The Best Rootin' Tootin' Shootin' Gunslinger in the Whole Damned Galaxy (20 page)

      
“He did more than put up a fight,” said Flint, refilling his coffee cup. “He beat the shit out of him."

      
“Still . . ."

      
“Stop feeling so goddamned sorry for yourself. You're a hero."

      
“I don't feel like one."

      
“Just the same,” continued Flint, not without a trace of resentment, “long after the rest of us are gone and forgotten, you'll still be a household name."

      
“You really think so, Thaddeus?” asked the Dancer.

      
Flint nodded. “They'll make up songs about you, and never get the facts quite right. Little six-armed alien kids will run home crying because their friends won't give them a turn at pretending to be Billybuck Dancer. Hell, they'll probably even build a statue to you somewhere. It won't look like you, but at least it'll be there. They're not going to build any statues of Thaddeus Flint."

      
“I wish I could do something to deserve it,” said the Dancer unhappily.

      
Flint threw up his hands in exasperation. “You're just not going to be happy until I hunt up someone who can kill you!"

      
“Ain't nobody who can,” said the Dancer confidently.

      
“Then what's your problem?"

      
“You just ain't never gonna understand, Thaddeus.” The Dancer sighed and stared off into space.

      
Flint looked at him for a moment, then sighed and shook his head. “You know, they
will
write a song about him someday.” He paused. “What a waste."

      
“Well,” said Diggs, rising to his feet, “I've got to get to work."

      
“What work?” said Flint. “We're taking off in four hours and the games are all loaded on the ship."

      
“That was a polite lie, Thaddeus,” said Diggs sardonically. “The truth of the matter is that I'm getting a little sick and tired of listening to all these people talking about how they want to die."

      
“They're talking about death,” stammered Tojo. “It's not the same thing."

      
“Yeah? Well, then it's just not different enough for my taste."

      
Diggs bussed his plate and walked out of the mess hall.

      
“I hope he's not too upset,” said Tojo.

      
“He'll get over it as soon as he can't scare up a card game anywhere else," replied Flint. “Then he'll be back, all friendly and smiling."

      
“I think I'm getting ready to take a shot at playing him,” said Jiminy.

      
“Watch yourself,” said Flint. “Playing cards with Diggs isn't exactly the same as selling snake oil. In this case, the snake'll be dealing."

      
“Still, as long as I'm in the persona of a Western pitchman, I ought to see how I measure up across a gaming table."

      
Flint shrugged. “You're a grown-up. I'm not going to tell you how to run your life.” He smiled. “And after he beats you, you can always change into something else. A bartender, maybe."

      
“I've been meaning to talk about that with you,” said Jiminy.

      
“Changing the way you look?"

      
“In a manner of speaking,” answered Jiminy uneasily. “I hate to complain . . ."

      
“So does everyone else around here,” interrupted Flint wryly. “But they all do it. Why should you be any different?"

      
“Well, ever since you passed the word to the crew about what Mr. Ahasuerus calls my defense mechanism, people have been coming up and begging me to drop my guard, so to speak.” Flint smiled in amusement. “It's not funny, Mr. Flint. It's something I have no control over. After I explained that to Lori, she threatened me with a steel pipe, just so she could have another look at some boy she left behind on Earth.” He looked at Stogie. “Even Max . . ."

      
“Really?” asked Flint, interested. “Who do you see when you look at him, Max—Fanny Brice?"

      
“I see me,” said Stogie defensively.

      
“You? You can see yourself in a mirror, you old narcissist."

      
“Not me like I am now,” said the old comic, his eyes suddenly misty. “I see me like I was fifty years ago, tall and handsome and healthy, with my whole life ahead of me.” He looked defiantly at Flint. “
That's
what I see."

      
“As I said,” explained Jiminy, “it's not necessarily a loved one that one sees, but rather one's heart's desire."

      
“And everyone's been asking you?"

      
“Not Monk and Batman,” replied Jiminy, as Tojo squirmed uncomfortably on his chair. “They ask me
not
to. And of course Billybuck never asks."

      
“Just as well,” said Flint. “He'd probably kill you."

      
“I thought Doc Holliday was the fastest gun in the West,” said Jiminy with a smile.

      
“What about Doc Holliday?” asked the Dancer, coming out of his trance at the mention of the name.

      
“Nothing,” said Flint. “We were just talking about him."

      
“You know,” said the Dancer, his face alight with interest, “they made a lot of movies about him, but none of 'em ever got it right. In
My Darling Clementine
, they even made out that he was a surgeon."

      
“Maybe it was because he was called Doc,” suggested Jiminy.

      
“He was a dentist,” replied the Dancer. “He became a gambler when he lost all his patients on account of his coughing."

      
“I've seen his photo in your room,” said Jiminy. “He looks a lot more like a gambler than a dentist."

      
“The photo's wrong."

      
“He looked more like a dentist?” chuckled Flint. “What the hell does a dentist look like?"

