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

by Mike Resnick

  “I still remember the first time I saw you,” said Tojo. “I was never more frightened in my life."

  “I can safely say that the feeling was mutual,” replied Mr. Ahasuerus, thinking back to a frigid October morning in Vermont.

  “And now here I am,” continued the hunchback, “talking and telling jokes to a bunch of aliens. Me—ugly, misshapen, fumble-mouthed Tojo, the carny barker! It still seems like a dream!"

  “Let’s not forget who are the aliens on this world and who are the natives," said Flint. He shook his head. “Lord, but they’re homely! I wonder if they molt?"

  “They probably wonder if you shed your skin,” said Mr. Ahasuerus.

  “Probably,” agreed Flint with a sigh. “I don’t suppose it makes a hell of a lot of difference what they do, just so long as they spend their money."

  “They were lined up before sunset, just to get into the specialty show,” said the hunchback.

  “I know,” said Flint. “It seems that our friend Wyatt Earp is getting himself a reputation."

  “It must be wonderful to be known and loved on hundreds of different worlds,” said Tojo wistfully.

  “I’ll settle for just getting rich off him,” responded Flint, lighting up another cigarette.

  “Be truthful, Mr. Flint,” said the blue man. “Wouldn’t you like the admiration?"

  “Not if I had to face the Killing Machine twice a day to get it,” said Flint devoutly.

  “Still,” said Tojo, turning his homely face toward the flap through which the Dancer had disappeared, “he must be a very satisfied man. Just think of it: ten years ago he was doing God knows what in Texas, and five years ago we were all working for peanuts back in New England, and now he’s the most famous entertainer who ever lived."

  As they spoke about him, the handsome blond marksman walked down the Midway toward the carny ship, signing an occasional autograph. He entered the airlock, tipped his hat to two of the girls who were sitting in the mess hall, and walked to an elevator. He emerged on the fifth level, walked down the curved corridor until he came to his door, pressed the combination code on his computer lock, and entered the room. He sat down on a hard wooden chair, stared blankly at the posters of Jesse James and Doc Holliday and John Wesley Hardin that hung on his walls, and sighed deeply.

  And then the best rootin’ tootin’ shootin’ gunslinger in the whole damned galaxy, the most famous entertainer who ever lived, walked over to his bed and lay down on it.

  And cried.

  Chapter 2

  "Pick a card—any card."

  Thaddeus Flint, who had been sitting about a quarter of a mile from the ship, propped up against a small, gnarly tree and thoughtfully sipping a none-too-cold beer, looked up and saw a dapper man in his fifties, wearing a derby hat, a white shirt, carefully pressed gray pants, a bright red satin vest, and a pair of diamond rings that sparkled with the same intensity as Beta Epsilon IV’s low-hanging sun. Flint stared at the proffered deck for a moment, then resumed looking at the barren brown landscape that stretched away from the Midway in all directions, highlighted here and there by the dull midday sun.

  “Three of spades,” he said in a bored voice.

  “You’re supposed to pick one, and then I got to guess what it is,” Jason Diggs explained patiently.

  “Rigger,” said Flint—Diggs was in charge of the carnival’s fifty-six games of chance, and had long since earned the sobriquet Digger the Rigger—“I hope to hell you didn’t traipse all the way out here to show me a goddamned card trick."

  “Of course not,” replied Diggs, masking his disappointment and putting the deck away.

  “And don’t look so heartbroken,” added Flint. “That’s a stripper deck: it hasn’t got a three of spades. What it’s got is twenty-six queens of hearts, all shaven, and twenty-six other cards, all sevens and higher."

  “Son of a bitch!” exclaimed Diggs, withdrawing the deck from his pocket and examining it. “I hadn’t even noticed."

  Flint snorted. “Yeah. It probably would have escaped your attention while you lost some one-dollar bets, and would have come to you in a flash the second we upped the stakes to fifty.” He finished his beer and tossed the empty can out onto the sparse brown vegetation.

  “You figure to leave a few cans on every planet in the galaxy?” asked Diggs.

