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

by Mike Resnick

“I thought I heard your voice,” said Tojo, entering the compartment.

  “What’s up?"

  “I just thought you should know that we had to break up another fist-fight between Monk and Batman.” He smiled. “Actually, Julius broke it up. I just kind of directed him."

  Jiminy made his way to the door. “These rooms weren’t made for so many people,” he announced. “I think I’d better leave."

  “Stick around,” said Flint. “I’ve got something to say that concerns you."

  “Me?” repeated Jiminy.

  “Right,” said Flint. “Tojo, say hello to—damn! I’ve already forgotten your name."

  “Borilliot,” said the rotund alien.

  “You mean you’re not Kargennian?” asked Tojo, startled.

  “Absolutely not."

  “Boy!” exclaimed the little hunchback. “You could sure have fooled me! Are you joining the show?"

  “No."

  “Borilliot’s job is manufacturing absolutely lifelike robots,” explained Flint. “We seem,” he added ironically, “to have commissioned him to build a Doc Holliday model."

  “For display?"

  “For gunfighting."

  “Is that possible?” asked Tojo dubiously.

  “Of course,” said Borilliot. “That’s why I’m here."

  “But I thought a robot couldn’t harm a human being."

  “Who the hell told you that?” demanded Flint.

  “I read it somewhere,” replied Tojo.

  “Science fiction?” asked Flint sardonically. He shook his head. “You read enough of that shit and your brain’ll start seeping out through your ears. This robot will do anything we tell it to do, and we’re telling it to shoot as well as the guy it’s patterned after."

  “Better,” added Borilliot.

  “And the Dancer is going to fight it?” asked Tojo.

  “Not right away,” said Flint. “As things stand now, the Dancer’s reputation is too big for him to attract the kind of crowd we want, unless people think the guy he’s facing has got a chance to beat him. And since having him go into the tank for a couple of fights is just a little impractical, what we’ve got to do is build up his opponent instead."

  “How do we do that?"

  “That’s where you and Jiminy come in. The robot will be ready in less than a month, and Kargennian is supposedly lining up four fights for him; I think he’s trying to hold the last one back on Darbeena.” He paused. “Anyway, we can’t afford to divert the whole show for four penny-ante warm-up fights, so we’re going to send you two out with him. Tojo, you’ll do the barking, just like you always do—and Jiminy, you’re a smooth-talking bastard who’s good at picking up languages, so you’ll be the carny’s representative once you land. You can fill an encyclopedia with what Kargennian doesn’t know about booking an event or greasing the right palms, so we’re going to count on you to see that everything comes off without too many hitches."

  “What if the robot loses?” asked Tojo.

  “He won’t,” said Borilliot.

  “But if he does,” persisted the hunchback.

  “He will have human physiological responses,” said the alien. “A wound, or a fatal bullet, will affect him exactly as it would affect a human being. However,” he added confidently, “it’s not going to happen."

  “Okay,” said Flint, trying to ignore Borilliot’s remark. “I’ll be letting you two know when and where you’re going as soon as Kargennian lets me know. Any other questions?"

  “No,” said Tojo reluctantly. “But . . ."

  “But what?” asked Flint.

  “I’ve got a bad feeling about this, Thaddeus,” said the hunchback.

  “Welcome to the club,” replied Flint.

  Chapter 14

  On Molluteipanth VII, the Doc Holliday robot made his debut. He strode into the center of the huge stadium, waited calmly for his rangy Mollutei opponent to make the first move, and just as calmly put five bullet holes through the Mollutei’s chest before his opponent’s gun ever cleared its holster.

  On Selba IV, the robot decided to try out his left-handed reflexes, and won just as easily.

  By the time he reached Alpha Ceti II, his reputation had preceded him, and the fight was postponed for two days, until the largest arena on the planet became available. The robot faced two members of the dominant race of pink-skinned marsupials, and in a maneuver his namesake would have been proud of, killed the first, flipped his gun to his other hand, and neatly drilled a bullet right between the eyes of the second.

