by Mike Resnick
“It'll be about two weeks before the adjusters send in their report,” he announced. “They'll deposit the money in your account.”
“That'll be fine,” said Nighthawk.
“I looked into all the stores,” continued Kinoshita. “I didn't see anyone I recognize.”
“Then they're gone. No great surprise.”
“So where to now?”
Nighthawk pointed at the sky. “Out there somewhere. We'll improvise as we go.”
They drove to the spaceport.
“Damn!” exclaimed Kinoshita as they came to a stop. “You know what we forgot to do?”
“What?”
“Sell the vehicle.”
“It's been taken care of,” said Nighthawk, climbing out.
Kinoshita followed him as they walked through the spaceport and then out to where their ship was sitting.
“Something's wrong,” said Nighthawk softly.
“What are you talking about?”
“Never mind. But when I give the word, hit the ground.”
Kinoshita looked around, couldn't see any sign of life, and decided that the older man was being overly cautious. He was about to say so when Nighthawk yelled "Duck!"
Kinoshita hit the concrete and heard the hum of Nighthawk's Burner just above his head. There was a scream some thirty yards to his left.
“Okay, you can get up now,” said Nighthawk.
“What happened?” asked Kinoshita, standing and brushing himself off. “Who was it?”
“A very foolish young man,” said Nighthawk, walking over and turning the body face-up with his boot. There was a smoking hole between its dead, staring eyes.
“Johnny Trouble!” exclaimed Kinoshita.
“I told him it was an unlucky name,” said Nighthawk, totally devoid of emotion.
You're peeking through again, thought Kinoshita. You were buried so deep inside that old man I thought you might never show up. But here you are, as cold and efficient as ever. You may rue the day they burned down your house and brought you back, but this much I know: someone else is going to rue it even more.
8.
Nighthawk looked at the image of the green world floating above the navigational computer.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“It's pretty enough, I suppose,” replied Kinoshita noncommittally.
“97 percent Earth gravity, breathable air, plenty of water.”
“Has it got a name?”
“Alpha Spinoza IV.”
“No,” said Kinoshita. “I mean a name.”
“Pondoro.”
“What does it mean?”
“Who knows?” replied Nighthawk.
“What kind of population?”
“Two Tradertowns, nothing else that I can find. Population is about six hundred permanent residents, with a daily average of maybe fifteen hundred transients.”
“It's not on the major trading routes,” said Kinoshita. “Why so many transients?”
“It's a safari world. Half the transients are out hunting, and another quarter are getting ready to go out or preparing their trophies after coming back.”
“Are you going to take up big game hunting?” asked Kinoshita sardonically.
“Not me,” answered Nighthawk with a smile. “I've hunted the biggest.”
“Then what's the attraction?”
“It's small, it's underpopulated, it's off the main trade routes, and it looks pleasant enough. There'll be a constant stream of supply ships for the Tradertowns and hunting lodges, so we shouldn't have too long to wait for anything we need. And with the very real possibility of a hunter getting ripped apart, I figure there's got to be decent medical care.”
“Are you sick?”
“No.”
“Well, then?”
“I'm an old man,” replied Nighthawk, “and getting sick is what old men do.”
“You're only 62.”
“I've been sick before, I'll be sick again. Not with the same thing, I hope, but it's inevitable.”
“I don't think you're ready to move into a nursing home just yet,” said Kinoshita.
“No, but when the time comes, I'll be ready to. I've seen otherwise rational men go a little crazy at the mention of nursing homes, as if they were synonymous with concentration camps.”
“Still, it's hard to picture you needing or accepting help from anyone.”
“Count on it.” Nighthawk paused. “I came very close to dying once. I didn't like it.”
“What about all those times you risked your life?” persisted Kinoshita.
“It went with the job ... and I never risked my life if there was an alternative.”
“How many times weren't there alternatives?”
“A few.” Nighthawk looked at the pleasant green image again. “Yeah, I think we'll try our luck here.”
They broke out of orbit and were soon on the ground. Nighthawk summoned a robot and had it take their luggage to Customs.
“Robots?” said Kinoshita, surprised. “On a world with only six hundred people?”
“They're not for the residents,” answered Nighthawk. “They're for the tourists.”
They rode the slidewalk to the spaceport's main building, and were soon being interviewed by Customs officials.
“May I have you passport, please?” asked the woman who was processing Nighthawk.
He handed it over. “I'm surprised.”
“Oh? About what?”
“I've been on a lot of worlds. You're the first live Customs official I've encountered. Usually it's all computerized and dehumanized.”
“We believe in the personal touch on Pondoro.”
“It's appreciated.”
“Which safari company will be meeting you, Mr. Nighthawk?” she asked.
“None.”
“You haven't decided on one yet?”
“I'm not here for a safari.”
Suddenly she smiled. “That's why we have live officials.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“We're here to handle the unexpected,” she explained. “You're the first visitor in more than a year who wasn't here to go hunting.” She paused. “May I ask what business you have on Pondoro?”
