by Mike Resnick
The attendant prodded Flint on the shoulder and said something in his native tongue.
“He’s telling us to leave,” said the Dancer’s friend.
“You speak his language, too?” asked Flint suddenly.
“Piece of cake,” he replied, and started walking down the corridor.
“That’s one of my expressions,” muttered Flint. “What the hell is going on here?"
“Don’t worry about nothing, Thaddeus,” said the Dancer easily. “I told you: he’s my friend."
“Yeah. Well, when we pick up your guns on the way out, I want you to pull one of them out of its holster and keep it pointed at your friend all the way back to the ship."
“Not a chance, Thaddeus."
“You do it or I’m leaving both of you here,” said Flint. “I’m not kidding this time, Dancer."
The Dancer stared at him for a moment, then shrugged. “Whatever you say—but he ain’t gonna hurt you."
“What makes you so sure of that?"
“I passed him my knife through the air vent last night,” said the Dancer. “If he wanted to slice you, he’d have done it already."
“You gave him your knife?” repeated Flint incredulously.
“Why not? I had another, and if you didn’t make his bail he was gonna have to find some other way of getting out."
Flint shook his head in disbelief, then began walking down the corridor. When he arrived at the magistrate’s office, there was no sign of the mysterious man. He picked up the sharpshooter’s pistols and headed out the door. When he reached the groundcar he found the man sitting comfortably in the back seat.
“Sorry to rush off like that,” he said pleasantly, “but jails depress me."
“Right,” agreed the Dancer, climbing into the car.
“And speaking of things that depress me,” he added as Flint hit the ignition combination, “so does poverty. Billybuck tells me you might be able to use a person of my talents, Mr. Flint."
“And just what are your talents, besides ducking questions?” asked Flint as he began driving back toward the carnival.
“Well, I can juggle, I can do card tricks, I’m pretty good with a knife— though not as good as Billybuck here—I’ve worked with wild animals, I’ll wager I can play a game of three-card monte every bit as good as your friend the Rigger, I can sing a song and tell a story and play a musical instrument or two. You just name what you want done and turn me loose."
Flint smiled in spite of himself. “I think we’ll want to know a little bit more about you before springing you loose on an unsuspecting public,” he said, veering to avoid hitting a small domestic animal that had darted out between a pair of decrepit buildings.
“All in good time,” said the man. “Right now I’d just like to luxuriate in being free. Ah! Smell that fine fresh air!"
“Smells like dead fish to me,” said Flint, turning sharply onto a bumpy road that passed for a Tilarban boulevard, and vaguely wondering why all the houses and stores looked as if they had been made from cheap brown plasterboard.
“Well, it’s not clean Texas air, I’ll admit that—but on the other hand, it sure as hell beats what I’ve been breathing the last three days. I want to express my gratitude to you once again."
“How about being a little less grateful and a little more forthright?” said Flint. “And while you’re at it,” he added, “choose one accent and stick to it. You’re driving me crazy."
“With no disrespect to my friend Billybuck, I think I’ll use this one,” came the answer. “It seems more functional, even if it is a bit less poetic."
“What does your real language sound like?” asked Flint, spotting the highway that led out of town and back to the carnival and heading for it.
“You couldn’t pronounce it, let alone understand it,” replied the man easily. “Stop worrying so much, Mr. Flint. I’ve got a lot more to fear from you than do you from me. I’ve never harmed a soul in my life, and I don’t plan on starting now, not with two such interesting and pleasant companions."
“That must have been one hell of an impersonation,” remarked Flint dryly, trying to assimilate what he had just heard.
“Oh, it was,” replied the man with a chuckle. “You should have seen me."
“Was it as good as the job you’re doing now?"
“Better,” admitted the man. ‘”I didn’t mix up my dialects."
Flint reached the highway and increased his speed. “We’ll be out of the city once we pass those three ugly-looking buildings on the left,” he said. “Now that the masquerade is over, do you want me to drop you off there?"
