The Best Rootin' Tootin' Shootin' Gunslinger in the Whole Damned Galaxy (17 page)

      
For just a moment Flint looked his surprise. “Well,” he said at last, with an awkward attempt at flippancy, “stick with me for another twelve years, kid, and it just might happen again."

      
“Yes, Thaddeus,” said Tojo, forcing a resigned smile to his homely face as he followed Flint into the elevator.

 

 

Chapter 10

 

One by one, the Dancer called them out,
 

One by one, the Dancer mowed them down.

One by one, the Dancer won each bout,
 

One by one, the Dancer kept his crown.

With guns or knives
 

He'd end their lives.

One by one, he faced each roustabout,
 

One by one, he terrorized each town.

One by one, the Dancer called them out,
 

One by one, the Dancer mowed them down.

—from “The Ballad of Billybuck Dancer"

 

      
"It sort of reminds you of a hockey stadium, doesn't it?” remarked Flint as he looked around the huge arena.

      
“It's certainly impressive,” agreed Tojo.

      
They walked the circumference of the ring area, getting the feel of the place, as Kargennian, who had flown in for the event, was going over camera placements with the native Darbeenan crew.

      
“Must be thirty thousand seats,” said Flint. He waved to a number of early arrivals, who simply stared at him. “They tell me that a couple of thousand hard-core bloodbath fans have been waiting in line since yesterday afternoon."

      
“I can't imagine why,” said Tojo.

      
“Same reason they go to the Indy 500,” said Flint with a smile, “only here they don't pretend it's a sporting event."

      
A Darbeenan—short, lithe, red-skinned, and humanoid—approached them and barked something in its native language.

      
Flint pointed to his ear and shook his head, to indicate that he didn't understand, and the Darbeenan activated its translating device.

      
“You are Mr. Flint?” it asked.

      
“Right."

      
“Haven't you been supplied with a translator?"

      
“Yeah, someone gave me one a couple of hours ago,” replied Flint. “I think I left it in the press box after I gave out a couple of interviews."

      
“You really should be more careful with your equipment."

      
“Is that what you've come over here to tell me?"

      
“No,” said the Darbeenan. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Quanlichot, and I am the assistant manager of this stadium."

      
“Pleased to meet you,” said Flint. “And this is Tojo. He's our announcer."

      
“Hello,” said Quanlichot distractedly. He turned back to Flint. “I am afraid we have a problem in the making, Mr. Flint."

      
“Oh?"

      
The Darbeenan nodded. “When we agreed to let you set up your games and exhibits just outside the stadium, I'm afraid we didn't know quite what you had in mind.” He paused. “Mr. Flint, some of those so-called games are out-and-out dishonest!"

      
“That's quite a serious allegation,” said Flint calmly.

      
“It is the truth."

      
“Well, Quan—you don't mind if I call you Quan, do you—if you can prove a game is rigged, I'll close it up. Otherwise, they stay open."

      
The Darbeenan shook his head vigorously. “That is out of the question," he said. “You've set up more than sixty game booths, and the crowds will be arriving in the next few minutes."

      
“Then perhaps you ought to just sit back and relax and let everyone have a good time,” suggested Flint easily.

      
“The games must be shut down right now,” said Quanlichot firmly.

      
“You're sure?"

      
“Absolutely."

      
“Well,” said Flint with a shrug, “you're the boss. Do me a favor, though, will you?"

      
“What?"

      
“See that ugly little red butterball over there with your camera crews?"

      
“You mean Kargennian?"

      
“Right. Tell him we're leaving."

      
“We?” repeated Quanlichot. “You mean Tojo and yourself?"

      
“I mean me and the Dancer,” said Flint. “My man doesn't set foot into this arena if you close up my games."

      
“But he's due to be on worldwide video in two hours! All the arrangements have been made!"

      
“That's hardly
my
concern."

      
“You're bluffing!"

      
“You're welcome to think so,” replied Flint. He turned toward an exit.

      
“Come on, Tojo."

      
They had walked about ten paces when the Darbeenan called after them, and Tojo saw the trace of a smile flash briefly across Flint's lips just before he stopped.

      
“Can't we discuss this?” asked Quanlichot.

      
“I'm always open to discussion,” said Flint reasonably. “Tojo, take a walk."

      
The little hunchback nodded, and made another tour of the arena, stopping to watch the construction of the ring where Julius Squeezer would be wrestling the Darbeenan champion as a preliminary entertainment. When he returned a few moments later Quanlichot was gone and Flint was standing by himself.

      
“Well?” asked Tojo.

      
“He didn't seem to mind his people being fleeced so much after I slipped him a couple of thousand credits,” remarked Flint wryly. “I guess death and taxes aren't the only constants in the universe."

      
“Do you think we should check on the Dancer?"

      
“I did that about half an hour ago,” said Flint. “He's in his dressing room, telling Jiminy what it was like in Dodge City back in 1875."

      
“He didn't seem excited?” persisted Tojo.

      
“Not as far as I could tell,” answered Flint. “Funny, isn't it? I thought he'd be psyching himself up like a football player on Super Bowl day."

