone's going to come out here who knows what

you look like,” said the man in black. “What are you going to do then?”

“Duck, I suppose,” replied the Iceman. “In the meantime, let's move our late

friend here into my office and see what we can learn about him.”

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“I have a feeling he's going to be just like the others you described to me,”

predicted the man in black. “No identification, no fingerprints, surgically-

altered retinagram.”

“Probably,” agreed the Iceman. “But let's do it anyway.”

The man in black shrugged and gestured for a couple of other men to pick up the

corpse. They began carrying it toward the casino.

The Iceman immediately barred their way. “Out the front and around to the

side,” he said. “We've got customers here. How would you like it if someone

dragged a dead body right in front of you while you were drinking?” He paused,

then sighed deeply. “Don't answer. Just do it.”

They reversed their direction and carried the dead man out the front door.

“Well,” said the man in black, “are you finally going to tell me what this is

all about?”

“I wish to hell I knew,” answered the Iceman, limping back to the bar and

pouring himself a beer. He offered one to the man in black, who turned it down.

“Don't kill the next one and maybe you'll find out.”

“Anyone who comes after me on Last Chance dies,” answered the Iceman firmly.

“That's part of the myth I spent three decades creating. If I let even one of

these bastards live, the myth becomes a fairy tale and they'll be coming after

me every hour instead of every week. Lord knows I've made enough enemies over

the years.”

“Then why did you hire me at all?” asked the man in black in frustrated tones.

“As you say, one of them may know who I am—and I happen to be a 71-year-old man

with a beer belly and an artificial leg. When I finally need you, you'll earn

your money, never fear.”

“You ought to let me cripple one of them,” said the man in black. “Then we'd

get some answers.”

“You want to cripple one?” asked the Iceman. He gestured to the door. “You've

got the whole damned planet on which to do it. But once they walk through that

door, my first concern is staying alive.” He finished his beer. “Now, if you

want to practice on men who are here to kill you, that's your privilege and

good luck to you—but I didn't get to be this old by taking chances.”

“They say there was a time when you took chances,” replied the man in black.

“Lots of ’em.”

“I was young. I learned better.”

“That's not the way I heard it.”

“Then someone must have lied to you,” said the Iceman.

“They even say,” continued the man in black, “that you're the only man who ever

took on the Oracle and won.”

The Iceman grimaced. “I didn't win anything.”

“Is she still alive?”

“I suppose so,” replied the Iceman. “I can't imagine anything being able to

kill her.”

“Has the thought crossed your mind that she's behind all this?”

“Not for an instant.”

“Why not?”

“Because if she was, I'd be dead,” said the Iceman with absolute certainty.

“You faced her before, and you're still alive,” persisted the man in black.

“Forget about her,” replied the Iceman. “She's got nothing to do with this.”

“You're sure?”

“To her, I'm about as insignificant as a grain of sand on a deserted beach.” He

paused. “If she's still alive, she's got more important things on her mind.”

“What kind of things?”

“I hope to hell I never find out,” answered the Iceman seriously. “Come on,” he

added. “Let's take a look at the body.”

They walked over to his office and entered it, where they found the corpse laid

out on a broad wooden desk.

The man in black examined the corpse's fingers closely.

“No prints,” he announced. “Damned nice job on that fake finger. I never

spotted it.” He looked down at the dead man's face. “Got an ophthalmoscope?”

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“A small one, inside the center drawer of the desk,” said the Iceman, going

over the body for scars or identifying marks. “But it's not tied into any

computers.”

The man in black walked to the desk and returned with the instrument. “I have a

feeling that tying into a computer won't do you a bit of good with this guy—but

let's see.” He stared through the scope for a moment, then put it away. “Yeah,

there's some scar tissue on the rods and cones. Five'll get you ten they're not

on record anywhere in the galaxy.”

“No serial numbers on any of the weapons, either,” noted the Iceman. “Strange.

Out here on the Inner Frontier, most killers pick colorful names and brag about

their accomplishments. But this is the fourth one in a row who has no name, no

identification, no reputation.”

“Nice boots, though,” said the man in black.

“I suppose so.”

“Very nice.”

“I checked for labels or manufacturer's marks,” said the Iceman. “There aren't

any.”

The man in black continued staring at the boots.

“Do you see something I'm missing?” asked the Iceman, suddenly interested.

“It's possible,” said the man in black, taking a boot from the corpse's foot

and examining it.

“Looks sort of blue when the light hits it,” commented the Iceman.

“I know,” said the man in black. He handed the boot to the Iceman. “There

aren't a lot of blue reptiles on the Inner Frontier—and I only know of one

that's got this circular pattern of scales.”