“Life is an unending masquerade, Mr. Flint. I prefer to remain as I am—and I really do want a job with your carnival."
“You haven’t answered any of my questions. Why the hell should I put you on my payroll?"
“Because you need me, Mr. Flint. Jupiter Monk is no longer a viable performer, Gloria Stunkel has left the show, Max Bloom’s health is deteriorating, and there is no call for strippers in a galaxy filled with nonhumans."
Flint turned to the Dancer. “Did you give him your home address and the combination to your safe, too?” he asked sardonically.
“He asked about the carnival, so I told him,” answered the Dancer.
“I thought you were supposed to be the strong, silent type,” muttered Flint.
“Please don’t blame my good friend Billybuck,” said the man. “I nagged him mercilessly."
“Someday you must tell me exactly how you did it,” said Flint. “It took me the better part of three years just to find out his social security number."
“Kindness is usually repaid with kindness."
“Yeah. Well, I wouldn’t know about that."
“You can say that again,” chimed in the Dancer.
“You got any platitudes about loyalty?” asked Flint wryly.
“Half a hundred of ’em,” came the reply. “Take me along and they’re all yours, gratis."
“You’ve already told me why I need you,” said Flint. “Why do you need me?"
“Because if you leave me on Tilarba, I will almost certainly die here,” said the man seriously.
“Horseshit. You seem to be handling the air and the gravity as well as any of us."
“It will not be the atmosphere or the gravity that kills me, but the inhabitants."
Flint pulled the vehicle off the road and came to a stop. Then he turned in his seat and faced his passenger. “All right,” he said coldly. “You seem as friendly as the next guy, but in a carnival the next guy is probably a child molester. If you don’t want me to leave you right here, you’d better tell me why the Tilarbans want to kill you and why you think I won’t. Dancer !” he bellowed suddenly. “Will you please stop looking at the goddamned sky and pay attention?"
“What’s the matter, Thaddeus?” asked the Dancer.
“Depending on what this so-called friend of yours says in the next couple of minutes, we’re either going to take him along or return him to the cops or maybe have to kill him. If it’s the second or third alternative, I might need a little help, since he’s probably not a hell of a lot more anxious to die or go to jail than most people.” He paused. “Do you understand what I’m telling you?"
“Yep.” The Dancer smiled pleasantly and resumed staring at the sky, as Flint shook his head in disgust.
“Relax, Mr. Flint,” said his passenger. ‘”I already told you that you have nothing to fear from me."
“I know what you told me. What do the Tilarbans have to fear from you?"
“Nothing."
“Then why will they want to kill you?"
“Racial bigotry,” came the answer. “I believe it is not unknown to people of Earth."
“What particular reason have they got for hating you more than the rest of us?"
The man shrugged eloquently. “Absolutely none.” He paused and smiled. “Who ever said that bigotry was logical?"
“Just what race is it that you be
long to?"
“You’re going to find out sooner or later,” said the man with a sigh. “I am from the planet Jimor, of the star system Pirelliate."
“Never heard of it,” said Flint.
The Jimorian smiled. “Then you have no reason to be prejudiced against me, have you?"
“I don’t know. What do you look like when you don’t look like this?"
“You name it. I am a master of disguise."
“Are you trying to tell me that this is a makeup job?” said Flint with a sarcastic laugh.
“No. I am trying to tell you that I would like to be your friend, and that I mean no harm."
“What were you doing on Tilarba in the first place?"
“Hiding,” replied the Jimorian.
“From who?"
“There are many bigoted races in the galaxy, Mr. Flint."
“What is it about Jimorians that seems to bring this little character trait out?"
The Jimorian shrugged. “Since I’m not a bigot, I can hardly be expected to tell you what makes a bigot tick, can I?"
“You’d damned well better make the attempt if you want to come along."
“We frighten people."
“Why?"
