by Mike Resnick
"Then why are we going to Bollander III?" asked Jeff.
"She might be there," said Nighthawk. "There's always a chance she decided to stay put for a few years. But it's more likely that someone there will know where she went next."
"And in the meantime, Jason Newman gets farther and farther ahead of us," muttered Jeff.
"He won't do anything stupid," said Nighthawk. "I just hope that's enough to keep him alive."
"He's two days out of major abdominal surgery," said Jeff. "He could burst open just from the pressure of his ship's braking mechanism."
Nighthawk shrugged. "Anything's possible."
"You sound like someone who doesn't give a damn, Jefferson."
"No," Nighthawk corrected him. "I sound like someone who isn't going to waste time worrying about a situation that he can't change or control. When Kinoshita comes out of his cabin, maybe we'll have a situation we can do something about."
They fell silent then, each lost in his own thoughts, until Kinoshita emerged almost an hour later, a puzzled look on his face.
"What did you find out?" asked Jeff anxiously.
"I'm not sure," said Kinoshita. "It's very strange."
"Obviously someone knew something about the Younger Brothers," said Nighthawk.
"The one thing everyone agrees upon is that they really are brothers, as identical as Jeff and the first clone," said Kinoshita. "They appear human, but no one knows for sure if they are. And they're very efficient killers."
"Then what's so puzzling?" asked Jeff.
"There's something more, isn't there?" said Nighthawk.
Kinoshita nodded. "Beta Campanis III says there are three Younger Brothers, all identical, like I said."
A grim smile crossed Nighthawk's face. "I can see this one coming."
"Greenbriar says there are seven brothers," continued Kinoshita. "Silverbright II claims there are six."
"Get to the kicker," said Nighthawk.
"Benitarus IV says there are more than six hundred of them, and they've got security holos of them to prove it."
27.
They knew something was wrong the moment they touched down and entered the Bollander III spaceport.
Their weapons didn't set off any alarms. The security cameras had been melted, and there were half a dozen armed guards posted around the place.
Nighthawk approached the robot that was in charge of the Customs desk. One of its prismatic eyes was missing, and only a charred hole remained.
"Good day, sir," said the robot with a distinct lisp. "Welcome to Bollander III."
"What the hell happened here?" asked Nighthawk.
"There was a disturbance yesterday," said the robot. "It will not interfere with your stay on beautiful Bollander III, sir."
"What happened to you eye?"
"An unfortunate incident, sir, which need not concern you. I assure you that I am fully capable of servicing you with my one remaining eye."
"Someone burned it out."
"I cannot feel pain, sir."
"I offered an observation, not sympathy," said Nighthawk.
"I apologize, sir."
"You're also the first robot I've ever met who has a speech defect."
"The result of a full-force blast by a sonic pistol, sir."
"From the same man?"
"Yes, sir," replied the robot. "Welcome to Bollander III. May I help you now?"
"What did you do to get him so mad at you?"
"That may be privileged information, sir."
Nighthawk pulled out his bounty hunter's license and showed it to the robot. "I think the man who injured you may be the man I am trying to bring to justice. You will be breaking no law or confidence if you tell me what transpired."
"A man landed his ship and entered the spaceport yesterday, sir," said the robot. "He was carrying a laser pistol, a pulse gun, a sonic pistol, two knives, and a small hand-weapon of undetermined properties. Of course the alarm sounded, and I explained that he would not be allowed to pass through the spaceport until he relinquished his weapons. He refused."
"Then what?"
"I explained that the sensors also detected that he was bleeding beneath his tunic, and that even if he disarmed himself he would not be allowed access to Bollander III until he could produce medical documentation that he was not contagious."
"He refused, of course?"
"Yes, sir." A brief pause. "Welcome to Bollander III. How may I help you?"
"You can tell me what happened after the man refused to relinquish his weapons or offer you the medical documentation that you requested."
