by Mike Resnick
"You've got more important things to worry about than meeting the Swagman," said the middle-aged man who had greeted her.
"Such as?" asked Virtue.
"You might start by giving some serious thought to getting off the planet alive."
"What are you talking about?"
"Well," he said, "it's not news, so we haven't released it—not that any other world would give a damn about what goes on here anyway—but the word on the grapevine is that you made a certain party on Pegasus very angry with you. He thought it might be bad for business to redress his grievances too close to home, so he chose Goldenrod as a more fitting setting."
"He's put a hit out on me?"
"I understand that he's hired three killers to see to it that you don't leave Goldenrod."
"Who are they?"
He shrugged. "I don't know."
"Wonderful," she muttered. She glanced out at the street, trying to guess which of the many people that she could see looked like hired killers, then turned back to the stringer. "How do I apply for police protection?"
The man shook his head. "You're not in the Democracy any longer: We don't have a police department."
"You must have some way of protecting your citizens," she persisted.
"Goldenrod is the Swagman's world—he protects it."
"I thought Goldenrod belonged to a bunch of corporations that own all the property."
"Well, legally it does. But they're all headquartered on Deluros and Earth and the Canphor Twins, and as long as the farms continue showing a profit they don't much care what goes on here. Besides, when you make an unofficial arrangement to let someone like the Swagman stay on your world, you expect something in return."
"So they give him sanctuary here, and in exchange he sees to it that nobody tries to hijack their goods or short-change their representatives. Is that it?" asked Virtue.
"Something like that," said the man. "I don't know the exact arrangement, but I'm sure you're pretty close to it."
"Fine," said Virtue. "Then let's get word to him that I want to see him, and get him to extend his protection to me."
"I thought you understood the situation," said the man irritably. "I guess you don't."
"What am I missing?"
"The hit men couldn't have accepted the commission without the Swagman's approval. That's the way things work here."
"I've never even met him," said Virtue. "What has he got against me?"
"Probably nothing. He's a very friendly man, actually. But the killers will pay him a commission in order to operate here, and it's not unfair to say that he likes money even more than he likes people."
"Then I'd better find him before they find me."
"You don't even know who they are," replied the man. "They could be those three grubby-looking men standing together across the street"—he pointed out the window to a trio of armed men who were standing together a short distance away—"but they could also be three little old ladies who are out doing their shopping, or the bartenders down the block, or even some of the mechanics at the spaceport. If I were you, I'd get back to my ship as fast as I could and take off before anyone knew I was here."
"I didn't come all this way not to talk to the Swagman," Virtue said firmly. "Where can I find him?"
The man shrugged.
"Damn it!" she snapped. "Are you going to help me or aren't you?"
"I don't know where to find him!" replied the man, exasperated. "I don't even know if he's on the planet right now. It's not in his best professional interests to announce his comings and goings."
"All right. If he is here, where will he be?"
"He's got a place up in the hills—a real fortress—but you can't get to it. He's got security devices all the hell over—and I mean lethal devices."
"How do I get in touch with him, then?"
"Well, Father William's set up shop just outside of town for the next couple of days, so I imagine the Swagman will be keeping an eye on him, just in case."
"Who's Father William?"
He stared at her disbelievingly. "Just how long have you been on the Frontier?"
"Long enough," she replied levelly. "Has Black Orpheus written him up?"
The man nodded. "Did a damned sight better on him than he did on you. You're the Virgin Queen, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"Then you ought to know what's in the song."
"I've got better things to do than commit eight thousand lines to memory. Now, are you going to tell me who he is?"
"He's a little bit of everything—preacher, bounty hunter, benefactor. I suppose it all depends on who you are."
"Would he know how to reach the Swagman?"
"I suppose so. There's not a lot that Father William doesn't know about outlaws."
"If he's a bounty hunter, there's a chance that he's after the Swagman himself," said Virtue. "Why would the Swagman let him land on Goldenrod?"
"Probably because he'd have a revolt on his hands if he tried to stop him. Father William's the most popular evangelist on the Frontier—and there are some who think he's the best shot, as well. He goes anywhere he wants."
"Dimitri Sokol wouldn't have hired him, would he?" asked Virtue thoughtfully.
"Not a chance. He's a bounty hunter, not a hired killer."
"Well," she said with a sigh, "I suppose he's the next person I have to see. Where is he?"
"He's set up his tent about a mile west of town."
She checked her timepiece. "When does he start preaching?"
"Today's sermon started about two hours ago."
"Then he should be just about through," she ventured.
He laughed. "He won't be through until nightfall."
"You're kidding!" said Virtue. "What the hell has he got to talk about that takes eight hours?"
"Anything that comes into his head," replied the stringer. "You've got to remember that he's all the flesh-and-blood religion most of these people are going to have for the next couple of years, until he passes through again, so he's got to cram a lot of hellfire and damnation into a very short space of time."
"Sounds thrilling," she said unenthusiastically. Then she stood up. "Well, I suppose I'd better be going."
"If you insist on continuing your quest, why don't you at least wait until dark?" he suggested.