“What difference does it make? I obviously don’t frighten you or Billybuck."
“Not acceptable,” said Flint. “Try again."
“I would love to, Mr. Flint,” said the Jimorian, “but I feel I must point out that there is a Tilarban police car approaching us. Possibly they are merely going in the same direction, but there is every possibility that they wish to, shall we say, repossess either Billybuck or myself."
“I’ve been watching him,” replied Flint calmly.
“Shouldn’t we try to get away?"
“What for? I’ve paid your bail, and the charges against the Dancer have been dropped."
“They may have changed their minds,” the Jimorian pointed out.
“They may have,” agreed Flint. “But we’re beyond the city limits now."
“But—"
“If I run, they might arrest me too. We’ll wait and see what they want. Besides, what have I got to worry about? They’re supposed to be scared to death of you, and I’ve got the greatest bodyguard in the world sitting right next to me—if he hasn’t gone blind from staring at the sun."
The police car came to a stop about fifty feet behind Flint’s vehicle, and a Tilarban officer got out and began approaching them.
“Why are you smiling, Mr. Flint?’” asked the Jimorian.
“Either you’re as harmless as you say, or he’s so goddamned scared of you he’s afraid to pull out his weapon."
The policeman arrived a moment later and leaned against Flint’s door. Flint activated his translating device. “What can I do for you?"
“Our sensor devices had indicated you had come to a stop,” replied the policeman. “I’m here to make sure nothing untoward has happened to you."
“Nothing has,” Flint assured him.
“And to make sure,’” continued the officer, “that you proceed directly to your ship."
“Me, personally?’” smiled Flint.
“What you do is a matter of complete indifference to us. But we want them out of here.” He paused. “I will follow you the rest of the way to make sure that you get there without further delay or interference."
“We’ve been run off planets before,” said Flint with a wry smile as the Tilarban returned to his car, “but never with police protection.” He started his vehicle and pulled back onto the road.
“I realize that you have your doubts about me,” said his passenger after a moment’s silence, “but all I can do is assure you that they’re totally groundless. No Jimorian has ever harmed a member of another race."
“Our conversation isn’t over, just suspended,” said Flint, increasing his acceleration and starting to pull well ahead of the police car.
“Just the same, I want you to know that I’m extremely grateful, and that I’ll never give you cause to regret taking me in."
“That’s what they all say,” muttered Flint as the cold, bleak Tilarban countryside sped by.
Chapter 6
"A Jimorian!” repeated Mr. Ahasuerus. “I thought that they were extinct."
“Well, either you were wrong, or I found an awfully weird Earthman doing time in a Tilarban jail,” commented Flint. “Take your choice."
They were sitting in the blue man’s office on the top level of the ship. Mr. Ahasuerus sat behind his desk while Flint tried unsuccessfully to adapt his body to the awkward contours of one of his partner’s decidedly inhuman couches. The walls were covered with the prints and holographs displaying the blue man’s taste in art; Flint tried as hard as he could to keep his eyes averted. None of the pictures made sense, and quite a few of them imbued Flint with the fervent desire never to meet their creators.
Mr. Ahasuerus held a cup of coffee in his long, oddly-jointed blue fingers, and was stirring it thoughtfully with an intricately-embossed silver spoon, while Flint sipped from a stein of artificial beer—Mr. Ahasuerus had long since requested that he not drink directly from the can, a request Flint honored only in his partner’s office—and tried to pretend that it tasted better than lukewarm dishwater.
“There are no other Earthmen,” announced the blue man at last. “He must be a Jimorian.” Suddenly Mr. Ahasuerus got up from his desk and began pacing excitedly around the office. “Then they are not extinct after all! What splendid fortune, Mr. Flint! I’ve never even seen a holograph of one."
“He looks just like me, only uglier,” said Flint sardonically.