"I explained that he would have to wait while I contacted my human superior, sir. He replied that he had no time to wait, and began to walk through Customs. Naturally I positioned myself in such a way that he could not pass. He then pulled out a laser pistol and shot me in my left eye. When that had no effect upon me other than to limit my depth perception, he withdrew his sonic pistol and fired it at me from a distance of eleven feet eight inches. This disrupted my circuitry, and I fell backward to the floor. Before I could get up he had disabled all of the sensors and cameras with his weapons. I had of course signaled for help when he disabled my eye, and security personnel arrived shortly thereafter."
"Poor bastards," muttered Kinoshita.
"Welcome to Bollander III," said the robot to Kinoshita. "May I help you, sir?"
"Later," said Nighthawk. "Did the man kill any spaceport personnel?"
"No, sir. He disarmed the first two to arrive with a remarkable display of marksmanship, then warned the others to drop their weapons and leave or he would kill them."
"And?"
"They disarmed themselves and left. He passed through the spaceport two minutes and seven seconds later. The police have not yet apprehended him."
"If they're lucky, they won't," replied Nighthawk. "Aren't you going to welcome me to Bollander III and give me a twenty-four-hour visa?"
"Yes, sir," said the robot. "Welcome to—"
"Here's my passport," interrupted Nighthawk, handing over the small disk.
The robot cleared him in less than a minute, then did the same for Jeff and Kinoshita.
"Robot, I have another question before we leave," said Nighthawk.
"Yes, sir?"
"I'm here to visit an old friend who sometime uses the name of Pallas Athene. Can you tell me how to find her?"
"There is a vidphone directory on the west wall, sir."
"That won't work," said Nighthawk. "My computer couldn't find her, and if she was listed in a directory it would have been able to."
"Then I am unable to help you, sir."
"Don't be so sure of that," said Nighthawk. "How long have you been in operation?"
"Nine years, sir."
"Has your memory been affected by the screecher?"
"'Screecher', sir?" asked the robot.
"Sonic pistol."
"No, sir. My memory is intact."
"Then search through it and tell me if anyone who has been a resident of Sylene IV at any time in the past has cleared Customs on Bollander III in the past five years," said Nighthawk.
"Searching . . . yes, sir."
"How many?"
"Just one."
"A woman?" asked Nighthawk.
"Yes, sir."
"What was her name?"
"Helen of Troy, sir."
"How can I contact her?"
"There is a vidphone directory on the west wall of the spaceport lobby, sir."
"Thank you, robot," said Nighthawk. "I hope you feel better soon."
"I cannot feel pain, sir," said the robot as the three men walked off toward the directory.
"Son of a bitch!" muttered Jeff. "Friday was telling us the truth after all!"
"What the hell kind of siege can the planet be under?" asked Kinoshita as the approached the directory screen. "I mean, hell, three days out of surgery and bleeding from his exertion, Jason's done more discernable damage to Bollander than a gang of
six hundred aliens."
"Never forget that they're aliens," said Nighthawk. "Until we learn more about them, we can't know what they want, what they're like, what they're capable of."
"Or how to kill them," added Jeff.
"Hopefully Jason will have figured it out by the time we catch up with him," said Nighthawk.
"Unless they figure out how to kill him first," said Jeff.
They reached the directory and scanned it. There was no Helen of Troy and no Pallas Athene.
"Great," said Kinoshita. "The robot was wrong. She's not on Bollander."
"She's here," said Nighthawk.
"What makes you so certain?" demanded Kinoshita.
"Tell him, Jeff."
"Because Jason's still on the planet," said Jeff. "We had to discover where she was, but she called Jason and asked for his help. He knew exactly where to go." He paused. "So we know we're on the right world. But I'll be damned if I know what our next step is."
"If they make him mad enough, we could just follow the trail of bodies," said Nighthawk with a wry smile.
"Seriously, Jefferson," said Jeff, "what do we do now?"
"Seriously, Jeff, use your brain," said Nighthawk.
