The Best Rootin' Tootin' Shootin' Gunslinger in the Whole Damned Galaxy

by Mike Resnick

  Diggs shrugged, then fished around in his pants pocket for a moment and produced another one. Flint examined it, then nodded and slid it across the table to the Jimorian.

  “Okay. You say you can do card tricks. Do one."

  The Jimorian began shuffling the deck. “Does this mean you’re taking me along?"

  “It means I’m considering it."

  The Jimorian gave the deck one last shuffle, then had Flint pick a card. He did so, replaced it in the deck, and waited while the alien mixed the cards again. Finally he spread them out in front of him and pulled one out.

  “Is this it?"

  Flint looked at the card. “Not even close."

  “Well,” said the Jimorian easily, “it’ll take some practice."

  “Maybe you’ve got another trick or two you can do,” said Flint, as Mr. Ahasuerus, carrying three cups of coffee on a plastic tray, joined them. All conversation came to a halt while the blue man poured cream and sugar in one cup, cream in the second, and sugar in the third, and began carefully stirring each in turn.

  “Maybe we ought to put him on exhibit,” said Diggs, jerking a thumb in the blue man’s direction.

  “It is hardly my fault if you have no appreciation of your national beverage,” replied Mr. Ahasuerus austerely.

  “I always thought my national beverage was Schlitz, or maybe Budweiser," said Diggs.

  “Getting back to the subject,” said Flint, “what other tricks can you do?"

  “I’ve got a little confession to make,” said the Jimorian with a smile. “I just said that to get you to take me along. Actually, my talents lie along other lines.” He paused. “And I really can sing and dance."

  “I don’t doubt it,” admitted Flint. “But I’ve got a feeling that you’re being modest."

  “I don’t follow you."

  “I’ll lay plenty of eight-to-five that you’ve got a bushelful of tricks you can do if you want to."

  “Truly, Mr. Flint,” said the Jimorian, “I’ve never seen a deck of cards in my life until today—though, of course, Billybuck told me about them."

  “I wasn’t referring to card tricks."

  “Then what?"

  “Something more in the way of illusions,” said Flint.

  “You mean magic tricks?"

  “I don’t know,” said Flint. “Do I?"

  “How should I know?"

  “Tojo says you can do them. So does the Dancer."

  “They say I can do magic tricks?"

  “At the very least. How about mind reading?"

  “I give up,” said the Jimorian. “How about mind reading?"

  “What’s all this about, Thaddeus?” asked Diggs restlessly. “I thought we were going to play a friendly little game of blackjack."

  “Keep out of this,” said Flint. “I’m talking to my friend here."

  “You’re making me nervous,” said the Jimorian. “Just tell me—what am I supposed to have done?"

  “May I interject a word?” asked Mr. Ahasuerus, looking up from his coffee.

  “Shoot,” said Flint.

  “It would seem that Tojo and Billybuck both saw you on the third level," said the blue man gently, “and in both cases, your appearance was different than it is now."

  “Maybe it was the light,” suggested the Jimorian.

  “I doubt it,” said Mr. Ahasuerus. “In at least one case you appeared as a person you couldn’t possibly know about."

  “Then it couldn’t have been me, could it?"

  “Damn it!” Flint exploded. “I’m getting fucking sick and tired of hearing you answer every question with another one!"

  “Don’t yell at me,” said the Jimorian.

  “Are you threatening me?” demanded Flint, rising to his feet. “Because if you are . . ."

  “You’re making me lose my concentration!” cried the Jimorian.

  “Then concentrate on giving me a straight answer!” snapped Flint.

  “Don’t frighten me!” screamed the Jimorian.

  And suddenly he didn’t look like a Western dandy any longer. His outline blurred and faded, and then he was . . . something else.

  “What the hell is going on here?” said Flint, staring at him.

  “Just stop yelling at me,” said the Jimorian. He seemed to make an almost physical effort to calm himself, and an instant later he was once again the overdressed Westerner.

  “Most unusual!” exclaimed Mr. Ahasuerus, his face alight with interest.

  “So now you know,” said the Jimorian wearily.