  “Ten minutes after we’re gone, that’s the only way they’ll ever know we were even here."

  “Well, I can see you’re in a bright mood today."

  “And I can only assume you’re here to add to it,” said Flint. “What seems to be the problem?"

  “You got a mighty unhappy cowboy on your hands, Thaddeus."

  Flint chuckled.

  “What’s so funny about that?” demanded Diggs.

  “Rigger, you aren’t exactly a prime candidate for the Pulitzer Prize in journalism. We’ve been out here—what?—five years now, and you’re just coming to the realization that the Dancer isn’t the happiest person you’ve ever seen?"

  “He’s getting worse."

  “He never talks to anyone, he’s spent half his waking hours for the past ten years staring off into space, he probably hasn’t had a woman in even longer than that, he doesn’t drink, he doesn’t smoke, and the next time he swears will be the first. How much worse can he get?"

  “He keeps to himself all the time."

  “He always did,” replied Flint, lighting up a cigarette.

  “Damn it, Thaddeus, I’m trying to tell you that your superstar is crazy!"

  “I never said he wasn’t,” said Flint. “He’s been crazy since the day I met him. So what? He’s harmless.” He turned and pointed to two figures that were walking down the middle of the Midway, engaged in animated conversation; one was human, one was very definitely inhuman. “You want to see someone who’s really crazy? Try him."

  Diggs squinted and peered off toward the Midway. “Which one do you mean—Jupiter or Batman?"

  “Six of one, half a dozen of the other,” Flint responded. “They spent eight months trying to kill each other in the ring and damned near wrecked the carnival. Monk’ll never walk right again and Batman’s wings look like a piece of cloth that’s been shredded by the wind."

  “But that’s all over."

  “You think so, do you?” said Flint. “You think it’s perfectly sane for Jupiter Monk to give up training animals so he can spend the rest of his life working the Bozo cage with a refugee from Creature Features? Hell, they spend every penny they make trying to dunk each other, and I don’t think either of ’em has said more than ten words to anyone else during the past year. Give me a pleasant, pixilated catatonic like the Dancer every time."

  “Maybe you’d better talk to him, then,” persisted Diggs, pulling out a cigar and shielding his match from the warm breeze.

  “I’ve known him for the better part of ten years and I haven’t found any subject that interests him yet,” said Flint. “Except Billy the Kid and the Younger Brothers and that whole crowd,” he added wryly. “If you know anything about the O.K. Corral, you go talk to him. My experience with cowboys and Indians begins and ends with John Wayne and Clint Eastwood."

  “It’s not my job,” said Diggs defensively. “Hell, I’ve been with you longer than he has. I know what he’s like."

  “Well, then?"

  “I’m telling you he’s changed in the past couple of months, Thaddeus,” said Diggs, puffing vigorously on the cigar. “He used to just stare off into space, and you knew just by looking at him that he was back in Dodge City or Tombstone, saving proper young virgins from outlaws and Indians. But now he spends all his time sitting around moping."

  “How can you tell the difference?” asked Flint with a smile.

  “Just look at him."

  “He looked pretty animated in the tent last night."

  “Sure. But that’s the only time he ever comes alive."

  “Look, Rigger, any guy who enjoys having a batch of knives shot out of a machine at him isn�
�t playing with a full deck to begin with. As long as he does his job and shows up sober, he’s two steps ahead of most of the people around here. What else is new?” Flint ground his cigarette out in the dirt and lit another.

  Diggs rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Well, now that you mention it, I’m probably going to have to fire three of the games workers—the ones from Zartaska."

  “What do Zartaskans look like?"

  “They’re the big jokers, look kind of like fat orange orangutans."

  “Didn’t we just take them on a couple of weeks ago?” asked Flint.

  “Yeah—and if we keep them for twenty years, there’s no way they’re ever going to learn how to make change. So next time you talk to your Corporation buddy Kargennian, tell him to send us three replacements."

  “All right."

  “Is he going to give you any trouble about it?” asked Diggs. “Nothing personal, but it ain’t exactly a secret that you two ain’t the closest friends that ever were."