      
The Dancer shook his head impatiently. “It's the only photo that was ever took of him, and the photographer kind of colored in all the light places. That's why everyone thinks he had black hair and dressed like he was going to a funeral. He was really blond, just like me, and he always wore gray."

      
“Why gray?” asked Flint, curious in spite of himself.

      
“Showed the dust less."

      
“How big was he?"

      
“Maybe five-ten, five-eleven. And skinny as a rail, 'cause of the consumption. But he was tough,” continued the Dancer with a smile. “By the time he got out West he was too weak even to lift up a shotgun, and people thought they could pick on him because of how puny he looked.” The Dancer shook his head at the foolishness of Holliday's foes. “Three of the first four men he killed, he killed with a knife. He kept it hanging around his neck, like Tojo's whistle."

      
“Interesting guy,” commented Flint.

      
“I wish I'd have known him,” said the Dancer.

      
“I can just see the two of you, fighting side by side at the O.K. Corral,” said Flint. “You'd have wiped out the whole damned country."

      
“Uh-uh,” said the Dancer. “I'd have been on the Clantons' side."

      
“Weren't they the bad guys?” asked Tojo.

      
“Don't make no difference,” explained the Dancer patiently. “A man's measured by his enemies, not his friends. I'd have been on whatever side Doc wasn't on."

      
“I thought Doc Holliday was your hero,” said Flint.

      
“He is."

      
“And yet you'd want to shoot it out with him?"

      
“When you were a kid, Thaddeus,” replied the Dancer, “didn't you want to strike out Mickey Mantle, or maybe hit a homer off of Sandy Koufax?"

      
“I never thought about it."

      
“How do you know how good you are, unless you go up against the best?"

      
He broke off speaking and suddenly resumed staring at the wall, locked in mortal combat with Doc Holliday in the landscape of his mind.

      
“
Could
he have beaten Doc Holliday?” asked Jiminy curiously.

      
“I don't know. Probably. Just be careful about letting him see you like that. Looking like Holliday is one thing; shooting like him is another.” Suddenly Flint slammed a fist down on the table. “
Son of a bitch
!” he exclaimed, startling everyone in the mess hall except the Dancer, who continued to stare serenely into space.

      
“What is it?” asked Tojo.

      
“I've got it!"

      
“Got what?"

      
Flint grinned. “I've got the solution to all our problems: mine, the Dancer's, even the skeleton's."

      
“What are you talking about?' “I've figured out who the Dancer's next opponent will be."

      
“Mr. Ahasuerus won't like it, no matter who it is,” said Tojo.

      
“He won't have any objections to this one,” said Flint confidently.

      
“Well?” stammered Tojo impatiently. “Who is it?"

      
“You wouldn't believe me if I told you,” said Flint, getting up from the table and heading off to see his partner.

 

 

Chapter 12

 

      
The blue man looked up from his desk as the door slid back and a hand holding a white handkerchief was extended into the room. “Come in, Mr. Flint,” he said wearily.

      
Flint entered the room, a huge smile on his face, walked directly to his partner's refrigerator, took out a beer, and sat down on the least uncomfortable couch he could find. He looked around, saw a new painting that made even less sense to him than the rest of the blue man's artwork, and winced.

      
“Where did you pick
that
thing up?” he asked.

      
“Boriga II, if you must know,” replied Mr. Ahasuerus.

      
“That was—what?—two years ago? I don't blame you for keeping it hidden until now."

      
“Have you come up here solely to criticize my taste in art?” asked Mr. Ahasuerus coldly.

      
“As a matter of fact,” said Flint, still smiling, “I came up here to make peace with you."

      
“Oh?"

      
“And to hit you with a proposition."

      
“Oh."

      
“Aren't you even curious?"

      
“I am sure you will get around to telling me when you feel like it,” said the blue man. “As for making peace, it will not bring the dead Darbeenan back to life."

      
“No—but my proposal will see to it that there aren't any more."

      
“We are leaving the planet this afternoon. There will not be any more."

      
Flint finished half his beer in a single long swallow. “Jesus! This stuff is worse than usual.” He leaned forward in his chair. “I meant that there won't be any more
anywhere
."

      
“Has Billybuck agreed to stop fighting?"

      
“Don't be silly."

      
“Then I fail to see how you can make such a promise."

      
“That's why
I'm
coming to
you
with the idea, instead of the other way around.” He paused. “But first I want to ask you a question."

      
“Go ahead,” said the blue man, not quite able to mask his curiosity behind an indifferent expression.

      
“Why do the robots—the ones in the galley and the ones who set up the show—look the way they do?"

      
“I'm afraid I don't understand what you mean, Mr. Flint."

      
“They look like big, skinny, clanking metal monsters."

      
“Despite the fact that you do not approve of the way they manufacture beer and cigarettes, they are quite efficient,” said Mr. Ahasuerus defensively.

      
“I'm not arguing that, much as I'd like to,” said Flint. “But why do they look like machines?"

      
“They
are
machines."

      
“I know,” said Flint, fighting to hold back his irritation with the blue man's literal-mindedness. “But why don't they look like people?"