The Best Rootin' Tootin' Shootin' Gunslinger in the Whole Damned Galaxy (6 page)

      
He tucked his hands into his pockets. “Tilarba,” he repeated. “Some world my partner picked. Even the name sounds like an Eskimo village."

      
“It
is
chilly,” agreed Tojo. “And it will get colder when the sun sets in a couple of hours. Do you think it will affect Diggs or any of the other game workers?"

      
Flint shook his head. “I've already told him not to set up anything where our people have to deal cards or do any careful manipulating, and to offer overcoats to anyone who needs one. By the way, do you know if the skeleton remembered to move some heat blowers into the specialty tent?"

      
“Yes, he did."

      
“Good. I checked with Julius, since he looks like he'd be right at home sunning himself in a swamp, and he tells me that the cold won't bother him, so I guess we'll let him keep on wrestling the marks—at least, until he starts losing."

      
Flint lit a cigarette and started walking down the Midway, checking the layout of the games, making sure the electric calliope had been attached to the sound system, stopping at an occasional booth to rearrange the prizes that were on display.

      
“What about Monk and Batman?” asked Tojo when Flint had finished his rounds.

      
“What about 'em?"

      
“They'll freeze to death if they have to work the Bozo cage."

      
“It's a possibility."

      
“Then shouldn't you stop them?"

      
“You wouldn't have any suggestion as to how, would you?” said Flint. “Short of killing them, that is?"

      
“No, but—"

      
“If they didn't like what they were doing, they wouldn't be doing it."

      
“I still think you should talk to them,” stammered the hunchback.

      
“What the hell,” shrugged Flint. “I've got five or ten minutes to waste."

      
“You'll do it?"

      
“If that's what it takes to shut you up, you little bleeding-heart dwarf.” He headed off in the direction of the Bozo cage. “Come on. Let's get it over with."

      
Tojo remained where he was. “I think I'll go back to the ship."

      
“Forget something?” asked Flint with an amused smile.
 

      
“No,” replied the hunchback uneasily. “But I'm sure I'd just be in the way."

      
“And that's your only reason?"

      
“They make me uncomfortable,” admitted Tojo.

      
“They make everyone uncomfortable."

      
“Well, then . . .” Tojo looked plaintively at Flint.

      
“All right,” laughed Flint. “Go on back. I'll take care of it."

      
Tojo shot him a grateful look, then retreated in the general direction of the spaceship. Flint watched him for a moment, ground his cigarette out on the rocky loam, and made his way to the cage.

      
Batman, the tall reddish native of Sabellius III, sat on a platform above a small pool of water. The platform was attached to a lever which stuck out one side of the cage and culminated in a plastic bull's-eye. Monk stood perhaps fifty feet away from the cage, next to a huge container of hard rubber balls.

      
“Cold day,'” said Flint, blowing on his hands and rubbing them briskly.

      
“I've seen worse,” said Monk. “You should have been with me back when I was hunting bears in the Klondike."

      
“Still, I think maybe you ought to pack it in for today."

      
“Horseshit!” snapped Monk. He picked up a ball, whirled, and threw it at the bull's-eye, and grinned when it struck its mark and dumped Batman into the water. “He loves the water. Don't you, you furry bastard?” he yelled at the Sabellian, while taking a credit out of one pocket and putting it into another. “Don't look so outraged, Thaddeus. I pay when I play.” He turned back to Batman. “You ain't getting no towel until you ask for one."

      
The Sabellian muttered something in his native tongue. It sounded like gibberish to Flint, but Monk's face turned bright red and he hurled another ball at the target. This time it missed, and Batman uttered a harsh laugh.

      
“What are you going to do when he comes down with pneumonia?” asked Flint.

      
“Laugh myself sick,” answered the burly former animal trainer.

      
“When do you switch places?"

      
“Tomorrow, like always. Why?"

      
“He'll never make it,” said Flint. “That water's got to be forty degrees."

      
“You want us to knock off for the day, we'll knock off for the day,” said Monk. He raised his voice again. “Only
he's
got to be the one to ask."

      
“Well, what about it?” said Flint, turning to Batman. “Are you ready to sign a truce until the weather gets better?"

      
“Certainly,” said Batman in English.

      
“Good. Then it's settled."

      
“Monk must request it first."

      
“And if he doesn't?"

      
“Then we shall see if his skin keeps him as warm as my fur keeps me,” said Batman with a grin. “Mr. Ahasuerus says it will be even colder tomorrow." He stared unblinking at Monk. “I look forward to it with great anticipation."

      
“Do you at least want a towel?” asked Flint wearily.

      
“Will Monk use a towel tomorrow?"

      
“I ain't using nothing you don't use!” bellowed Monk.

      
Batman turned his level gaze to Flint. “Does that answer your question?"

      
“Perfectly,” said Flint, wondering why he had let Tojo talk him into this. “But if it snows, I'm closing you down."

      
“If Monk wants to quit, I will be more than happy to take the night off," said the Sabellian. He paused. “But we work tomorrow."