“None.”
“If you're just here for service or refueling, you needn't pass through Customs.”
“I'm considering buying some property and settling down,” said Nighthawk.
She ran his passport through her computer again. “You haven't been to Pondoro before,” she said, staring at a screen that he couldn't see.
“I know.”
She frowned. “There must be something wrong. It says that you're—”
“I know,” interrupted Nighthawk. “174 years old.”
“Yes.”
“I've been in DeepSleep at the Cyronics Institute on Deluros VIII for 112 years. You can check it out.”
She uttered two short commands to her computer, then looked up.
“Welcome to Pondoro, Mr. Nighthawk. I'm delighted to see that you've made a complete recovery.”
“Thank you,” replied Nighthawk. “I wonder if I might make a request?”
“Certainly. What can I do for you?”
“You can keep my name to yourself. I'm sure your computer has told you who I am. I'd prefer to leave all that behind me and begin a new life here on Pondoro.”
“I won't tell anyone,” replied the woman. “But your name is registered in the computer, and it will remain there until you legally change it. At that time, if you'll contact me and show me proof of your new name, I can adjust the computer to reflect that.”
“Thank you.”
“I never thought I'd meet the Widowmaker,” she said. “I saw holos of you when I was a little girl. Most people thought you'd been dead for almost a century even then.”
“I wouldn't believe everything I saw if I were you,” replied Nighthawk.
“Are you certain you wouldn't like to go on safari, a man like you?”
she continued. “I can recommend some of our best companies.”
“No, thanks.”
“You're sure I can't change your mind?”
“I'm sure.”
“Let me try anyway,” she said, uttering more commands to her computer.
Suddenly, without moving, Nighthawk found himself in the middle of a forest. Standing some twenty feet away was a red-and-black catlike carnivore, some six hundred pounds, its orange unblinking eyes focused on him as it crept forward.
Nighthawk found to his surprise that he was holding a sonic rifle in his hands.
The carnivore roared once and leaped at him, and Nighthawk, with no time to raise the rifle to his shoulder, fired from the hip, spinning to his left to try to evade the creature—
—which froze in mid-leap. Instantly the forest and the weapon disappeared, and Nighthawk was once again in front of the Customs agent.
“What the hell was that?” he demanded.
“Just a sample,” she replied. “The real thing is much more exciting.”
“If you say so.”
“So ... can I interest you in a safari?”
He shook his head. “I told you what I'm here for.”
“I know—but I get a commission for every safari I sell,” she said apologetically. “We're a one-industry world.”
“Does your industry include a hotel for people who haven't decided what company they want to use?”
“There's only one hotel in town. You'll find it easily enough.”
“I thought there were two Tradertowns,” said Nighthawk.
“There are. But the other is almost two thousand miles from here, in the southern hemisphere—or the eastern one, depending on which way you look at it.”
“Has the hotel got a name?”
“The Pondoro Taylor.” She paused. “The hotel, like our world, is named after John Taylor, one of the greatest big-game hunters in human history.”
“Never heard of him,” answered Nighthawk. “I thought our greatest hunter was Nicobar Lane.”
“Taylor lived thousands of years earlier, back when we were still Earthbound.”
“So why isn't the world named Taylor? What's Pondoro got to do with it?”
“Pondoro was his African name. I gather it was a native word for lion, and as an indication of his courage it was considered a mark of great respect.”
“What's ‘African'?”
“A city or country back on Earth, I'm not sure which.” She paused. “The hotel supplies a computer in every room. I'm sure you can call the information up from your computer's data banks once you're there.”
“Speaking of which, how do I get there?”
“Just pick up your luggage and glide out to the front of the spaceport,” she answered. “You'll find some transport vehicles there. Enter whichever one you want and tell it where you want to go.”
“Robot driver?”
“No driver at all,” she replied. “Or, rather, the vehicle drives itself.” She smiled. “Don't look so concerned, Mr. Nighthawk. I know they didn't exist when you entered DeepSleep, but we've only had one accident in the 53 years we've been using them.”
She handed him back his passport card after her computer had added a Pondoro visa to its coding, and he joined Kinoshita at the front door of the spaceport.
“Very friendly people,” said Kinoshita.
“They seem to be.”
“Did you get the holo of the charging ... I don't know what you'd call it—kind of a dinosaur?”
“No, I got a cat.”
“Amazing how quickly they can put you in the jungle, isn't it?”
“I don't think I was put in the jungle so much as surrounded by it,” answered Nighthawk.
“Whichever.”
They approached the first vehicle in line. The doors slid back to allow them to enter, and the robot accompanying them loaded their luggage.
“Where may I take you?” asked the vehicle.
“The Pondoro Taylor Hotel,” answered Nighthawk.
The vehicle immediately sped off down the narrow road leading to the Tradertown.
“Is it any good?” asked Kinoshita.
“Is what any good?”
