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

by Mike Resnick

“This isn’t the end of it!” he promised, turning and heading back toward the ship.

  “Want me to send someone after him to rough him up a little?” asked Diggs, who had been standing next to Flint.

  “No,” said Flint, his gaze returning to the casket. “Leave him alone."

  “I lost a bundle myself,” said Diggs. He shook his head and sighed heavily. “I still can’t believe he lost.” He pulled out a cigar and stuck it into his mouth without lighting it. “It’s a funny thing to say about a guy who spent all his time staring at walls, but I’m really going to miss him."

  Mr. Ahasuerus walked over and laid a hand on Flint’s shoulder. “I understand that it is customary for someone to say a prayer before the grave is filled in,” he said gently.

  “I don’t know any prayers,” said Flint.

  “Then if you have no objection, I should like to recite one in my native tongue."

  Flint nodded, and the blue man stepped up to the edge of the grave and uttered a few brief lines in a language that sounded as if it was composed entirely of growls and moans.

  When he was finished Diggs stepped forward. “For the past forty years the only things I’ve prayed for were racehorses and dice,” he announced. “I never even thought of praying for the Dancer, because I never thought anything could beat him.” He paused. “So now I want to say a prayer. It’s a silly prayer, but it’s been a long time since I talked to the Lord about anything but gambling, and this is the only one I remember."

  He turned to Flint. “It’s for Tojo too, Thaddeus."

  “Go ahead,” said Flint softly.

  Diggs cleared his throat, and spoke: “Now I lay me down to sleep, And pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take."

  When he was finished Diggs looked at the crew defiantly, as if expecting snickering or laughter. There was none.

  “Thank you, Rigger,” said Flint.

  “For what it’s worth, it came from the heart,” said Diggs awkwardly. “I hope the little dwarf pulls through."

  “I had not heard that before,” offered Mr. Ahasuerus. “It was very beautiful."

  “It’s just a kid’s prayer,” said Diggs, suddenly uncomfortable.

  Flint waited until he was sure no one else wanted to speak, then signaled Julius to start shoveling dirt back into the grave. Then he returned to the ship and took an elevator up to the infirmary.

  Priscilla was sitting on a chair, and Fuzzy-Wuzzy was in the process of withdrawing some blood from her arm as Flint entered the room.

  “Hello, Thaddeus,” she said, wiping some tears from her cheek with a tissue. “Fuzzy tells me I’m the only other person on board with Type A. I hope it does some good."

  “You and me both,” said Flint. He turned to the medic. “How soon will you be starting?"

  “Twenty minutes, perhaps thirty,” replied Fuzzy-Wuzzy. “It depends on how long it takes me to hit upon the right anesthetic."

  “How about ether?” said Flint. “I seem to remember reading that they used to use it."

  “It’s not just the compound, but the dosage,” said the yellow medic. “Too much could kill him, too little could be ineffective.” He turned to Priscilla. “I’m through with you now. Lie down on one of the beds for a few minutes, and then you can leave."

  “I feel fine right now,” she replied.

  “That’s because you’re still seated. I took quite a lot of blood from you. If you start moving around, you will experience considerable dizziness."

  “Dizzy or not, I’m saying goodbye to the Dancer,” she announced, getting to her feet and walking to the door. She wobbled for just an instant as she turned into the corridor, leaned against a wall for support, and then continued walking toward the elevators.

  Flint went over to Tojo’s bed and smoothed the little hunchback’s rumpled hair. Then he glanced down at the wound and noticed that the blood was starting to seep through the dressing again “Thaddeus?” said Fuzzy-Wuzzy gently.

  “Yeah?"

  “I don’t know how to put this delicately . . .” he began, “but you’re only going to be in the way if you remain in here during the operation."

  “I won’t say anything,” replied Flint. “I’ll just sit in the corner while you work."

  “The only purpose you will serve is to make me even more nervous than I already am.” He paused for a moment. “Why don’t you go get something to eat? I’ve got to run some tests on him before the ship lifts off, and I can’t see the operation taking less than two hours."

  “All right,” said Flint reluctantly. He stepped back from the bed. “You’ll page me the minute it’s over?"