      
Monk transferred three more bills from one pocket to the other, picked up three balls, and hurled the first of them, dunking Batman again. “Why the hell should I quit?” he said with a sudden intensity. “I'm having the time of my life!”
 

      
As the Sabellian was pulling himself back up to his perch, an early arrival walked over. A typical native of Tilarba, he was perhaps five feet tall, covered by leathery orange skin with occasional tufts of bright orange hair. His eyes were quite large, his mouth broad, his nose almost nonexistent, his ears small and circular.

      
“What can I do for you, son?” asked Monk after flicking on his translating device.

      
“This game,” said the Tilarban. ‘”How do you play it?"

      
“Nothing to it,” said Monk, bouncing a ball on the ground. “See this ball? You just pick it up and . . ."

      
Flint turned and began walking away. He heard a splash a moment later, resisted the temptation to look back, and returned to the ship. He walked into the mess hall, took his coat off tossed it over the back of his chair, and told one of the galley robots to bring him a cup of black coffee.

      
When the coffee arrived he pressed his hands against the cup, warming them for a few minutes. Finally he took a sip, made a face, pulled a small flask out of his pocket, and poured a shot of artificial gin into the cup. Then he took a spoon, stirred the mixture vigorously, and took another taste, this time nodding his head in silent approval.

      
Tojo passed by the entrance to the mess hall, saw Flint sitting alone at his table, and walked over. “Did you speak to them?” he asked.

      
“Yeah, I spoke to them."

      
“They're not going to stop?"

      
“What did you expect? They wouldn't stop when they were taking turns cutting each other to ribbons in the ring. Why the hell should a little cold weather slow 'em down?” He took another swallow of his coffee. “How's the Dancer doing?"

      
“The same as always,” replied Tojo.

      
“And Ahasuerus remembered to rig the place for a video recording?"
      
persisted Flint. “We're going to need something to show on the next world so the marks will know what to expect."

      
“He says that everything is taken care of."

      
Flint frowned. “I'll just bet it is."

      
“What's the matter, Thaddeus?"

      
“What makes you think anything is the matter?” demanded Flint irritably.

      
“You seem disturbed about something."

      
“Do I, now?” Flint finished his coffee, brought out his flask, look a long swig of the gin. “I've got two guys working the Bozo cage who want to kill each other, I've got a dipsomaniac bossing my games crew, I've got a cowboy who's stark staring mad and tonight I'm going to be letting him take pot shots at the customers, I've got a barker who stammers, I've got a wrestler who has to be reminded not to eat his opponents, and I've got a partner who spends more time being concerned about things than fixing them. Why the hell should you think anything is the matter?"

      
Tojo stared silently at him for a long moment. “I thought the translator hid my stammer,” he said at last.

      
“It does,” said Flint in a more gentle voice. “It's just that sometimes I feel like a pro football player who suddenly finds himself coaching a grammar school. He can see what has to be done, he can explain all the strategy to them, but he can't go out onto the field and play the goddamned game for them." He paused. “I was the best barker this show ever had."

      
“I know."

      
“And when Julius Squeezer got uppity a couple of years ago, I beat the shit out of him."

      
“I remember,” said Tojo softly.

      
“The one time Monk was in real trouble back on Earth, I jumped into the cage and pulled his damned cats off him with my bare hands. And I taught the Rigger more scams than he ever taught me."

      
“There's only one Thaddeus Flint,” said the hunchback.

      
“Well, sometimes I get the feeling that one isn't enough. Every carny carries its share of loonies and misfits, but I can't help feeling that we've got more than most."

      
“You wouldn't really rather be back in Vermont, would you?” asked Tojo.
 

      
Flint shook his head. “No. But at least I was in control of things then. And I knew who worked for me. Look at the fucking Midway, Tojo—I don't even know
what's
working for me."

      
“I never heard you complain about it before."

      
“Who's complaining?” snapped Flint. “You asked me a question. I answered it.” He shrugged. “Maybe getting here was more fun than being here.'” He glared at the hunchback . “And you've got two seconds to get that expression off your face before I rip your hump off and shove it down your throat."

      
“What expression?” asked Tojo, startled.

      
“Never mind,” said Flint. “It's gone.” He took another swallow from his flask.

      
“Thaddeus . . ."

      
“Now what?"

      
“I've been thinking about tonight."

      
“Bully for you."

      
“And I think maybe
you
should do the barking. I'd like hear you do it once, so I can get an idea of the best way to about it."

      
Flint seemed to consider it for a moment, then shook his head “You're the barker."

      
“But—"

      
“Damn it, Tojo! You've been with me longer than any them. If you haven't learned what to do by now, one more night isn't going to change anything." He paused, then briefly flashed a tired smile. “Besides, I might like it . . . and how long do you think this show could run with the skeleton making decisions by himself?"

      
“You're sure?” persisted Tojo.

      
“You ask me one more time and you're going to find out just how hard it is to bark with a couple of split lips,” said Flint getting to his feet. He took a final swallow of gin and put the flask away. “Enough of this shit. Let's go hunt up the local constabularies and make sure they understand that no one is going to get hurt tonight. I can just picture them slapping cuffs on the Dancer the second he challenges someone in the audience to a gunfight."