      
Tojo smiled. “You still don't understand him, Thaddeus. Facing an armed opponent is a natural function to him, like breathing in and out. He psyches himself up to talk to people, or play cards with Diggs, or help set up a game booth."

      
“Then why did you think he'd be excited?"

      
“From eagerness. He's waited a long time for this day—ever since he had that gunfight in South America."

      
“Did
he
tell you he fought down there?” asked Flint, surprised.

      
“So did you,” answered Tojo.

      
“Yeah, but I never believed it. It just made a nice story."

      
“It's true."

      
Flint shrugged. “So he's going for a second notch on his gun instead of a first."

      
“Let's hope he gets it,” said Tojo devoutly. “Those are wicked-looking weapons the Darbeenans carry."

      
“Kargennian was telling me about them this afternoon,” said Flint, as larger groups of Darbeenans began entering the arena. “As near as I can make out, they're like the ray guns we used to see on the covers of old pulp magazines."

      
“That might mean they don't have to be as accurate,” said Tojo, frowning. “Just point toward an area and wiggle your hand."

      
“Pointing toward areas is easy. Pointing toward the Dancer when he's going for his gun is a little harder."

      
“I hope so."

      
They stood and watched the seats filling up for a few moments, and then Kargennian approached them.

      
“Everything seems to be going smoothly, Mr. Flint,” said the rotund alien.

      
“The stadium is sold out, we estimate that more than two hundred million Darbeenans will be watching via video, and I'm just on the verge of closing a deal to display holographic films of the event throughout five different planetary systems.” He paused, looking quite pleased with himself. ‘”Yes, everything is working out perfectly!"

      
“Let's just hope the right side wins,” said Flint.

      
“Surely you're not worried, Mr. Flint!” said Kargennian. “Believe me, the Dancer is the best gunfighter I've ever seen."

      
“Have you seen the guy he's got to face?” asked Flint.

      
“No,” admitted Kargennian. He turned away uncomfortably and pretended to count the house. “Has Mr. Ahasuerus changed his mind?” he asked at last.

      
“No. He's still in the ship, pouting."

      
Kargennian shook his head. “It's a pity he can't see the potential in this situation."

      
“I think he might say the same thing about us,” replied Flint.

      
“He's a competent administrator,” said Kargennian, passing right over the remark, “but limited—very limited. He simply cannot see the Big Picture. I suppose that's why he hasn't risen higher up the Corporate ladder after all these years."

      
“I suppose,” said Flint noncommittally.

      
The little alien pulled a notebook out of his colorful one-piece suit.

      
“What else did I want to ask you?” he mumbled, thumbing through the pages. “Ah, yes—Max Bloom. Am I to understand he will not be performing tonight?"

      
“He's under the weather,” replied Flint. “We left him with the ship."

      
“From what I have been able to determine from his work record, he seems to miss an inordinate number of performances."

      
“He's seventy-five years old,” said Flint. “What the hell do you expect?"

      
“Nevertheless—"

      
“Now you listen to me, hotshot!” said Flint irritably. “Stogie came out here with us and he's worked his ass off for us, and until you build a retirement home for over-the-hill vaudeville comics from Earth, he'll stay with us and work when he can and stay in bed when he has to. You got that?"

      
“Certainly,” said Kargennian, taken aback. “I only meant to say that—"

      
“I know what you meant to say,” interrupted Flint. He took a deep breath and released it explosively. “Jesus! I liked it a hell of a lot better when you and I were enemies. Now why don't you go tend to your cameramen and leave me alone?"

      
Kargennian glared at Flint for a long moment, then turned on his heel and walked back to the cluster of Darbeenan video technicians who were gathered around the wrestling ring.

      
“He's not pouting,” said Tojo.

      
“What?” asked Flint distractedly.

      
“Mr. Ahasuerus,” replied Tojo. “He feels very deeply about what we're doing here."

      
“I know,” said Flint. “I shouldn't have said what I did. But how the hell can you explain something like that to a clown like Kargennian?” He looked at the little alien, who had climbed into the wrestling ring to set up some camera angles, and smiled. “Maybe Julius and I could take on Kargennian and one of the local boys in a tag-team match. I'd sure love an excuse to get my hands around that little bastard's neck."

      
“I don't think Kargennian would approve of it,” said Tojo, returning his smile.

      
“No,” said Flint wistfully. “Probably not.” He heard a loud grating sound and turned in the direction from which it had come. “What's going on?"

      
“Protective shielding for the audience,” replied Tojo as one huge wall of a transparent, plastic-like substance after another was lowered into place around the arena. “Just in case some bullets go astray. I asked one of the Darbeenans about it a little while ago."

      
“Makes sense,” acknowledged Flint. “I suppose if we had anyone except the Dancer working for us, we'd have killed a couple of dozen spectators by now.” He stared at it, squinting. “That stuff's pretty thin. Will it really stop a bullet?"

      
“They say it will,” answered Tojo. “I suppose they ought to know."

      
“Where are you going to be standing?” asked Flint.