  “I promise."

  “Or if he . . . if anything happens during the surgery?"

  “Yes."

  Flint seemed about to say something else, thought better of it, and headed off toward the mess hall. Upon arriving, he ordered a cup of coffee and an artificial sweet roll, and took them over to his corner table, where he sipped at the coffee and stared at the roll without touching it. He was vaguely aware of people entering and leaving the mess hall during the next few minutes, but paid them no attention until Monk walked over and sat down next to him.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” asked Flint irritably.

  “I heard what happened,” replied Monk. “I just wanted to tell you that I’m sorry about Tojo."

  “He’s not dead yet,” remarked Flint dryly.

  “He will be soon, if the caterpillar’s working on him. He never could fix me up right, and I wasn’t shot in the chest."

  “Thanks for those words of comfort."

  “Well, I know how close you are to him,” said Monk, ignoring the sarcasm in Flint’s voice. He paused for a moment. “By the way, did the Dancer come close?"

  “Weren’t you there?"

  Monk shrugged. “What for?"

  “I thought he was supposed to be your friend."

  “I only got one friend,” said Monk. “I was in the ship with him."

  Flint shook his head. “Jupiter, I can remember you when you were a pretty decent human being."

  Monk got to his feet. “Yeah?” he said pugnaciously. “Well, I can remember this show when you didn’t need to read a fucking scorecard every night to see who’d gotten killed."

  “That’s funny,” said Flint, with infinite weariness. “I can’t."

  Chapter 21

  Flint pounded on the door of Fuzzy-Wuzzy’s office, a tiny cubicle just off the infirmary. The alien medic pressed a button on his cluttered desk, the door slid into the wall, and Flint stepped inside.

  “I keep calling you on the intercom and you keep telling me not to come up yet!” he snapped. “It’s been six hours now, and I want to know what the hell is going on."

  “Have a seat, Thaddeus,” said the alien medic, indicating a chair that was covered by a pile of computer disks and cartridges.

  Flint swept them onto the floor with a single motion of his arm. “All right," he said, sitting down. “Now suppose you tell me why you’ve been putting me off."

  “I haven’t exactly been hiding, Thaddeus,” said Fuzzy-Wuzzy. “I haven’t left the infirmary since they brought him in."

  “Did you get the bullet out?"

  “I didn’t even try."

  “Why the hell not?” demanded Flint.

  “When I opened him up, I found that the bullet had chewed up his insides worse than I had imagined. Perhaps it’s because he’s a hunchback to begin with, perhaps it was just the way he was sitting, but whatever the reason, it did a lot of damage to a lot of organs before it got to where it is."

  “What does that have to do with not removing the bullet?"

  “Thaddeus, the only damage the bullet can do now is cause infection. And,” said the medic grimly, “if the hospital on Ragobar doesn’t have someone who knows human internal organs better than I do, he’s going to be dead long before infection becomes a problem."

  “Will he make it t
o Ragobar?” asked Flint.

  “I hope so."

  “You hope so?” repeated Flint.

  Fuzzy-Wuzzy nodded. “His condition is grave."

  “Is he in pain?"

  “Some,” replied the medic. “I’ve got him sedated, but he’s been awake for a few minutes now."

  “How long has he got?” asked Flint. “I want the truth."

  Fuzzy-Wuzzy shrugged, a gesture that sent hundreds of little ripples down the length of his yellow, boneless frame. “I really can’t say. Possibly a few hours, possibly he’ll make it to Ragobar."

  “Jesus!” muttered Flint. “It’s not fair."

  “Life seldom is,” said the medic. “Neither, for that matter, is death."

  “Can I talk to him? Will he understand me?"

  “He certainly ought to,” replied Fuzzy-Wuzzy. “Unless I guessed wrong about the dosage. Don’t be alarmed if he’s even harder to understand than usual, though. He’s very weak."

  “Right,” said Flint, getting to his feet.

  “Thaddeus?” said FuzzyWuzzy.

  “Yeah?"

  “I did my best."

  “I know,” said Flint, leaving the office and walking over to Tojo’s bed as the door slid shut behind him.