“Oh?”

The man in black nodded. “Big sonuvabitch. It lives on a world called

Greycloud, out by the Quinellus Cluster.” He paused. “They call it a Bluefire

Dragon. It could swallow you whole and then look around for the main course.”

“How big a world is Greycloud?”

“About the size of Last Chance, maybe a little smaller.”

“Oxygen world?”

“Yes.”

“Any sentient life forms?” asked the Iceman.

“Not since we colonized it a few centuries ago,” answered the man in black.

“How many Men?”

“Maybe seven thousand, mostly miners and aquaculturalists. It's mostly

freshwater ocean, with a batch of islands and one very small continent.”

“Does it do much exporting?”

The man in black shook his head. “Too small. Probably doesn't get a mail or

cargo ship more than seven or eight times a year.”

“So,” continued the Iceman, “if our killer was wearing boots made from the

local lizard...”

“There's a pretty good chance that he bought them there,” concluded the man in

black.

“They look relatively new,” said the Iceman, studying the boots. “I think maybe

you'd better pay a little visit to Greycloud. Take a couple of holos of our

friend here before we bury him, and see if anyone knows who he was or who he

worked for.”

“I assume you'll be all right while I'm gone?”

“I'll make do,” replied the Iceman dryly. “By the way, if Greycloud is so far

off the beaten track, how come you know about this Bluefire Dragon?”

“I've been there.”

“When?”

The man in black shrugged. “Oh, about eight or ten years ago.”

“On business?”

“In a manner of speaking,” said the man in black noncommittally.

“Good,” said the Iceman. “You'll have some contacts there, some people you can

talk to.”

The man in black shook his head. “Everyone I knew there is dead.”

“Recently?”

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“About eight or ten years ago.”

The Iceman smiled in grim amusement. “No wonder they call you the Gravedancer.”

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

His real name was Felix Lomax, and he used it for the first 26 years of his

life. But names have a way of changing on the Inner Frontier, metamorphizing to

fit the natures of the men and women they're attached to.

Originally he'd been a Pioneer, one of that group of highly-trained specialists

that opened new worlds for the Democracy, terraforming them when necessary,

cataloging the various life forms, designing settlements, analyzing soils and

minerals and water samples to determine exactly what type of colonists would be

the most productive: miners, farmers, aquaculturalists, whatever. His specialty

was Pacification, a euphemism for decimating native populations until such time

as they were willing to allow colonization—or, in some instances, until there

were none left to object.

During that period of his life he had been known as Double X, an easily-

identifiable code name based on the spelling of his given name. (It was best

not to use one's true name, just in case there were some survivors of the

pacification process that resented the instrument of the policy rather than the

formulators who were in their mile-high offices back on Deluros VIII, the

capital world of Man, snug and secure in the heart of the Democracy.)

After four years of pacifying alien populations, something happened on the

planet of Innesfree. He never spoke of it, never referred to it in any official

document, but right in the middle of the campaign he quit and went off to the

Inner Frontier. He bought a large ranch on Backgammon II, and spent the next

two years raising mutated cattle, huge, 3,000-pound specimens that he sold to

the Navy. During this time he was Felix Longface, for he never smiled, never

joked, never seemed to take much of an interest in anything.

Then he finally put whatever demons were bothering him to rest, and went

further into the Inner Frontier, returning to the trade he knew best: killing.

For a while he was known as The Man in Black, for it was the only color he ever

wore, but there were four other Men in Black on the Frontier, and before long

he picked up the sobriquet of the Gravedancer, and that was the name that

stuck. Not that he ever danced or visited cemeteries, but when he landed on a

planet, it was only a matter of time before someone would be visiting a

graveyard, never to return.

His personality didn't change much. He still didn't smile, and he seemed to

take no pride in his craft—which was strange for a man in his occupation—but

before long his reputation preceded him, and he didn't lack for customers. He

picked and chose those that interested him, which was how he came to work for

the Iceman, who was as close to a living legend as a man could become on the

Inner Frontier, where most legends died just about the time that they were

recognized as legends.

He didn't know much about the Iceman—no one did—but he knew that he had, in his

day, faced both the Soothsayer and the Oracle and had lived to tell about it,

which was more than anyone else could claim. He would have thought that the

Iceman would be the very last person on the Frontier to require protection, so

when the offer came, his interest was sufficiently aroused to accept the

commission. He hadn't realized at the time that it would require him to pay a

return visit to Greycloud, but it wouldn't have made any difference to him if

he had known it.