The blue man seemed not to hear him. “What a fabulous opportunity we have before us! I have a very close friend back on my home world who has been studying and writing about Jimorians for almost half a century, and yet I’ll wager even he has never seen one in the flesh. You should feel very lucky indeed, Mr. Flint."
“I’ll settle for just being lucky enough to get you to tell me what a Jimorian is,” said Flint.
“A member of an ancient, ancient race,” replied the blue man. “No one knows very much about them."
“People seem to know enough to be scared shitless at the mention of them," replied Flint. “Why?"
The blue man sighed. “It is very difficult to separate truth from legend."
“Make the attempt,” said Flint dryly. “And while you’re at it, try to sound a little less like a B movie."
“What is a B movie?” inquired the blue man curiously.
“Never mind,” said Flint. “Just tell me about Jimorians."
“I really don’t know where to begin.” He returned to his desk, seated himself on the edge, and picked up his coffee again.
“Start with what our friend looks like when he’s not decked out like an overripe frontier dandy."
“I don’t know,” said Mr. Ahasuerus. “I doubt that anyone does know, except perhaps another Jimorian."
“Why don’t we just pull off his mask and hold him up to the light?” asked Flint, shifting vigorously on the couch but failing to find a comfortable way to position his body.
“He is not wearing a mask,” said the blue man. “At least, not in the normal sense."
Flint snorted. “Yeah? Well, suppose you tell me where he came up with that outfit he’s wearing."
“He is not wearing an outfit of any kind,” replied Mr. Ahasuerus. “Indeed, my guess is that he’s quite naked."
“What are you talking about? You shook his goddamned hand when I brought him on board. Didn’t you bother looking at what it was attached to?"
“What you and I saw and what he was wearing are two different things," explained Mr. Ahasuerus patiently. “The Jimorians are feared because they can supposedly cast illusory images of themselves: they can appear to be virtually anyone or anything at all.” He paused, fascinated by the thought. “I wonder if we can convince him to let us watch while he’s establishing an identity."
“Are you saying that he
looks like a man to us because he’s controlling our minds?" “No. I am sure that if he had the power to read or control your mind, he would have been able to assuage all your doubts. I am merely stating what I have been told about Jimorians, and what your experience with one would seem to support: that they have the ability to appear in any guise that they choose."
“If he can’t read minds, how did he know about you and me and Tojo and Monk and everyone else in the carnival?” demanded Flint. “How did he learn English, slang and all?"
“I am not an expert on Jimorians,” said Mr. Ahasuerus. “But if I were to guess, I would say that picking up languages is probably a survival trait. After all, many of our non-human employees have learned English with very little difficulty. I seem to remember Kargennian remarking that he had mastered it in a single evening."
“Kargennian says a lot of things, most of ’em lies."
“I myself learned English in little more than two days,” added Mr. Ahasuerus, taking a sip of his coffee and trying not to look too smug. “It is a very simple language, really—far easier to master than, say, Rabolian or Canphorian."
“What about his knowledge of our personnel?” persisted Flint.
“Billybuck told him, obviously."
“The Dancer wouldn’t give the time of day to a clock,” said Flint, finally giving up on the couch and walking over to an equally uncomfortable chair.
“Come now, Mr. Flint. Merely because you find it difficult to speak with him doesn’t mean that others do. Didn’t Billybuck himself tell you they had spoken all night? Surely the Jimorian would have asked some rather pointed questions if he had planned on impersonating a human and asking us for employment. One of the reasons they arouse so much opposition is that they are so thorough in their impersonations."
“Then how do you know I’m not one?” asked Flint.
The blue man flashed his teeth in his equivalent of a smile. “No Jimorian would be so rude.” He chuckled hoarsely, and then spoke again. “Absolutely nothing I have heard about the abilities of Jimorians would indicate that they can read minds, so while he might know in general how a sentient entity or even a Man might react to certain questions or situations, he couldn’t possibly know how Thaddeus Flint would react. And he certainly couldn’t match your capacity for abusing your body with alcohol and tobacco."