  The little hunchback lay on his left side, his eyes half open. Four more tubes had joined the original three leading into his body, and his torso was swathed in carefully applied pressure bandages.

  “Hi, Thaddeus,” he stammered weakly.

  “You should have ducked,” said Flint, forcing a smile to his lips.

  “I know."

  “You’ll do better next time."

  Tojo coughed, and Flint thought he could see blood in the hunchback’s mouth.

  “There’s not going to be a next time,” he said, laboring over each syllable.

  “That’s right,” said Flint. “I forgot about the Dancer."

  “I’m not talking about the Dancer,” replied Tojo, grimacing.

  “Don’t be silly. We’ll have you back to work inside of three weeks."

  Tojo tried to shake his head, then winced. “Just this once, don’t lie to me, Thaddeus."

  Flint sighed. “All right,” he said at last. “I won’t lie to you anymore."

  The hunchback smiled gratefully.

  “Is there anything I can do for you?” asked Flint.

  “Try not to look so unhappy,” whispered Tojo, his speech almost unintelligible now. “People die all the time.” His body jerked spasmodically as he coughed again, and Flint wondered if he should call for Fuzzy-Wuzzy.

  “You’ll replace the Dancer,” continued Tojo painfully, and suddenly Flint realized that the little hunchback was trying to comfort him.

  “Don’t worry about the Dancer,” he said. “You’re worth ten of him. Now save your strength and try not to talk so much."

  “I thought you were all through lying,” murmured Tojo, trying to smile but wincing instead.

  “I am. The Dancer died doing what he wanted to do, at the peak of his powers, in front of a huge audience. Very few people get to do that. Most of us die alone and unnoticed."

  Tojo gripped Flint’s hand as a wave of pain swept over him. “I know,” he said, coughing again. “Thank you for being here, Thaddeus."

  “It’s just not fair!” Flint muttered.

  “I’ve . . .” began Tojo. He had to pause to catch his breath before continuing. “I’ve been very lucky."

  Flint snorted derisively.

  “I have friends—you, and Diggs, and . . .” He was wracked by a paroxysm of coughing before he could enumerate the remainder of his tawdry band of friends. When it was finished he lay back until his breathing became regular, then moved his fingers to the golden whistle that Fuzzy-Wuzzy had replaced around his neck. “And I’ve been a carny barker,” he concluded proudly.

  “The best."

  Tojo slowly, painfully, lifted the whistle an inch or two off his chest. “This is my most precious possession,” he said, getting the entire sentence out with a burst of strength that seemed to weaken him further. “I want you to have it."

  “You’re sure?"

  Tojo nodded feebly.

  “Then I’m honored,” said Flint, slipping it up over the hunchback’s head and hanging it around his own neck.

  “So you won’t forget me."

  “I wasn’t going to forget you, you ugly little dwarf,” replied Flint tenderly.

  “You’re a good person, Thaddeus,” said Tojo. He stared at the ceiling and waited until he had enough strength to continue speaking. “You weren’t always, you know."

  “I know,” said Flint, suddenly aware of the emptiness of the large room, the sterility of the clean white beds that surrounded him.

  They fell silent for a few moments, each lost in his own private thoughts.

  The little hunchback’s breathing became somewhat more labored, but his eyes remained open.

  “I promised my books to Jupiter,” Tojo said suddenly, and the sound of his hoarse, almost unrecognizable voice startled Flint. “But he doesn’t read anymore."

  “I’ll give them to someone who does,” said Flint.

  “Thank you."

  Tojo drifted off into a half-conscious state, and Flint sat back and stared at him, wondering about the technology that could send a ship through the endless void of space at faster-than-light speeds but couldn’t cure one of its passengers. He felt chilly, walked over to the thermostat, found that the temperature of the infirmary was in fact quite warm, and returned to his chair.

  He pulled out a cigarette, stared thoughtfully at Tojo, and then replaced it in his pocket.

  Tojo awoke a half hour later, and seemed surprised to see Flint still sitting at his bedside.

  “Thaddeus . . .” he whispered.

