by Mike Resnick
"What do you think of my trinkets?" asked the Swagman as Virtue stopped to admire a crystal globe of Bokar from the incredibly ancient days when the Bokarites were a seafaring race rather than a planet of starfaring merchants.
"They're breathtaking!" she said, turning her attention to a praque, the fabled torture-stick of Sabelius III.
"That's a more accurate statement than you might imagine," said Father William sternly. "A lot of good men gave their last breaths accumulating this ill-gotten wealth for the Swagman."
"Come, come, now," said the bandit with a chuckle. "You know there's no paper on me, Father William."
"There's a pile of it as high as the ceiling," replied the preacher.
"But not for murder," the Swagman pointed out. "And you leave the punishment of lesser crimes to lesser servants of the Lord."
"True," admitted Father William. "But it's immoral to flaunt your bloodstained treasures like this."
"You mean by displaying them behind locked doors in my own home?" asked the Swagman, arching an eyebrow. He paused. "Shall we change the subject? If we keep talking about my collection, we're bound to have a serious disagreement." He snapped his fingers. "Or better still, how about dinner? I had my staff start preparing it half an hour ago, when you identified yourself at the first security barrier."
"Staff?" repeated Virtue. "I didn't notice any staff."
"They're all mechanical," explained the Swagman. "And very discreet."
"You live alone here?" she asked, surprised.
"Is that so difficult to believe?" he replied.
"I would have thought you'd be surrounded by henchmen," she admitted.
"One of the advantages about living with nothing but robots is that you never have to count the silverware or check the display cases when they're through for the day," he said. "Besides, what would I do with henchmen?"
"Well, you do have a reputation as a master criminal."
"So I am told," he replied dryly.
"You haven't answered my question," she persisted.
"I don't know what you think a master criminal does," said the Swagman, "but in point of fact I am a large-scale employer of criminal labor, nothing more." A bell chimed twice, and he turned to Father William. "Dinner's ready. I assume you brought along your appetite?"
"I'm never without it," said the preacher heartily.
He led them into the dining hall, which was surrounded with still more displays of unique alien artifacts. The room was dominated by a table that could easily have accommodated forty people, but the three settings were all at one end of it. The chairs were all one-legged, considerably broader at the base than the top, and were much more secure than they looked.
"Won't you please sit down?" asked the Swagman, pulling out a chair for Virtue.
"Thank you," she said as Father William sat down opposite her.
"Ordinarily I'd serve such welcome guests on my Robelian dinner pieces," said the Swagman apologetically as he joined them. "But I'm having them refinished. I hope the Atrian quartz will be acceptable. It's really quite lovely in its way."
"The only thing that matters is what's being served on it," replied Father William, leaning back to allow a robot to place an appetizer of mutated shellfish before him.
"That's because you are concerned only with accumulating energy with which to fight your holy war," said the Swagman. "Those of us who are fortunate enough to be spectators at the battle of Good and Evil, rather than participants, are doubly blessed in that we also have the opportunity to admire the containers in which the energy arrives."
"Spectator, my eye!" snapped Father William, chewing and speaking at the same time. "You've got more killers working for you than Dimitri Sokol!"
"I have more bills to pay," replied the Swagman easily. "And I might add that thanks to your little fit of pique on Darius Ten, I have four less killers than I had last month." He smiled at the preacher. "You know, you've caused me so much inconvenience that I really ought to charge you for this meal."
Father William grinned back at him. "I won't ask you for a contribution to my poorbox, and we'll call it even."
"Agreed—as long as you don't make a habit of decimating my supply of menials."
"I'll take any killer who's got paper on him!" said Father William firmly, wiping the corner of his mouth with a napkin, then tying it around his neck like a bib.
The Swagman shrugged. "Serves me right for not checking them out better. Still, by taking them when you did, you cost me the possession of a shipment of art objects from Nelson Seventeen. I do wish you could have waited another week before you went on your killing spree."
"Hah!" muttered Father William, pushing his empty dish away and signaling the robot to bring him another.
The Swagman turned to Virtue. "Never don the cloth," he said with mock seriousness. "It drains away all compassion for your fellow man."
"You don't seem especially upset about losing four men," remarked Virtue.
"They were just men; I can always get more," he replied nonchalantly. "It was losing the pieces that hurt. There was a hand-spun Kinrossian bowl that..." He sighed and shook his head, then looked up. "Still, I suppose our friend here must score points with his God from time to time."
"You keep talking blasphemy," said Father William harshly, "and I just may forget that all that paper on you doesn't mention murder."
"You don't really think you can harm me in my own house, do you?" said the Swagman, vastly amused. "Don't talk such nonsense, or pretty soon you'll start believing it and then we'll all be sorry. Especially you."
The preacher stared at him for a moment, then went back to demolishing the food in front of him.
Virtue finished her appetizer, and the instant she did a robot whisked the empty plate away from her.
"They're very efficient," she said, indicating the retreating robot as well as a trio that were bringing out the main course. "I would think that household robots would cost an arm and a leg out on the Frontier."