  “Know what?” said Flint. “We already knew you weren’t human."

  “Exactly what did you see, Mr. Flint?” asked Mr. Ahasuerus suddenly.

  “The same as you: a big shaggy heap with a face like a green gorilla," replied Flint.

  “I didn’t see that,” said Mr. Ahasuerus. “How about you, Diggs?"

  Diggs was still staring disbelievingly at the Jimorian. “Huh?” he said at last, when the blue man had addressed him a second time.

  “What did you see?” Mr. Ahasuerus repeated.

  “Well, it’s the strangest damned thing,” said Diggs, a wistful expression on his face, “but for just a second there I thought I saw . . . well, a girl I knew a long time ago."

  “Ah!” said Mr. Ahasuerus happily. “It’s a defense mechanism, isn’t it?"

  The Jimorian nodded.

  “And when you’re startled or scared, people see . . . what?"

  “What they most want to see,” said the Jimorian. “Usually a loved one."

  “Fascinating,” enthused the blue man. “Absolutely fascinating!"

  “You think so?” said the Jimorian bitterly. “This is usually the point where people start throwing stones at us. They don’t much mind that we can disguise ourselves as strangers. It’s when we appear as their fondest dreams and wishes that the massacres start.” He paused. “Nobody wants to know that his most secret self is no longer secret. That’s why I tried to hide it from you."

  “There was no reason to,” replied Mr. Ahasuerus. “We are not barbarians here. You may very well find that carnival people, having lived and worked with oddities all their lives, are more tolerant of differences than you imagine. By the way, am I to assume that you have no conscious control of the images you produce when stressed?"

  “None,” said the Jimorian. “I know that I appear as each of you wants me to appear, but beyond that I don’t know anything about how it works.” He smiled ruefully. “And I really wouldn’t call it a defense mechanism, since most of the time what it does is make people want to attack me."

  “Yes,” mused the blue man. “I can appreciate the anomalous effect of the phenomenon."

  “Just a minute,” said Flint, finally sitting back down. “Would someone tell me just what the hell it was that I saw?"

  “Evidently you saw me as I really am,” said the Jimorian.

  “I thought you said we each saw our heart’s desire,” continued Flint. “Believe it or not, I’m not exactly enamored of your charms. So why did I see you?” He paused. “Better still, why did I see the real, unadorned, undisguised you?"

  “I don’t know. To the best of my knowledge, no one—except of course, for other Jimorians—has ever seen my true form before.

  “Maybe what you most want to see is the truth,” offered the blue man.

  Flint seemed to consider the statement for a minute, then shrugged. “How about you, Mr. Ahasuerus?” he asked at last. “What did you see?"

  “I would prefer not to say,” replied the blue man.

  “Probably a bald blue lady skeleton,” said Flint. He turned back to the Jimorian. “And this happens whenever you’re scared?"

  “Or startled,” said the Jimorian. “I’ve been under a lot of stress, wondering if you would take me with you, and I’m not totally familiar with my characterization yet. In a few days I’ll be able to do it with almost no conscious effort, but not yet. After all, I have never even met a human being until last night, and I ne
ver saw one until this morning. That’s why I stood in the shadows at the back of the cell: so I could get a good look at you before I created an identity. Billybuck told me how tall he was and what he weighed, but until I could examine one of you for a minute, I had no working idea how long an inch was, or how much a pound weighed.” He smiled. “You would have been surprised at my initial conception of your appearance—and, of course, I’m still not certain that I’ve got the genitalia right.” He paused. “Anyway, I was worried and preoccupied when I was walking in the corridor, and Tojo is so misshapen that he momentarily shocked me."

  “And the Dancer?"

  The Jimorian shrugged. “I was tired. Probably I just wasn’t concentrating."

  “Well, that answers a lot of questions,” said Flint, relaxing.

  “And it gives him a name,” added Diggs.

  “Yeah?"

  Diggs nodded. “A man works in a carny, sooner or later he gets a carny name. In this case it’s sooner.” He paused. “How’s Jiminy Cricket sound to you?"

  “It’s a natural,” said Flint with a smile.