  They were waiting for him on Darbeena, and he drew an even bigger crowd than had watched the Dancer. The Darbeenans gave him a cordial welcome, then sent out their five best remaining gunfighters to face him. This time the robot was all business, using both guns to dispatch all five opponents in the twinkling of an eye.

  Where the Dancer had drawn only a smattering of grudgingly given applause, the Doc Holliday robot was given a standing ovation despite the crowd’s partisanship, and a statue of him was already on the drawing board before he, Tojo, and Jiminy left Darbeena and returned, at long and bloody last, to the carnival.

  Chapter 15

  "Thaddeus? Are you in here?"

  Flint growled an obscenity and put a pillow over his head. A moment later a hand reached out and shook him gently by the shoulder.

  “Thaddeus?” repeated the voice.

  “Go away, you goddamned dwarf!” muttered Flint.

  Tojo turned the lights on, breathed a sigh of relief to find that Flint had no bedmate, and closed the door behind him.

  “Wake up, Thaddeus,” stammered the little hunchback. “It’s important."

  “Why aren’t you on Darbeena?” growled Flint, his head still buried under his pillow.

  “The three of us just got back from there,” said Tojo. “I came right to your room."

  “How thoughtful of you. What time is it?"

  “Two in the afternoon, ship’s time."

  Flint tossed the pillow on the floor and slowly sat up. “Coffee!” he rasped.

  “You don’t have any made,” replied Tojo.

  “Shit!” muttered Flint. He stood up, turned toward the bathroom, and almost knocked the little hunchback over as he made his way to the shower stall. He turned on the cold water, bellowed another curse, and stepped out a moment later.

  “All right,” he said, wrapping a towel around his waist and drying his head and shoulders with another one. “What’s so damned important?"

  “Do you get up like this every day?” asked Tojo, momentarily distracted from his purpose.

  “You lived in the same goddamned trailer with me for seven years,” said Flint.

  ”I remember you demanding black coffee,” said Tojo, “but screaming in the shower is new to me."

  “It was freezing,” said Flint. “I could yodel, if it’ll make you feel any better about it.” He tossed both towels aside and began climbing into his clothes. “How did things go?"

  “We’ve got a problem,” stammered Tojo.

  “Big?"

  “Very."

  “Is the robot on the fritz?” asked Flint. He walked to a small mirror that hung on the bathroom door and began combing his hair.

  “No,” said Tojo, looking at the barren walls of the compartment and wondering, as he always did, why only Flint of all the crew refused to hang any posters or other mementos of home. “The robot is working just fine."

  “Then what is it?"

  “Thaddeus, I don’t think the Dancer can beat him."

  Flint turned to face him. “What are you talking about?"

  “I’m talking about the Doc Holliday robot,” said Tojo patiently. “He faced five Darbeenans and killed them all."

  “So could the Dancer,” said Flint.

  “Maybe,” admitted Tojo. “But I’ve been in the ring with both of them, and I’ve had a chance to watch them both in action, and I think the robot’s going to win."

  “Horseshit!” snorted Flint, putting
his comb back in his pocket. “Nothing can beat the Dancer."

  “The robot’s awfully good, Thaddeus."

  “You’re sure he can win?"

  “No, I’m not sure about anything,” said Tojo. “But he doesn’t look or act like any other robot I’ve ever seen."

  “For what he cost, he’d better not,” interjected Flint.

  “He’s smooth and he’s graceful, and he never misses."

  “The Dancer’s smooth and graceful, and he never misses either."

  “Thaddeus, don’t you understand what I’m trying to say to you?" demanded Tojo in exasperation. “I was there. I saw him!"

  Flint sat down on a lounge chair and stared at an empty wall. “How badly did he beat the Darbeenans?” he asked in a thoughtful voice.

  “Only one of them even got his gun out, and he was dead before he could fire it."

  “That’s pretty fast,” admitted Flint softly.