As his ship braked to sublight speeds and the water world came up on his

viewscreen, he checked out his arsenal, selected those weapons that he thought

would be most effective in this environment, and requested permission to land

on the single continent's tiny spaceport.

“Please identify yourself,” said a metallic voice, crackling with static.

“This is the Peacekeeper, Felix Lomax commanding, five days out of Last

Chance.”

“Permission denied.”

“Why?”

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“You are the Felix Lomax who is also known as the Gravedancer, are you not?”

“I've been called that, yes.”

“There are nine outstanding arrests warrants in your name, each for the crime

of murder.”

“All the more reason why you should want to get your hands on me,” replied

Lomax.

“We have no one here capable of taking you into custody against your will,

Gravedancer,” said the voice. “I assume you have not come to give yourself up

to the authorities.”

“A fair assumption.”

“Then permission to land is denied. If you attempt to land on Greycloud, we

will fire on your ship and destroy it before it can touch down.”

“One moment,” said Lomax, breaking the connection.

He had his computer scan the spaceport and surrounding vicinity, searching for

weaponry. It found none, nor had he expected so thinly-populated a world to

have any defensive capabilities.

“Nice try, Greycloud,” he said, reactivating his radio. “Now please give me

landing coordinates.”

“Denied.”

“I'm landing whether you like it or not. If you won't give me coordinates,

you'd better clear the sky or risk a collision over the landing field. This is

the Peacekeeper, over and out.”

He broke out of orbit and entered an elliptical path toward the spaceport,

touching down about twenty minutes later. Once on the ground, he had the ship's

sensors scan the area for armed personnel, found none, activated a number of

security devices, and finally emerged through the hatch, the boots and a

holograph of the dead man secured in a leather holdall that he slung over his

left shoulder.

He walked about half a mile, past two small hangars, to the main traffic

control and reception building, and entered warily. There were four clerks

going about their business, one man and three women; none of them looked up at

him or gave any indication that they were aware of his presence until he

cleared his throat and three of them fidgeted nervously. He walked up the

fourth, a grey-haired woman, and stood before her.

“Yes?” she said coldly.

“I need transportation into town,” he said.

“Do I look like a chauffeur?” she demanded.

“If I can't find one, you'll do.”

“Go away and leave me alone, Mr. Lomax,” she said. “I want nothing to do with

you.”

“Do I know you?” he asked.

“No, but I know you,” she said, her eyes reflecting her hatred.

“Then tell me where I can find a ride into town, and you won't have to keep

looking at me.”

“I wouldn't help you if you were bleeding to death on the street,” she said.

He stared at her for a long moment.

“Have it your way,” he said at last. “Before I leave, though,” he added, “I

should point out that if anyone touches my ship, the ensuing explosion will

flatten the spaceport and everything else within a radius of two miles.”

Then he turned on his heel and walked out the main entrance. The parking lot

was almost empty—the planet had a tiny population and relatively little

commerce with the rest of the galaxy—but as he stood, hands on hips, wondering

what to do next, a small groundcar pulled up. He walked over to it before the

driver could get out and opened the passenger's door.

“What's going on here?” demanded the driver, a young man in his early twenties.

“I'm paying you fifty credits to take me into town,” said Lomax.

“The hell you are!” snapped the young man. “I've got a shipment of computer

parts to pick up.”

“They can wait.”

Lomax opened the door, sat down next to the driver, pulled out a sonic pistol,

and pointed it at him.

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“That wasn't a request,” he said calmly.

“Who are you?” demanded the driver. “What the hell is this all about?”

“I'm just a guy who needs a ride to town,” said Lomax. “Now drive.”

“Why don't you take an aircab?” said the young man, turning the car around.

“I wasn't aware you had any.”

“We do. I can drive you to their hangar.”

“I wouldn't want to put you to the trouble,” said Lomax. “Just get going.”

The young man stared at him, and suddenly his expression changed.

“You're him, aren't you?” he said.

“I'm whom?”

“The Gravedancer.”

“Some people call me that.”

“Damn!” said the young man, grinning and slamming his hand against the

dashboard. “The Gravedancer himself, in my groundcar!” He turned to Lomax.

“What are you here for?”

“Business.”

“Who are you going to kill?” asked the young man eagerly.

“No one.”

“You can tell me,” persisted the young man. “I'm on your side.”

“I'm just here to talk to the local bootmaker.”

The young man snorted contemptuously. “Come on, Gravedancer—do you expect me to

believe you flew all the way to Greycloud for a pair of boots?”

“What you believe makes no difference to me,” said Lomax. “Just take me where I

want to go.” He paused. “You can start by driving into town.”

The young man put the vehicle in motion, and a moment later they were traveling

on a road that paralleled an ocean shoreline.