"They do," agreed the Swagman. "Fortunately, it wasn't my arm or leg that paid for them."
"Totally immoral," muttered Father William between mouthfuls.
"Totally practical," corrected the Swagman. "It's a tried-and-true business axiom: Never use your own money when you can use someone else's. I just find creative ways to apply it." He turned to Virtue. "Have we pretended that we're all just good friends long enough, or do you prefer to play at it a bit more before talking about Santiago?"
She looked startled for just a moment. "We'll talk about him later," she said.
"As you wish," replied the Swagman agreeably. "Might I inquire if there's any particular reason why?"
"Whatever you've got to say," said Virtue, "I don't want you saying it in front of a rival."
"You mean Father William?" asked the Swagman. Both men seemed to find her remark enormously amusing.
"What's so funny about that?" demanded Virtue.
"Shall you tell her, or shall I?" asked the Swagman.
Father William looked across the table at Virtue. "I don't want him," he said.
"You don't want Santiago?" she repeated incredulously.
"That's right."
"But I thought you wanted any killer with a price on his head," she persisted. "And he's got the biggest price of all. Why aren't you interested in him?"
"A number of reasons," replied Father William. "First, as long as he's on the loose, there will be a couple of dozen bounty hunters on his trail. That's two dozen less competitors for me. Second, he's more trouble to dig out than he's worth, regardless of the price on him." He paused. "And third, I don't know for a fact that he's ever killed anyone."
"Come on," said Virtue. "He's wanted for thirty-eight murders."
"He's been blamed for thirty-eight murders," replied Father William. "There's a difference."
"We've been arguing about this for years," interjected the Swagman. "I keep offering to team up with him, and he keeps turning me down." He g
rinned. "It would appear that God is employing very selective killers these days." He turned to Father William. "Probably you're right," he said sarcastically. "Probably he only killed thirty-two or thirty-three of those men and women himself, and hired out the rest."
"Why do you want to kill Santiago?" Virtue asked the Swagman.
"You mean besides the fact that I'm an upstanding citizen who finds his very existence offensive?" he replied wryly. "Let's just say that I have my reasons."
Father William, who had finished his main course, pushed his plate away and got to his feet. "If you don't mind, I think I'm going to take my leave of you before he starts expounding upon all those reasons. I don't like arguing on a full stomach."
The Swagman remained seated. "Lemon pie," he said temptingly.
"With meringue topping?" asked the preacher.
"I had a feeling you'd be coming by."
Father William seemed to wage a mighty struggle within himself. Finally he sighed. "I'll be back tomorrow evening for it."
"In that case, I won't detain you," said the Swagman. "I'm sure you can find your own way out."
"You'll see to it that Virtue gets back to her hotel safely?" demanded Father William.
"But of course."
"Have you got all your infernal machines turned off?"
"All but the two at the bottom of the hill—and they've been instructed to let you pass."
"Be sure that they do."
"I will," said the Swagman. "And thank you for bringing this innocent young woman up to my den of iniquity."
Father William glowered at him, then turned and made his way out of the room.
"Interesting man," commented the Swagman.
"I'm surprised you two aren't at each other's throats all the time," remarked Virtue.
"That would be bad for both our businesses," said the Swagman with a chuckle.
"I don't understand."
"I allow him to set up shop on my worlds, and give him occasional information about various killers who are also in these parts. In exchange, he warns me whenever he hears of a bounty hunter who isn't as choosy about his targets as he himself is."
"Speaking of killers, why did you give three of them permission to hunt me down on Goldenrod?" demanded Virtue.
"It was strictly financial," replied the Swagman with no trace of remorse. "I allowed them to operate here in exchange for twenty-five percent of their fees—and Dimitri Sokol is offering a lot of money for you."
"So you just let anyone kill anyone on Goldenrod, as long as you get your cut of the action?" she said, her anger rising.
"It depends on the situation."
"What was it about my situation that made you decide I was expendable?"
"Oh, I knew that the Lance would wait for you in the tent, and that Father William would spot him. As for the other two—well, if you're not good enough to protect yourself from Henry and Martha, you're certainly not good enough to go after Santiago." He took a sip of his wine. "So if you made it here, you were worth talking business with—and if you didn't, at least I had been recompensed."
She stared at him, annoyed that her fury was evaporating so rapidly in the face of his straightforward and logical answer. Finally the last of it drained from her, and she shrugged.
"All right. Tell me about Santiago."
"Eventually," he replied. "But first of all, suppose you tell me about your interest in him—and your partnership with Sebastian Cain."
"My interest is strictly professional," said Virtue. "I'm a journalist, and I've been paid a hefty advance to come up with a feature on him." Her face suddenly became serious. "And I mean to get that story, no matter what it takes."
"Very well said," responded the Swagman. "I approve wholeheartedly. And what about Cain?"
"We decided to pool our resources and our information," answered Virtue. "Our interests are parallel, but not identical. We both want Santiago, but he wants him for the reward and I want him for the feature." She paused, staring at him thoughtfully.