"Because I don't know my way around the city," Virtue replied. "Why give them an advantage?" She paused. "Besides, they're less likely to try to kill me in the daylight. Damn, but I wish my partner was here! This is more his kind of situation than mine."
"Who's your partner?"
"Sebastian Cain. Ever hear of him?"
"The Songbird?" he said, looking at her with newfound interest. "He's working with you?"
She nodded.
"I agree with you. This situation is made to order for a man like Cain. Why are you here instead of him?"
"He's out in the Altair region."
The stringer looked impressed. "Allow me to hazard a guess: Is he after Altair of Altair?"
"Yes."
He let out a low whistle. "I don't know what you two are up to, but you sure aren't going about it the easy way, are you?"
"Evidently not," she said, looking out the window once more and noticing that the three men were no longer stationed opposite the news office.
"Well, I wish you luck," said the man. "You're going to need it."
"Thanks," she said, walking to the door. "One mile due west, right?"
"Right," he replied.
She pulled a small pistol out of her satchel and tucked it in her belt, then stepped out into the humid Goldenrod air. A number of people were walking down the street in twos and threes, and she stood still for a moment, scrutinizing them, trying to see if any of them seemed to be paying more than casual attention to her as they went about their business.
This is ridiculous, she thought as she watched the townspeople. Who the hell knows what a hired killer looks like?
She remained motion
less for another minute, half expecting to hear a shot ring out or feel a laser beam searing through her flesh, then walked up to the corner and turned left. She made three more lefts, coming to a stop in front of the news office and trying to ascertain if anyone had followed her, then decided that on a world where the only law was a bandit who lived in a fortress atop a distant hill, the less time she spent presenting herself as a potential target, the better.
She headed off in a westerly direction, staying within the shadows of buildings for as long as she could. When she had traveled some two hundred yards, the town came to an abrupt end, and she could see a colorful tent set in the middle of a rolling field almost a mile away. She took one more look around, saw nobody following her, and began walking briskly toward it, checking behind her every few moments.
She had covered half the distance, and had temporarily dipped out of sight of the tent while crossing a low area of the field, when she saw an elderly couple strolling back toward town. The man was wearing a very formal suit, obviously donned in honor of Father William, and walked with a cane. The woman carried a picnic basket and a parasol. Keeping her hand very near the butt of her pistol, Virtue stopped and greeted them.
"Is Father William through speaking?" she asked.
"Oh, goodness, no!" said the old woman, obviously amused by the suggestion. 'I'm just going home to take my medication, and perhaps a little nap, and then we'll be coming back"
"We haven't seen you before, have we?" asked the old man.
"No," answered Virtue. "I heard Father William was touching down for a couple of days, so I thought I'd come by to hear him. I'm from Salinas Four."
"Really?" said the old man. "I hear it's a lovely world."
"It is."
"We're from Seabright originally," said the old woman. "But we came out to the Frontier to make our fortunes."
"That was close to forty years ago," chuckled the old man. "Can't say we're any richer, but Goldenrod is a pretty nice place to retire to. And of course, it's on Father William's regular circuit."
"By the way, can I offer you a sandwich?" asked the woman, holding up her basket.
"No, thank you," said Virtue.
"I wish you would," persisted the woman. "I hate to see it go to waste, and we'll just throw it out once we get home. We're having dinner with friends."
"I appreciate the offer, but I'm really not hungry."
"Here," said the woman, fussing with the lid of the basket. "Just take a look at it, and maybe you'll change your mind. There are sandwiches, and tea biscuits, and—"
Suddenly Virtue saw a movement out of the corner of her eye and hurled herself to the ground.
The old man dropped the cane he had swung at her and began fumbling with his pocket. Virtue flung herself at his legs, heard something crack inside one of them, and leaped to her feet, her pistol in her hand. The old woman had withdrawn a gun from the inside of the basket—Virtue couldn't tell if it was laser, sonic, or projectile—and was pointing it at her.
"You have very good reflexes, my dear," said the old woman with a smile.
"What happens now?" asked Virtue, ignoring the old man as he moaned and writhed on the ground. "Do we kill each other or call a truce while you move the wounded warrior off the battlefield?"
"Well, I could wait for reinforcements," said the old woman. "I do have them, you know."
"Yes, I'd heard there were three of you."
The old man groaned again.
"But my dear husband is in a bad way," added the old woman. "He had trouble walking even before you so callously broke his leg. So I suppose I'll either have to dispatch you immediately, or else agree to your truce."
"If you shoot, so will I," said Virtue.
"Ah, but will a properly placed head shot allow you the opportunity to retaliate?" asked the woman, raising her aim from Virtue's chest to a point between her eyes.
"Then perhaps I'll shoot first," said Virtue, a tiny section of her mind wondering how Cain would handle the situation and deciding he wouldn't have gotten into it in the first place. "And then who will be left to take care of your husband?"
"There is that to consider," agreed the old woman regretfully. "We're really getting a little old for this."
"Have you done it often?"