  “No,” replied Flint. “There won’t be any trouble. In case it’s escaped your attention, he’s given us everything we’ve asked for lately. We’re a moneymaking proposition these days.” He shrugged. “I kind of liked things better when I had to bluff and cheat and blackmail him out of whatever it was that we needed.” He picked up a small stone and threw it at the empty beer can. It missed.

  “Yeah? Well, don’t forget that we damned near starved to death a couple of times waiting for you to swindle that little bastard."

  “Almost—but not quite."

  Diggs paused and looked at Flint for a long moment. “What the hell’s the matter with you, Thaddeus? If the Dancer isn’t troubling you, what’s got you down? The way we’re raking in money, you ought to be the happiest guy in the world."

  “In the galaxy,” amended Flint with a ironic smile. “I don’t know, Rigger. Maybe I just work better when I’m hungry."

  “I’ve been hungry and I’ve been full,” replied Diggs. “Full is better. The problem with you, Thaddeus, is that you’re too damned used to adversity. You ought to just settle back and enjoy being rich and respectable for a change.” He smiled and added, “Don’t worry—if you can’t adjust to it, there’s always the Dancer. One of these days he’s going to get tired of shooting at stuff that can’t shoot back, and then you’re going to wish you were fat and carefree again."

  “Probably,” agreed Flint.

  They fell silent for a few minutes, and then Diggs withdrew the deck of cards from his pocket. “Don’t suppose you’d care for an honest, friendly little game of gin?” he asked innocently.

  “I’d love one,” said Flint, grinning and getting to his feet. “As soon as you find someone who can play an honest, friendly little game of gin, send him around.” He began walking back toward the Midway, and Diggs, after uttering an insincere obscenity just for form, fell into step behind him.

  They passed the game booths, the specialty tent, and the ring where their green alien wrestler, Julius Squeezer, challenged all comers, passed by the concession stands, circled the Null-Gravity Ferris Wheel and the other rides, paused for a moment to watch Monk and Batman in the midst of yet another heated argument at the Bozo cage, and finally reached the ship. Diggs took the elevator to his quarters, but Flint stopped by the mess hall, had the galley robots fix him a sandwich and another beer, and seated himself at his usual corner table.

  The mess hall itself was the social center of the ship. The walls were covered with holographs of the Dancer in his cowboy outfit, Monk with his long-departed leopards, a pair of strippers back before the carnival found out the hard way that alien beings had very little visceral interest in watching human women undress to music, and, above Flint’s own table, a very early holograph, taken by Mr. Ahasuerus, of Flint and the twelve carny workers he had induced to join him in his bold new venture. There were some twenty tables in the place, all but one deserted because of the hour.

  The Dancer was on the opposite side of the room, sitting alone as usual, staring off into space at some vision only he could see, and Flint turned toward him, trying, in the light of his conversation with Diggs, to see if the sharpshooter looked any crazier than usual. After a few minutes he sighed, shrugged, and turned away, unable to make up his mind.

  “Ah, Mr. Flint!” said a familiar voice, and he looked up to see his gaunt blue partner approaching him. “I have wonderful news!"

  “I can always use some of that,” said Flint. “Have a seat, Mr. Ahasuerus."

  He lit another artificial cigarette, tried not to wince as the smoke reached his lungs, and waited for the blue man to lower himself awkwardly onto one of the plain plastic chairs.

  “I have solved our sugar problem,” announced Mr. Ahasuerus, beaming with satisfaction.

  “Oh?"

  The blue man nodded happily. “I traded it to one of the Corporation’s circuses on Gamma Eridani IV."

  “Where the hell is that?” asked Flint.

  “About forty thousand light-years from here,” said Mr. Ahasuerus. “If it is clear tonight, possibly I can point out the star cluster to which it belongs."

  “Well, good for you, partner,” said Flint. “What did we get for it?"

  “Two new rides."

  “Very good,” said Flint. “However, what we really need is a new tent for the Dancer."

  “Of course,” agreed the blue man. “But they would never trade a tent with the dimensions we require for a mere five tons of sugar."