“I've been wondering if you'd ever come back.”

“You're too young to remember me,” said Lomax.

“I was twelve when you were here the last time,” replied the young man. “I saw

you take on nine men at once.” He paused, then extended his hand. “My name's

Neil. Neil Cayman.”

Lomax looked at his hand for a moment, then took it briefly.

“I'm Felix Lomax.”

Neil shook his head. “You're the Gravedancer.” He paused. “Where are you going

from here?”

Lomax shrugged. “It all depends on what I learn while I'm here.”

Neil seemed lost in thought for a moment, then spoke up. “Do you want some

company?”

“Where?”

“Out there,” he said, waving his hand toward the sky. “I've spent my whole life

on this world. I'd like to see something different.”

“I work alone.”

“I could be useful to you.”

“Every damned world I touch down on, there's always some kid who wants to go

out and make a name for himself on the Inner Frontier,” answered Lomax. “Most

of them die before the undertaker knows what name to put on their headstones.”

“I'm different,” said Neil.

“Yeah, I know,” said Lomax. “You're all different.”

“I've spent my whole life on Greycloud,” continued Neil. “I want to see what's

out there.”

“Book passage with a tour group,” answered Lomax. “You'll live longer.”

“I don't want to see what tourists see,” persisted Neil. “I want to see the way

the worlds really are, the way the people really live.” He paused. “I've got

some money saved. I could be ready to go by this afternoon.”

“Not with me,” said Lomax.

“I'd do any kind of work you asked me to do, anything at all.”

“Not interested.”

The road turned inland, and was now lined by thick tropical foliage, which

began thinning out as they moved farther away from the ocean.

“There have to be places where your face is known, where people run when they

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see you coming. I could go to those places and get information for you.”

“Today is an exception,” said Lomax. “Usually I'm after men, not information.”

“I could spot them for you, let you know what their habits are, where they're

likely to be. I wouldn't ask for any pay or anything like that,” continued the

young man. “Just a chance to get off this boring little world and travel with

someone like you.”

“I admire your persistence,” said Lomax. “But the answer is the same. I work

alone.”

“You're making a mistake, Gravedancer.”

Lomax shrugged. “It's possible. I've made them before.”

“Then let me come with you.”

“I've also learned to live with the consequences of my mistakes,” said Lomax.

“The subject is closed.”

They came to a tiny town, composed of a broad single street lined with some

four dozen stores and shops, an old hotel, and a pair of restaurants, one of

which was serving its customers in a shaded outdoor patio area. Neil drove more

than halfway down the street and pulled up to a storefront.

“I'll wait here for you,” he announced.

Lomax left the groundcar without a word, and entered the store, a warm, dusty,

single-story building that displayed a number of leather goods in the windows:

coats, jackets, belts, hats, boots. Toward the back were sheets of various

leathers, and hanging carefully from the walls were a number of pelts.

“Yes?” said a thin, balding man, walking out from a back room. “Can I help

you?”

“Possibly,” said Lomax, reaching into his leather holdall and withdrawing one

of the dead man's boots. “Do you recognize this?”

The old man held it up to the light for a moment.

“Made from a Bluefire Dragon,” he said.

“You made it?”

“If anyone else on the Frontier makes ’em, I sure as hell haven't heard about

it.” He examined it further. “This was a custom job, too. My label's not in

it.”

“How many custom boots do you make in a year's time?”

“Oh, maybe fifty.”

“From Bluefire Dragons?”

“Maybe two or three.”

“Good,” said Lomax, pulling out the holograph and handing it over to the old

man. “Do you recognize him?”

“Looks dead,” noted the old man.

“He is. Do you know him?”

The old man nodded. “Yeah, I made some boots for him maybe seven, eight months

ago.”

“What can you tell me about him?”

“He wasn't real talkative,” said the old man. “Seems to me he spent most of the

day waiting in the bar across the street, then picked up his boots, paid for

’em, and left.”

“Did he have a name?”

“Let me check my records,” said the old man, activating his computer. “Yeah.

His name is ... was ... Cole. Jason Cole.”

“Did he pay cash?” asked Lomax.

“Yes.”

“So you don't know what world he banked on?”

“Probably Olympus,” answered the old man. “That's ... let me think, now ...

Alpha Hayakawa IV.”

“Why makes you think he did his banking on Olympus?”

“He liked the boots so much he ordered a second pair. Had me ship them to an

address on Olympus.”

“What address?”

“Well, now, that's privileged information, isn't it?” said the old man, staring

at Lomax.

“I'd call it expensive information,” said Lomax, placing a pair of 200-credit

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