"Twelve times," she said, not without a touch of pride. "People always expect assassins to look like they do on the videos—mean and powerful. We've made quite a substantial living from it." She lowered her voice confidentially. "Black Orpheus even wanted to write us up, but we explained that the only thing we really had on our side was the element of surprise, and that publicity could drive us out of business." She smiled. "He respected our wishes—but then, he was always a gentleman."
The old man tried to roll over, moaned in agony, and passed out.
"All right, my dear," said the old woman with a sigh. "You get your truce. I really must find a doctor."
"Not quite so fast," said Virtue. "Who's the third member of your team?"
"I can't jeopardize his life by telling you that," she said primly. "Besides, if he doesn't kill you, I'll have to come after you again once I get Henry to a doctor."
Virtue considered the problem, then nodded in agreement.
"All right—we've got a truce."
"Then please put your weapon away," said the old woman.
Virtue smiled. "You first."
"I'm counting on your being an honorable woman," said the old woman, opening the top of her basket and tossing her gun into it.
Virtue tucked her pistol back into her belt and quickly disarmed the old man. "If I were you," she said. "I'd get Henry to the house and stay there. The next time I see you I'll have to kill you."
"Help me move him into the shade, won't you?" said the woman, indicating a tree some twenty feet away. "It may take me some time to find a doctor and bring him back out here, and I don't want to leave poor Henry out in the sun."
"You're kidding, right?" said Virtue unbelievingly.
"If we leave him here, he may die. He's a very old man."
"He's a very old man who just tried to kill me."
"That was business," said the old woman. "And as you can see, he's quite unable to present any threat to you in his present condition."
Virtue shrugged and nodded her head, struck by the lunacy of helping one of her potential murderers drag another of them to shelter. "All right—but leave your basket on the ground."
"Certainly." said the old woman, placing the basket down.
The two women walked over to the old man, bent over, and began adjusting his weight so that they could pull him by his arms and shoulders. Virtue noticed the old woman's hand snaking down toward Henry's pocket and grabbed her by the wrist just as she was withdrawing a knife.
"I thought we had a bargain," said Virtue with a nasty smile.
"Business comes first," said the old woman, red-faced and panting from her exertions. "What are you going to do to me?"
"Nothing quite as bad as you were going to do to me," replied Virtue. "Let's get dear old Henry into the shade first—and if you try anything else, or go for that gun in your basket, I'll kill you."
Once she had dragged the old man over to the tree, she turned to his wife and drew her pistol.
"I'm going to ask you once more—how can I recognize the third killer?"
"That really would be a breach of my professional ethics," said the old woman. "Besides, if you shoot me, there's every possibility that he'll hear the sound of the gun and know where you are."
"True enough," said Virtue. She landed a heavy kick on the old woman's knee, felt the tendons and ligaments give way as the woman fell to the ground and let out a scream, and stood back.
"That should keep you off the playing field for the rest of the day," said Virtue, walking over to the basket and withdrawing a storage bottle. She opened it, saw that it was iced tea, closed it again, and walked back to where the old woman was sobbing and clutching her knee.
"It's a h
ot day," said Virtue. "There's every chance the two of you will dehydrate before someone finds you."
The old woman kept crying but offered no comment.
"Tell me what Number Three looks like and I'll leave this with you."
The old woman stared at her through tear-filled eyes. "Do your worst," she said. "I won't betray a trust."
"Last chance," said Virtue. "I can't waste any more time with you."
The woman shook her head.
Virtue shrugged and tossed the bottle on the ground about twenty yards away from them. Then she returned to the basket, removed the weapon, put it into her satchel, and headed off toward the tent.
When she arrived, she entered at the back. There were forty or fifty rows of benches on each side of a broad center aisle, and all but the last few were completely filled. Up front, at the makeshift pulpit, there was an electronic sound synthesizer that provided a soft, continuous background of hymns.
A huge man stood at a podium, staring out at his audience with fierce green eyes. He had wild red hair and a beard streaked with gray, he was clad entirely in black, and the polished handles of his laser pistols were plainly visible atop his holsters.
"And if thy hand offends thee, cut it off," Father William was intoning in a rich, resonant baritone. "For the Lord is more than an ideal, more than an object of affection, even more than a Creator." He paused for effect. "Never forget, my children, that the Lord is also a surgeon. And He doesn't use the sword of redemption. He uses the scalpel of justice!"
Virtue took an aisle seat in the next-to-last row.
"Yes, brethren," continued Father William, "we're talking about infection. Not the infection of the body, for the body is the province of the doctor, but the infection of the spirit, which is the province of the Lord and such temporal emissaries as He deigns to have represent Him."
He paused and reached for a glass that was filled with a blue liquid, took a long swallow, and then resumed speaking.
"Now, they've got a lot in common, the body and the spirit. First and foremost, they can bring pleasure to the Lord, the body by being fruitful and multiplying, the spirit by worshiping Him and singing His praises. But they've got something else in common, too. Both of them can be overrun with infection; they can become pustules of decay, unsightly in the eyes of both man and God."