  “There’s more,” said Tojo. “The local video stations were showing replays all night long, and one of them ran the robot and the Dancer side by side, with a timer on them."

  “And the robot won?"

  Tojo nodded.

  “By how much?"

  “A couple hundredths of a second."

  “That’s nothing,” said Flint.

  “That’s enough,” replied the hunchback.

  “The Dancer was only facing one guy,” said Flint. “Maybe he could draw faster if he had to."

  “Maybe,” agreed Tojo reluctantly.

  “But you don’t believe it."

  “No."

  Flint sighed. “All right,” he said, getting to his feet. “Thanks for coming to me first with it."

  “What are you going to do?” asked Tojo.

  “I’ll think of something.” He walked to the door. “Get some sleep."

  “If I can be of any help . . .” offered Tojo.

  “If you can, I’ll let you know. And in the meantime, don’t tell anyone else what you told me—and especially not the Dancer. He’s likely to shoot it out right inside the ship if he thinks he can find such hot competition."

  They left the room and parted at the elevator bank, and a moment later Flint entered his partner’s office.

  “Lock the door,” he said.

  “I beg your pardon?” replied the blue man.

  “We’ve got some serious talking to do, and we don’t want to be disturbed."

  Mr. Ahasuerus shrugged and pressed a button on his desk console. “It is locked,” he announced.

  “Good,” said Flint. “Now pull out the bottle of Pinch that you’ve been keeping locked up in your desk since Mr. Romany’s last shipment from Earth. I need a drink."

  “I am sure I don’t know what you are talking about,” said Mr. Ahasuerus austerely.

  “You want me to walk over and pick the lock myself?” asked Flint irritably.

  “But I’ve been saving it for a special occasion,” protested the blue man.

  “This is as special as they get,” said Flint.

  Mr. Ahasuerus sighed and opened his desk drawer, while Flint looked at his newest piece of artwork, which was hanging just to the right of the door.

  “What do you do?” he asked, indicating the painting. “Go around to all the loony bins in the galaxy and pick up their used Rorschach tests?"

  “That was created by a poet and philosopher of Korindus XVI,” said the blue man, pulling out the bottle of Scotch from his bottom drawer.

  “It sure as hell wasn’t done by an artist, that’s for certain,” remarked Flint. He walked over to Mr. Ahasuerus and took the bottle from him.

  “Don’t you want a glass?” asked the blue man as Flint unscrewed the cap and took a long swallow.

  “Are you joining me?"

  “Certainly not."

  “Then this’ll do fine,” said Flint, taking another, smaller mouthful, and sitting down on an oddly-shaped chair.

  “Perhaps now you’d like to tell me what this is all about."

  “You want it straight from the shoulder, or do you want the kind of ten-minute lead-in that you’d give me?” asked Flint.

  “Straight from the shoulder will be satisfactory,” replied Mr. Ahasuerus.

  “You know that Tojo and Jiminy are back?"

  “I know,” said the blue man grimly. “I understand that the robot killed nine sentient beings."

  “Yeah. Well, Tojo think’s he’s going to kill a tenth when he goes up against the Dancer,” said Flint.

  Mr. Ahasuerus muttered something in his native tongue, the first time in Flint’s experience that he had done so. Finally he looked up at Flint. “We must cancel the fight,” he said in English.

  “Out of the question,” replied Flint. “For one thing, the Dancer’ll never stand for it."

  “But if he can’t win . . ."

  “I didn’t say he couldn’t win. I said Tojo thinks he can’t win."

  “And what do you think, Mr. Flint?"

  Flint shrugged. “I don’t know."

  “But you think he may be right?” persisted Mr. Ahasuerus.

  “It’s a strong possibility. Tojo says they compared tapes they made of the Dancer and the robot, and the robot is faster."

  “But this is terrible!” exclaimed the blue man. “If we allow Billybuck to go through with this, it will be nothing short of murder!"