  “Jiminy from Jimor,” said the alien. “I like it."

  “Good,” said Flint. “Because from now on you’re stuck with it."

  “What does it stand for?” asked Jiminy curiously.

  “Dreams and wishes,” replied Flint. “That ought to be right up your alley." He paused. “Now tell me the truth: can you juggle?"

  “No,” said Jiminy.

  “How about pantomime?"

  “I’ve never tried, though I modestly admit to being pretty good at impersonations."

  Flint shook his head. “I think we’ll turn you over to the Rigger and let him whip up some patent medicines for you to sell."

  “Thank you,” said Jiminy. “I’m truly grateful."

  “And I think,” continued Flint, “that we’re going to have to alert the other carnies to this little trick of yours."

  “Oh?"

  He nodded.

  “Otherwise they’ll all start thinking that they’re going crazy.” He grimaced and added: “And except for Dancer and Monk and Batman and about half the others, they’ll probably be wrong."

  “If you think it’s best,” said Jiminy dubiously.

  “It is,” said Flint. “Unless you want the Dancer hollering at you to slap leather because you look like a killer out of the Wild West."

  “That’s what Billybuck saw?” asked Jiminy.

  “You’ve got to understand that he’s not exactly playing with a full deck," said Flint. “His job is shooting things with a gun, and he’s so damned good at it that he’s never been tested. So when he sees his heart’s desire, it’s Doc Holliday calling him out for a shootout at high noon."

  “Then by all means pass the word,” agreed Jiminy.

  “Well,” said Flint, leaning back in his chair. “I guess that takes care of business. Check with Mr. Ahasuerus after he’s finished his paperwork and told the ship where it’s taking us, and you can haggle out your salary with him."

  The blue man checked his intricate timepiece. “We’ll be taking off in about two hours,” he said. “Come see me about an hour after that.” He exposed his teeth in what passed for a pleasant smile. “And please plan to spend some time in my office. There is so much I wish to learn about Jimorians!"

  “Three hours from now,” Jiminy promised.

  “In the meantime,” said Diggs, clasping Jiminy’s arm firmly, “he’s working for me now, and the first order of business is that he’s got to learn to play certain games of chance."

  “How to lose at them, you mean,” said Mr. Ahasuerus disapprovingly.

  “Well, those are the kinds of object lessons that are best remembered," replied Diggs with a smile.

  “He has no money,” said the blue man.

  “He’s working for the carny. His credit’s good with me.” Diggs began shuffling the cards. “Besides, this is business."

  Mr. Ahasuerus sighed. “I’m delighted to have you with us,” he said to Jiminy as he rose from his chair. “I’ll speak with you soon.” He drained the last of his three coffee cups and began walking from the mess hall.

  “It’ll be my pleasure,” Jiminy called after him.

  Flint watched the card game for a few minutes, made sure that Diggs wasn’t out to fleece the Jimorian too badly, and then went out to find the Dancer and assure him that Doc Holliday really had been dead and buried for an even hundred years.

  Chapter 8

  Two arms or four, big or small,

  Yellow or green, short or tall,

  Billybuck Dancer fought them all.

  He was the best rootin’ tootin’ shootin’ gunslinger in the whole damned galaxy!

  He was the leanest meanest killer of them all!

  —from “The Ballad of Billybuck Dancer"

  On Pelegoris II, the Dancer faced forty-seven different opponents from that barren world’s dominant species of gold-skinned humanoids, disarming each of them without incident. Flint had holographic films taken of the contests, and forwarded them to the next four worlds on their agenda.

  When the carnival hit Aguella VI, the Dancer began facing his foes three at a time. Again, the performance went off without a hitch, and the demand for tickets was so great that Flint finally negotiated a deal to air a pair of his shows on local video.

  By the time they touched down on Delta Zeta III, they had international networks bidding for the right to broadcast the notorious gunman’s fights.

  The Dancer responded by facing six Delta Zetans at once, and emerging unscathed, as usual.

  The small, four-armed green beings inhabiting Klokanni II gave the Dancer the key to their capital city, then requested the right to face him with pistols in two of their hands. He insisted that they use four guns apiece, took on three of them at once, and disarmed them before they could get off more than two shots, both wild.