“This hotel.”
“I hope so. It's the only one in this hemisphere.”
Kinoshita looked out the window. “Pretty country. More savannah than forest, at least around here.” A herd of herbivores caught his eye. “Some pretty grasseaters out there. Nice spiral horns on the males.”
“There is no hunting allowed without a license,” announced the vehicle.
“We weren't going to hunt,” replied Nighthawk.
“Furthermore,” continued the vehicle, ignoring his answer, “all areas within ten miles of the spaceport and the Tradertowns are protected reserves, where hunting and fishing are both illegal.”
“Fine,” said Nighthawk.
“I could supply you with a hard copy of all the safari companies based on Pondoro,” offered the vehicle in its toneless voice, “as well as prices for their various services. Some of them will lead holographic as well as hunting safaris.”
“That won't be necessary.”
“Would you care for a list of all the game animals on Pondoro?” continued the vehicle. “I can produce holographs of each.”
“No.”
“Please inform me if you change your mind.”
“You'll be the first to know,” said Nighthawk. He turned to Kinoshita. “I've got a sinking feeling that this might not be as tranquil a world as I'd hoped.”
“All the shooting?” suggested Kinoshita.
“All the selling.”
They rode in silence and came to the Tradertown in another ten minutes.
“Not exactly typical,” commented Nighthawk. “One bar, one casino, one weapon shop, one taxidermist, and twelve safari companies. Usually you've got half a dozen bars, drug dens and whorehouses for every other building in town.”
“We have reached the Pondoro Taylor Hotel,” announced the vehicle as it pulled to a stop. “I have registered you for two single rooms. If you prefer to share a room—”
“Single rooms are fine,” interrupted Nighthawk.
“My services will be billed to your personal account, Mr. Nighthawk.”
“Fine,” said Nighthawk. “Let us unload our bags and you can be on your way.”
“I will take your luggage to the service entrance, and it will be delivered to your rooms.” The vehicle waited for both of them to emerge, then quickly pulled around a corner of the building.
Nighthawk and Kinoshita approached the front desk, where a uniformed man awaited them.
“Welcome to the Taylor,” he said. “Your rooms are on the second floor, keyed to your voiceprints. Just tell the doors to open and they'll respond.”
“Which doors?” asked Kinoshita.
“The ones with your names on them in holographic displays,” answered the man. “Is there anything I can do to make your stay more comfortable?”
“Yeah, there is,” said Nighthawk.
“Excellent! I can recommend the very best safari guide, the finest weapon for—”
“All I want is the name of a realtor.”
“A realtor?”
“Someone who sells real estate.”
The man frowned. “I don't believe we have any, sir.”
“What happens when you want to buy a piece of land?”
“I see!” responded the man. “You mean a private hunting preserve!” He paused. “Just ask the computer when you get to your room.”
“Thanks,” said Nighthawk. “One more thing. Where do we find a good meal?”
“I suppose you could get some sandwiches in the bar across the street,” came the answer. “But the Taylor has the only restaurant in town.”
“How late is it open?”
“It's open around the clock,” answered the man. “You never know what time a ship might land, or when a safari might come in from the bush.”
He walked over to an airlift, followed by Kinoshita, and floated up to the second floor. They walked down the corridor until they came to doors with their names emblazoned, commanded them to open, and entered.
The luggage was already there, and after Nighthawk washed the dust from his hands and face he walked to the desk in the corner and activated the computer.
“How may I help you?” asked the machine.
“I want to relocate to Pondoro,” said Nighthawk. “What properties are available?”
“With or without a domicile?”
“With, preferably.”
“There are four private hunting lodges for sale, and one timeshare, all within 40 miles of this Tradertown. Would you care to see them?”
“Please.”
The five domiciles suddenly appeared above the computer. Beneath each was a price and a plat of the land.
“I'd like to see the four lodges tomorrow,” said Nighthawk. “Who do I contact?”
“I have just arranged appointments at one-hour intervals beginning at noon,” answered the computer. “Any empty vehicle near the hotel will take you there.”
“Thank you. If I wish to make a bid, who do I make it to?”
“You will make your bid to me, and I will transmit it to the owners.”
“Fair enough. Deactivate.”
Nighthawk walked out into the hall, decided to wait for Kinoshita in the restaurant, and descended to the main floor.
Kinoshita joined him a few moments later.
“Did you learn anything?”
“There's a few places for sale. We'll visit them tomorrow afternoon.”
“That means we get to sleep late?”
“You do. I've got to find someone who can give me a new ID and passport.”
“In a typical Tradertown, I'd say you'd have your choice of forgers,” said Kinoshita. “On this world, I'd be surprised if you can find even one.”
“Lot of pretty pictures on the walls,” commented Nighthawk, gesturing to the paintings and holographs of game animals.
“So what?”
“So any artist who can do that can do what I need. If I can't change my name legally, I'll hire one of them to make up some ID papers for me.”