"Have you something to add?" he suggested pleasantly.
"Just that nothing about our agreement is written in stone," she said, choosing her words carefully. "If I were to meet someone who was better able to help me..." She let the sentence hang.
"Wonderful!" laughed the Swagman. "A woman after my own heart!"
"Do we have a deal?" asked Virtue.
He laughed again. "Of course not—at least, not on those terms. If you'll double-cross one partner, you'll double-cross others—and in your mind Cain must certainly be a more formidable antagonist than I am. After all, he's a bounty hunter, and I'm just a harmless art collector."
"That's not the way I hear it."
"One mustn't believe every scurrilous rumor one hears," said the Swagman. "However, that's neither here nor there." He smiled at her. "Not to worry, my dear. We seem to have another case of parallel interests. I don't want your story, and while I'd certainly like the reward money, there are things I want even more."
"Such as?"
"Such as one less competitor," said the Swagman. "Did you know that I used to work for him?"
"No."
"I did—indirectly, for the most part. I actually met him on only two occasions."
"Why did you stop working for him?" asked Virtue.
"We had a falling-out."
"About what?"
"Methodology," he said noncommittally. "At any rate, although he himself is not a collector, and indeed has no interest whatsoever in things esoteric, he has a number of exquisite art objects in his possession on any given day. Should we reach an accommodation, I would regard those pieces as mine, if our little enterprise succeeds."
"How many pieces are involved?"
"I really couldn't say. But he has warehouses and drops all over the Inner Frontier. I'm sure that I would be satisfied with the spoils of conquest." He shrugged. "Let greedy, immoral men like Cain keep the blood money," he concluded deprecatingly.
"You'd only take the pieces you wanted to keep?" asked Virtue, suddenly aware of yet another source of income above and beyond her fee for the feature.
He shook his head. "I'm afraid my creditors have very expensive tastes, my dear. I keep the finest pieces that I find, but all the rest go to support my life-style, and not incidentally to pay for my menials. No, my fee for helping you is, as our friend Father William might state it, all of Santiago's temporal possessions. Take it or leave it."
"Why haven't you gone after him before?" asked Virtue.
"I have—or rather, I've sent men after him before," answered the Swagman. "None of them got very close before being eliminated. So now it appears that I'm going to have to take a more active hand."
"Why now?"
"Well, I suppose I should say that I admire your resourcefulness, or that I wish to establish a romantic liaison with you," he answered. "But while both are definitely true, the simple fact of the matter is that certain developments have convinced me that it might be foolish to wait any longer."
"What developments?"
"The Angel has moved to the Inner Frontier."
"Cain mentioned him," said Virtue.
"Then doubtless Cain is aware of his abilities," said the Swagman. "I had an intermediary offer him the same help I'm offering you, in return for the same considerations. He turned me down flat. This would either imply that he's as much of a loner as everyone says, or that he's getting so close to Santiago that he doesn't need my help. Probably it's the former, but I really don't think I can afford to take the chance." He paused. "So, have I entered into a joint arrangement with you and Cain, or not?"
"As far as I'm concerned, you have," replied Virtue. "I'll have to clear it with Cain after he finishes his business on Altair, but I don't imagine he's interested in anything except the reward. Besides," she lied, "I don't know why the subject of Santiago's personal possessions should ever arise."
"Excellent!" He arose and walked to a small cabinet. "This calls for a bottle of my
best Alphard brandy."
He returned with the bottle and two crystal goblets.
"To your very good health and prosperous future, my dear," he said, clinking glasses with her after he had filled them. He stared admiringly at her, wondering just how many fabulous private art collections she had seen on the worlds of the Democracy, and how many of them she could help him locate in the future.
"And to a successful partnership," replied Virtue, studying him carefully and mentally adding up the awards and the money for the features he could help her obtain once they had established a working relationship.
"Virtue, my dear," he said, flashing her his most charming smile, "we have a lot to talk about in the days to come."
"I have a feeling that you're right," she replied with a predatory gleam in her eye.
He spent the next hour showing her some of his major pieces. Then, with a minimal amount of verbal thrust and parry, they went to bed together. Both of them found the experience enjoyable; each pretended to find it ecstatic.
10.
Along the road to Mother Lode
Dwells the Great Sioux Nation,
Which justifies its crimes and lies
As predestination.
* * * *
Black Orpheus didn't have much use for aliens. Not that he was biased or bigoted; he wasn't. But he saw his calling as the creation and perpetuation of a myth-poem about the race of Man. In fact, the people who thought it was composed merely of unrelated four-line songs about the outcasts and misfits who managed to make an impression on him were dead wrong. By the time he died the poem was some 280,000 lines, most of it in free verse or nonrhyming iambic pentameter, and for the most part it was concerned with glorifying Man's sweeping expansion through the Inner Frontier. The little ballads about the outrageously colorful people were very little more than footnotes and punctuation marks in his epic, though they were the only parts of the poem that interested any of his contemporaries (except, of course, for the academics, who loved him when he was opaque and practically deified him on those rare occasions that he was obscure).