  On Leonachim, a hot, humid world circling Pi Delta, he allowed five opponents to hide behind various barriers, took them all on at once, and won the contest before they could fire a single shot.

  Flint had watched the young sharpshooter continue stacking the odds against himself with a growing sense of unease. Someday the Dancer had to show up for work with a headache or an upset stomach, someday he had to get a cramp in his hand or a cinder in his eye, someday he simply had to miss— but he never did, and so Flint continued to collect the huge amounts of money that entire populaces were shelling out to watch his gladiator in action, and idly wondered if the gravy train would end when the Dancer inadvertently killed an opponent or when the gunslinger himself lay dead on the sawdust floor of the specialty tent.

  Not that the Dancer was his only problem. The Null-Gravity Ferris Wheel wasn’t working properly; two of the Cinbellites had quit with no notice, leaving the games crew shorthanded; Julius Squeezer had come down with something resembling the flu, and wouldn’t be able to wrestle for at least a week; Max Bloom’s schnauzer, Schnoozle, was slowing down almost as much as his owner; and the officials of Roboden III, where the ship had just touched down, had presented Mr. Ahasuerus with a number of highly restrictive regulations concerning the way the Midway was to be constructed.

  Even payday, he reflected, was getting to be a problem. Most—but not all— of the crew were content to have the money credited to their accounts. But Diggs insisted on getting his pay in cash every week so he’d have a little something to bet with, Lori and Barbara didn’t trust the blue man’s computer, Monk and Batman wanted cash so they could continue to spend every last penny of it buying balls at the Bozo cage, and even Stogie preferred hiding his wages in his compartment to leaving them in the carnival’s bank.

  Flint walked out of the ship and stepped into the cool, dry Robodenian air, a number of pay envelopes stuck in his pocket.

  He found Barbara and Lori setting up their booths, handed them their money, then walked over to where Diggs was screaming in exasperation at one of the robots.

  “Thaddeus, I
want you to fire this bastard!"

  “We can’t fire him,” said Flint. “We own him."

  “Well, have him work somewhere else from now on,” continued Diggs. “Ten worlds in a row, I’ve told him that this tent takes five goddamned support posts, and ten worlds in a row he keeps using eight."

  “Big deal."

  “It’s a big deal when we reach the last tent and come up three posts short."

  “We’ve got more posts in the ship,” said Flint wearily.

  “It’s the principle of the thing!” snapped Diggs. “Either he takes orders from me or he doesn’t."

  “You,” said Flint to the robot. The machine turned and faced him. “Buzz off.” The robot turned on its heel and walked away. “Talk to Mr. Ahasuerus about it,” said Flint to Diggs. “He’s in charge of the robots."

  “Things worked a lot better when you were,” said Diggs.

  “Damn it, Rigger, I can’t keep my finger on everything !” said Flint irritably. “When we came out here, we had twelve humans and six game booths and nothing else. Now we’ve got ninety people of various shapes and sizes, and maybe fifty booths. What the hell do you want me to do—drop everything else and spend my whole fucking day giving orders to robots?"

  “Take it easy, Thaddeus,” said Diggs, startled by Flint’s outburst. “I’m mad at the robots, not at you."

  “Just keep it that way,” said Flint. He withdrew an envelope, checked the name on it, and handed it over to Diggs. “Here’s your pay.” He paused.

  “Should I hand Jiminy’s over to you, too?"

  Diggs smiled. “Nope. I’m all through gambling with him."

  “Don’t tell me he beat you?"

  “No. But he’s making so much money selling snake oil that I want to keep him happy."

  “Yeah. The skeleton told me he was doing pretty good."

  “He’s a born con man, Thaddeus,” said Diggs. “I haven’t heard someone with a line of gab like his since the old days, back when you were barking for the meat show."

  Flint stared at the distant horizon. “I was pretty goddamned good, wasn’t I?” he said wistfully.

  “The best,” agreed Diggs.

  He stared off into the distance for another moment, then turned back to Diggs. “That was a million years and a trillion miles ago."