The Best Rootin' Tootin' Shootin' Gunslinger in the Whole Damned Galaxy (28 page)

      
“What's the matter?” asked the hunchback.

      
“Wax,” he said. “Or something like it.” He shrugged. “It's my own damned fault for thinking Kargennian was a classy guy. I should have known he'd cut every corner he could. I can't wait to take that bastard's money tomorrow."

      
“Thaddeus . . ."

      
“Yeah?"

      
“What are you going to do with the
real
robot?” asked Tojo. “What if somebody finds it?"

      
Flint grinned. “We've got to bury
something
in the Holliday grave, don't we?” He paused. “Borilliot will announce that he's got to remove some valuable parts from the robot's brain or innards or somewhere before we bury him, and he'll make the switch; it was included in his fee. Then, a month or so from now, after he's had a chance to patch the ringer up and make it a little more durable, we'll announce that we've bought a new Doc Holliday from him, and that'll be that."

      
“It sounds simple,” agreed Tojo.

      
“It is,” he replied. “Now let's go tell the press what a close contest it's going to be, and hope nobody sees that we've got our fingers crossed."

 

 

Chapter 18

 

The Dancer he growled,
 

The Dancer he glared,
 

The Dancer he spoke,
 

And his soul he bared.

 

“Now, Doc,” said the Dancer,
 

“You should understand, sir,
 

I must have the answer
 

Before I can rest.”

 

“And so I demand, sir,"

Said Billybuck Dancer,
 

“You ready your hand, sir,
 

To see who's the best.”

 

“You haven't a chance, sir,"

Said Billybuck Dancer.

“Now heed my command, sir,
 

And on with the test!"

 

And the Doc he smiled,
 

And the Doc he grinned,
 

And the Doc he roared
 

Like a howling wind.

 

“All right, fill your hand, sir,
 

Young Billybuck Dancer,
 

If you think you can, sir:
 

I've just acquiesced.
 

“To tell you my plan, sir,
 

I aim to remand, sir,

To Billybuck Dancer
 

A hole in his chest.”

 

“My gun I will fan, sir,
 

And Billybuck Dancer
 

Will make his last stand, sir,
 

And soon lie at rest."

—from “The Ballad of Billybuck Dancer"

 

      
“What was that?” shrieked Jenny, pulling the covers up over her breasts.

      
“Alarm clock,” muttered Flint, swinging his feet over the side of the bed and rubbing his face and scalp briskly.

      
“But you don't
have
an alarm clock!” said Jenny, blinking very rapidly and trying to clear her mind.

      
“Same thing,” said Flint, feeling around on the floor for his pants and starting to slip them on. “I told the ship's computer to buzz me on the intercom at four o'clock."

      
“What in the world is so important that you have to do it at four in the morning, Thaddeus?” she asked.

      
“A couple of last-minute arrangements for the fight,” he answered, putting on his shirt and hunting around the darkened compartment for his shoes and socks. He stubbed a toe, bellowed an obscenity, and continued searching more delicately.

      
“I'll be glad when that damned gunfight is finally over,” said Jenny, lying back down on the bed.

      
“You and me both,” agreed Flint. “Where the hell are my shoes?"

      
“I don't know,” she said sleepily. “Come back to bed and forget about your shoes."

      
“Not just now,” he replied. After another minute of futile fumbling, he turned on the light. “Son of a bitch!” he murmured. “How the hell did they get on my desk?"

      
“Turn it off!” moaned Jenny, rolling onto her stomach and sticking a pillow over her head while Flint donned his footware.

      
He walked over to the bed, lifted the covers, took a long, approving look at what lay beneath them, gave Jenny a fond pat on her buttocks, and walked out the door of his compartment, switching off the light as he went. He strode the length of the empty corridor to the elevator bank, summoned one that took him down to the bowels of the ship, and emerged a moment later. The storage area was silent and deserted, a huge maze of rooms filled to overflowing with crates and boxes, some of which had not been opened since Flint had joined the Corporation. He was aware of the hollow echo of his footsteps as he walked across the highly polished floor, and the grotesque shape of his shadow in the dim light. Finally he found the room he sought, opened the door, tried unsuccessfully to find the light switch, and decided to make do with the diffused light that trickled in from the corridor.

      
There were numerous boxes stacked neatly around the compartment, and he began opening the larger ones at random. The first contained two of Gloria Stunkel's breakaway evening gowns, the second held an aluminum stool for Monk's long-departed animals, and the third housed a trio of dummies from the time when Stogie was thinking about becoming a ventriloquist.

      
“Looking for something, Thaddeus?” drawled a soft, amused voice.

      
Flint stood erect and wheeled around, peering into the shadows at the back of the room.

      
“Maybe I can help you,” said the Dancer, stepping out from behind a pair of upright crates. “Catch."

      
A small round object flew out of the darkness toward Flint in a gentle arc.

      
Flint caught it, held it up, and stared at it. “What the hell have you done?” he demanded.

      
“Maybe I should ask you the same thing,” replied the Dancer pleasantly.

      
“You're going to look pretty goddamned silly fighting a headless robot," said Flint.