Jeff looked blank. "I don't know—go to the usual places, the bars and drug dens and the like, and see what information we can pick up?"
Nighthawk shook his head. "This world's got a population of a couple of million. There might be two hundred bars, and fifty or sixty drug dens—and we've got a weakened Widowmaker preparing to go up against a gang that is so lethal that the toughest lady Kinoshita ever met felt it was necessary to enlist his help."
"Then what do you suggest?" asked Jeff.
"The answer's inherent in what I just told you," said Nighthawk.
Jeff frowned. "It is?"
"Reason it out," said Nighthawk. "We know she's on Bollander. That's a given. Friday told us so, and Jason came directly here. What's the one other thing we know about her?"
"That she lived on Sylene?"
Nighthawk merely stared at him.
"Oh, I see!" said Jeff suddenly. "Hell, it shouldn't take much time at all."
"Would one of you please tell me what the hell you're talking about?" demanded Kinoshita.
"The one thing we know about Pallas Athene," said Jeff, "the defining fact about her, is that she's almost as lethal as Jason. You've said so often enough."
"So?"
"So I don't know if she drinks or drugs—but I do know the one spot she's got to have done business with if she's been here for a few years, the one spot most likely to know where she is."
"And what is that?" asked Kinoshita, still puzzled.
Jeff smiled. "A weapon shop."
28.
They tried two other weapons shops without success before they came to The Sharpshooter. It was run by a pair of elderly women, pudgy, pink and rosy-cheeked. Each wore a satin ribbon in her hair, they both wore old-fashioned (perhaps, thought Kinoshita, the term should be "ancient-fashioned") spectacles, and they had a pot of tea sitting right on the main counter.
"Good morning, gentlemen," said one of them. "Welcome to The Sharpshooter. May I offer you some tea?"
"That would be very nice," said Nighthawk before his two companions could offend by refusing it.
"I'm Winnifred Dugan, and this is my sister Wilma. I can't tell you how honored we are to have both the original Widowmaker and the newest version in our little shop."
"You know who I am?" said Nighthawk, surprised.
"Bloodletting is our business, in a manner of speaking," said Wilma. "And who is better at it than the Widowmaker? Ah, the sights you've seen!"
"And the men you've killed!" added Winnifred with undisguised enthusiasm.
"And so many have doubtless gone unreported," said Wilma. "You're one of our ideals, Mr. Nighthawk." She turned to Jeff. "And so, of course, are you, young Mr. Nighthawk. Such a record of death and destruction!"
"I prefer to think of it as a record of justice meted out," replied Jeff.
"Of course you do," said Wilma soothingly. "What would you gentlemen like in your tea?"
"Nothing," said Nighthawk.
"Whisky," muttered Kinoshita too softly for them to hear.
Winnifred poured three cups of tea, placed the delicate cups on a silver serving platter, walked out from behind the counter, and bought a cup to each of them.
"What can we sell you today?" asked Wilma. "We're having a special on pulse guns with both infrared and ultraviolet telescopic sights. Perhaps you'd prefer a pistol with a barrel that will extend at your command; you simply estimate the distance and it will instantly become the proper length to afford you the greatest accuracy. And we have a state of the art burner that will function under thirty-two fathoms of ocean, regardless whether it's composed of water, chlorine or ammonia."
"What we'd like is some information," said Nighthawk.
"Certainly," said Winnifred, returning to her place behind the counter. "Information is one of our most popular commodities, and always our most expensive."
"We're looking for a woman . . ."
"There's an excellent upscale brothel on the next block," said Wilma. "If you tell them we sent you, you'll receive a ten percent discount."
"And you'll receive a twenty percent kickback?" asked Nighthawk with a smile.
"Twenty-five," replied Wilma, returning the smile.
"Thanks anyway, but we're looking for a particular woman, and she won't be working in a whorehouse," said Nighthawk. "At various times she's been known as Pallas Athene and Helen of Troy."