  “Welcome back,” said Flint, not even trying to force a smile to his face this time.

  “Tell me about the Dancer’s grave."

  “It’s going to become a goddamned shrine,” replied Flint. “People from all over the galaxy will come to look at it, and lay a wreath or two up against the headstone.” He paused. “He belongs to them now. He’s a hero."

  Tojo turned painfully toward Flint. “I don’t want to be left out here, where only strangers will pass by my grave."

  “Name your place."

  “I want to be buried at home,” said Tojo, just before his body was racked by another coughing fit.

  “You mean on Earth?"

  Tojo nodded feebly. “With my parents. I know it’s a lot to ask, but—"

  “I’ll take care of it."

  “Really?"

  “That’s a promise."

  A look of gratitude spread across the little hunchback’s homely face.

  “Thank you, Thaddeus."

  “Now try to relax, and maybe we won’t have to worry about it,” said Flint.

  Tojo lay back and closed his eyes again, and Flint remained motionless, wishing that there were a clock ticking somewhere so that he wouldn’t feel so helplessly suspended in time and space.

  Suddenly a groan escaped the hunchback’s lips, and his face contorted in pain.

  “What is it?” asked Flint, quickly leaning over the bed.

  “I don’t know,” mumbled Tojo.

  “I’ll get Fuzzy!"

  “Please don’t leave me, Thaddeus!” rasped Tojo. “I’m scared!"

  Flint looked helplessly at the medic’s closed door, then sat back down in his chair and held onto Tojo’s clawlike hand.

  “Thank you, Thaddeus,” wheezed the hunchback, his body starting to relax. “You’ve always been my friend."

  Suddenly he went limp, and Flint raced to Fuzzy-Wuzzy’s cubicle and pounded on the door.

  “What is it?” asked the medic, emerging and hastening to Tojo’s bed.

  “I don’t know. He seemed to be in pain, and then he collapsed.” Flint walked around the bed as the medic checked the little hunchback’s pulse and respiration. “What happened to him?"


  “He’s merely unconscious,” said Fuzzy-Wuzzy. “Probably from the pain. It’s just as well; his breathing is less labored this way.” He turned to Flint.

  “He’ll probably sleep for a few hours. Why don’t you try to get a little rest, too? It’s been a long day for everyone. I’ll have you paged when he wakes up."

  Flint looked at the little hunchback’s twisted frame, stroked his sweating head and straightened the pillow under it, and then nodded.

  “All right,” he sighed.

  “Where will you be?” asked Fuzzy-Wuzzy, accompanying him to the door of the infirmary.

  “I don’t know,” said Flint. “The mess hall first. Then probably my room."

  He looked at the yellow medic. “If I don’t hear from you in a couple of hours I’ll come back up here."

  Fuzzy-Wuzzy nodded, and Flint wandered distractedly down the long matted corridor to the elevator. Then, because he felt restless, he continued walking to the small, spiral stairwell and climbed down the four levels to the mess hall, which was deserted except for Monk and Batman, who were sitting and eating quietly at the far end of the room.

  Flint considered ordering coffee or a beer, decided he didn’t want either, and sat down at his own table. He sighed, lit a cigarette, and stared at the ashtray.

  After a few minutes he got up and poured himself some coffee, then returned and began sipping it thoughtfully. The artificial cigarette burned down to its artificial filter, and he lit another.

  He was on his third cup of coffee and his eighth cigarette when Mr. Ahasuerus entered the mess hall and walked slowly over to Flint’s table.

  “Mr. Flint . . .” he began uneasily.

  “Yeah?"

  “I have just . . . I mean to say . . ."

  “He’s dead, isn’t he?” said Flint bitterly.

  “I am sorry."

  Flint stared at the cigarette that was glowing in the ashtray.

  “Had he any requests for the disposition of the body?” asked the blue man gently.

  “Yeah,” said Flint. Suddenly he sat up straight. “Shit!” he muttered.

  “What is it?"

  “I can’t bury him with his parents,” said Flint, looking up at his partner with tortured eyes. “I don’t even know what his name was."

  “It wasn’t Tojo?” asked Mr. Ahasuerus.