      
“It ain't from
my
robot, Thaddeus,” said the Dancer. “It's from yours."

      
“What are you talking about?"

      
The Dancer stepped forward so that Flint could make out some of his features instead of just his outline. “I come down here every night to talk to the Doc,” explained the sharpshooter patiently. “Of course,” he added with a smile, “since he's turned off he don't say nothing back, but he's a real good listener. Anyhow,” he continued, “one day a couple of months back there was a new box in the room, and I got a little curious about it, so during a lull in the conversation I moseyed over to see what was in it."

      
Suddenly his smile vanished, to be replaced by a look of
hurt
. “You didn't have no right to make another one, Thaddeus."

      
“Then you knew about it all along?” demanded Flint.

      
The Dancer nodded. “Yep. But I figured if I ripped it up too soon, you might get another, so I waited for tonight.” He walked to one of the upright crates and opened it to reveal what very little remained of the second Holliday robot.

      
“You asshole!” exploded Flint. “Do you know how much that machine cost me?"

      
“You shouldn't of done it,” said the Dancer placidly.

      
“You just tore thirty-five million credits to shreds!” ranted Flint. “Plus ten million more to keep that ugly little red bastard quiet! Do you know how much money that is?"

      
“Don't make no difference. You done wrong."

      
“Shut up!” Flint tried to pull a cigarette out of his pocket inadvertently broke it in half, and hurled the rest of the pack against a wall. The robot's head followed a second later, bouncing off the wall with a sickening thud. “Do you know how long I had to work for that fucking money?” He began pacing back and forth down the length of the room. “Do you have any goddamned idea what you just did? I spent damned near every penny I had just to save your stupid fucking life, and you tear the goddamned robot apart!"

      
“What are you talking about?” asked the Dancer, frowning. “I'm gonna win."

      
“You're going to lose!” snapped Flint. He made a conscious effort to control his temper and lower his voice. “They ran a tape of you and the robot back on Darbeena, and he's faster."

      
The Dancer stared at him, puzzled. “You mean your robot was
slower
?” he asked at last.

      
“Of course it was slower. What the hell did you think it was?"

      
“I just figured it was a robot that could get back up and fight me every time we hit a new planet,” said the Dancer sincerely. “I figured you didn't want a fight to the death like everyone's talking about."

      
Flint shook his head. “I don't
care
if you kill the robot,” he said slowly, articulating each word as if speaking to a child. “I just wanted to make sure he didn't kill
you
."

      
“You really think I'll lose?” asked the Dancer, his voice curious but unperturbed.

      
“Yes,” answered Flint reluctantly, squinting into the darkness and trying unsuccessfully to see the expression on the sharpshooter's face. “Yes, I do."

      
“And they really clocked him out faster 'n me?"

      
Flint nodded.

      
“Well,” said the Dancer, turning his head just enough for Flint to see his satisfied smile, “it ought to be an interesting fight."

      
“Don't you understand what I'm telling you?” persisted Flint.

      
“Uh-huh,” said the Dancer, moving to the middle of the room and sitting down atop a large box. “You're telling me that I'm finally gonna face someone who's got a chance."

      
“He's got more than a chance, Dancer,” said Flint, walking over to his cigarettes and picking them up off the floor. “Don't you understand? They ran the two of you side by side, and he's faster. Not by much, but faster."

      
“I wouldn't want him any other way,” said the Dancer, his face mirroring his happiness. “He's the best opponent a man could have."

      
“You just don't understand!"

      
The Dancer chuckled softly. “Sure I do, Thaddeus,” he replied with an amiable smile. “But no one would remember the O.K. Corral if Doc and the Earps had faced a bunch of kids or cripples, and ain't no one gonna remember me for killing that Darbeenan feller.” He looked into Flint's eyes. “You measure a man by what he beats, Thaddeus—not by what he avoids."

      
“And what if
he
beats
you
?” asked Flint, lighting up a cigarette.

      
“If it is in the cards, then that's the way it'll be,” answered the Dancer with a shrug.

      
“You still think you can win!” exclaimed Flint in disbelief.

      
“Old Doc ain't never going to get no faster,” said the Dancer. “Me, I plan to."

      
“You mean you can draw faster than you did on Darbeena?"

      
The Dancer shrugged again. “Who knows? I guess we'll all find out tomorrow."

      
“You act like this is some kind of game,” said Flint. “Well, let me tell you— it isn't.” He paused. “And stop calling him Doc."

      
“That's his name."

      
“But he's a robot, not Doc Holliday. Try to get that through your head. He's not going to wake up coughing, because he doesn't have any lungs. If it's windy or raining, he's got twenty trillion circuits that will take it into account and allow for it in less time than you can measure. If he stands facing the sun, he'll adjust the prismatic lenses in his eyes so he can still see you. He'll never need a cane, or have a muscle cramp, or an upset stomach, or a headache, or a hangover.” Flint paused for breath. “He's
not
Doc Holliday. He's a goddamned killing machine!"

      
“If he's faster than the Doc, so much the better,” said the Dancer after seeming to consider what he'd heard.

      
“You
mean
that!” said Flint in wonderment. “You really mean it!"