The two sisters frowned as one. "It's not a name we're familiar with," said Winnifred at last.
"She's probably changed it again," said Nighthawk. "If I were to ask you who was the deadliest woman on the planet, what would your answer be?"
Wilma smiled. "Our answer would be: five hundred credits."
Nighthawk smiled and pulled out five one-hundred-credit bills.
"We can make a bank transfer from your account if you prefer," said Winnifred.
"Why should you pay taxes on it?" said Nighthawk, placing the money on the counter. "This is a private transaction. It's nobody's business but our own."
"I knew I would like you if I ever met you, Mr. Nighthawk!" said Winnifred. "Isn't he thoughtful, Wilma?"
"He's thoughtful and he's courteous," agreed Wilma.
"He's also five hundred credits poorer than he was half a minute ago," put in Nighthawk.
"Oh! Forgive us, Mr. Nighthawk," said Wilma. "We're not used to being in the company of two living legends."
"The name?" said Nighthawk.
"Certainly," said Winnifred. "The deadliest woman—probably the deadliest person on the planet, human or alien—is named Hera."
"No last name?"
"None."
"That's got to be her!" said Kinoshita. "It's yet another name from the Greek myths."
"Well, she's consistent, anyway," said Nighthawk.
"Except that she's not the deadliest person on the planet any more," said Wilma. "You are—you or the younger you."
"Speaking of younger," said Nighthawk, "have either of you ever heard of the Younger Brothers?"
"Villains from ancient Earth's Wild West," answered Wilma promptly. "Their names were Cole, Bob and Jim."
"Nothing more recent?"
"I've heard rumors about a gang of that name on the Inner Frontier," said Winnifred, "but no one seems to have any reliable information. Why?"
"Just curious," said Nighthawk. "What can you tell me about Hera?"
"Are you here to kill her?"
"No."
"Then why is the greatest bounty hunter in the galaxy interested in her?"
"I'll be happy to tell you," said Nighthawk. "For five hundred credits."
Winnifred laughed aloud; Wilma merely smiled. "We'd rather think you're here to hunt her down," said Wilma. "It's much more exciting. And it's certainly not worth five hundred credits to us to find
out that you're not here on some excessively bloody business."
"As you wish," said Nighthawk. "Are you ready for another five hundred credits?"
"Certainly," said Winnifred. "You want to know where to find her, of course?"
"Of course."
"How come the young Widowmaker hardly speaks?" she asked suddenly.
"He's taking notes."
"And the little man? Wherever a Widowmaker has been seen, he's always there too."
"My name is Ito Kinoshita, ma'am," said Kinoshita, bowing low. "I'm pleased to make your acquaintance."
"What's your relationship to the Widowmakers?" continued Winnifred. "Errand boy or secret master?"
"Friend," answered Nighthawk. "The address?"
"The five hundred credits?"
Nighthawk peeled off five more bills.
"She lives at 43 Macabee Street," said Wilma.
"Where is Macabee Street?"
"Three blocks west of here."
"Thank you," said Nighthawk, turning and taking a step toward the door.
"But you won't find her there," said Winnifred.
Nighthawk stopped and turned back to face the two sisters.
"She went into hiding five days ago," said Winnifred.
"But you know where?"
"Certainly. We shipped a supply of weapons, batteries and ammunition there before she left Macabee Street, so that no one could intercept them or follow our messenger."
"And how much do you want for that information?" said Nighthawk.
"We don't want any more of your money," said Wilma. "We're merely avaricious, not rapacious."
"Of course not."
"We will freely give you the directions," said Winnifred.
"That's very generous of you," said Nighthawk suspiciously.
"Just as soon as you sign a piece of paper," said Wilma.
"Promising you my life, my fortune, and what else?"
"Merely stating that you always buy your weapons at The Sharpshooter, and that even when you're in the Spiral Arm or out on the Rim or in the Magellenic Clouds, you have them shipped to you from Bollander III."