  “They probably feel that way too,” said Flint, taking a bite of his sandwich.

  “Our job is to instill a more reasonable attitude in them."

  “You have something in mind, no doubt?"

  “What are they going to do with the sugar?” asked Flint with a smile.

  “Manufacture cotton candy,” replied Mr. Ahasuerus. “I had my computer open our records to them so they could see how much gross revenue cotton candy has generated during the past five years."

  Flint’s smile broadened.

  “Surely, Mr. Flint, you are not suggesting that—?"

  “Was a cotton candy machine part of the deal?” asked Flint.

  “No. But our robots can duplicate one in a matter of hours."

  “Right,” said Flint, finishing his sandwich and taking a long swallow of his beer. “And as soon as the tent is delivered, they’ll do just that."

  “But Mr. Flint!"

  “Tell you what. You can soften the blow by tossing in our animal crates and training cage. Monk is never going to be needing them again anyway."

  “I’ll see what I can arrange,” said the blue man dismally.

  “Fine,” said Flint. “And since you seem to feel so guilty about it, tell them we’ll only need one of the rides—provided they pay shipping costs on both sides."

  “They’ll never accept it."

  “Sure they will,” answered Flint easily. “As things stand now, they’ve got even less use for the sugar than we do."

  “But the Corporation will give you a tent if you’ll just request one!" protested Mr. Ahasuerus.

  “I don’t like being given things. This way we’ll earn it and dump the sugar, all in one fell swoop. There’s a certain elegance to it, wouldn’t you say?"

  The blue man sighed deeply and made no reply.

  “Speaking of your friends at the Corporation,” continued Flint, “you’d better tell your pal Kargennian to send us three more games workers. The Rigger says they can’t be Zartaskans."

  “Some form of prejudice?” inquired Mr. Ahasuerus.

  “He’s downright bigoted when it comes to con men who can’t count,” said Flint. He lit another cigarette, and began coughing. “And when you talk to Kargennian, tell him to get me another fifty cartons of Parliaments. I could die of old age before your idiot robots ever learn how to manufacture a decent smoke."

  “I’m afraid that is out of the question,” said the blue man.

  “I thought we had a deal: I don’t nag you about putting away thirty
cups of coffee a day, and you don’t nag me about cigarettes."

  “That has nothing to do with it."

  “Then what’s the problem?” demanded Flint irritably. “Mr. Romany is running seven or eight sets of tourists a year in and out of the freak show at my old carnival. Just tell him to send some Parliaments back with one of them. And maybe some Schlitz, too, while he’s at it."

  “I had meant to tell you last week,” said the blue man apologetically, “but it completely slipped my mind. Mr. Romany is no longer on Earth. His tour of duty ended, and he has been transferred to another station."

  “Fine. Then tell his successor."

  “He has none."

  “What are you talking about?"

  “Earth has been removed from the tourist circuit,” replied Mr. Ahasuerus.

  “How come?” demanded Flint.

  “I suspect it has to do with you, Mr. Flint."

  “With me?"

  “What’s past is past, but the fact remains that you did recognize my group for what it was and kept us against our wills to exhibit in your own carnival. That your actions ultimately resulted in a very profitable endeavor not just for myself but for the entire Corporation does not in any way alter the fact that if one man of Earth could cause so much mischief and confusion, others may do so—and Earth, as you know, is not a member of our Community of Worlds and hence must not be allowed to know of our existence."

  “Bullshit!” snapped Flint. “If that’s their reason, why didn’t they take it off the circuit five years ago?"

  “Because of Mr. Romany,” explained the blue man patiently. “He had undergone a very painful and complex operation in order to appear as an Earthman, and they allowed him to fulfill his contract before totally closing off the world."

  “Totally closing it off?” Flint repeated. “That sounds ominous."

  “I certainly didn’t mean to imply anything ominous,” said Mr. Ahasuerus. “There is no question in my mind that at some point in the future Men will reach the stars and be welcomed into the Community with open arms.” He paused. “But until that happy day, Earth has been ruled off-limits to Community members."