  “Maybe,” said Flint. “What you’ve got to consider is that the robot is a machine; he’s always going to draw at the same speed. The Dancer’s a man; he might be able to draw faster if he knows he’s got to."

  “And he might not,” said Mr. Ahasuerus.

  “And he might not,” agreed Flint.

  “Then what are we to do?” asked the blue man desperately.

  Flint took another swig of Scotch. “There’s an alternative,” he said at last.

  “To call off the fight,” said the blue man firmly.

  “Stop talking nonsense,” said Flint irritably. “Even if you and I and the Dancer agreed to call it off, the Corporation would never let us get away with it. They’ve invested too much money."

  “Then what is your suggestion?"

  “You ain’t going to like it."

  “Let me be the judge of that, Mr. Flint."

  “We get hold of Borilliot, have him build a robot the Dancer can beat, pay him twice what it’s worth, and promise to slit his fat little neck if he ever tells anyone what he did.” He fumbled for a cigarette, found that he hadn’t brought any with him, and settled for another swallow from the Pinch bottle. “It’ll probably cost us every penny we’ve made, but at least we’ll keep the Dancer alive, and we can put the new robot in the show like we originally planned to do."

  The blue man shook his head. “It is too late,” he said unhappily.

  “What are you talking about?” scoffed Flint. “Borilliot can make one up in two weeks, and the fight is four months off."

  “That is not what I meant,” explained the blue man. “Kargennian was in touch with me this morning. Evidently more than half a billion credits have already been wagered. If we rig the fight, we’ll be perpetrating the biggest fraud in the Community’s history."

  “Half a billion?” asked Flint, curious in spite of himself. “Who’s the favorite?"

  “What difference does it make?” exploded Mr. Ahasuerus, pounding the polished desk with his fist. “We must see to it that the fight does not take place!"

  “Mr. Ahasuerus,” said Flint, “will you please try to get it through your thick blue skull that Kargennian isn’t about to return half a billion credits?"

  “But he must!"

  “Why? So you won’t have to make a decision?” said Flint sardonically. “Why don’t you just admit to yourself that there’s going to be a gunfight, and start figuring out just what kind of a gunfight we ought to have. And calm down—you look like you’re going to have a stroke."

  “How can I be calm, when you have presented me with two untenable positions?” said the blue man, his eyes
mirroring his distress. “All my life I have lived by a strict moral code. I have tried to uphold the values with which I was raised. Now I am presented with a situation not of my own making, in which, if I act, I will become a swindler on a galactic scale, and if I do not act, I will be an accomplice to murder. There is no easy way out of this predicament."

  “What ever made you think there would be?” said Flint. “We’re not living in one of Tojo’s books, where being strong or having good intentions automatically makes you a winner. This is the real world."

  “But what am I to do?” persisted the blue man. “Both courses of action are morally repugnant to me."

  “Then you decide which one is worse and you choose the other,” said Flint firmly. “And never forget: there’s always a chance that the Dancer might win."

  “If you thought so, you wouldn’t be here."

  “True,” admitted Flint. “But as hard as this may be for you to believe, I’ve been wrong before."

  “But if there is even a chance that the robot could win—"

  “If there wasn’t a chance, we wouldn’t have been able to put this fight together in the first place. What we’re concerned with now is whether or not the Dancer has a chance."

  “You make it all sound so simple,” said the blue man, staring blankly at the holograph just above Flint’s head.

  “It is,” replied Flint. “There’s a big difference between being easy and being simple. This is a simple situation to define; it’s not an easy one to solve."

  “You have usurped my authority so many times in the past, why did you not simply do it again in this case?” asked Mr. Ahasuerus bitterly.

  “Because we’ve got to be united on this one,” said Flint. “If we don’t get another robot and the Dancer dies, I don’t want you blaming me for the next twenty years. And if we do get another robot and someone finds out about it after the fight is over, we’re going to be in one hell of a lot of hot water; I don’t want you accusing me of putting you there against your will."

  The blue man stood up and walked over to an abstract construction that sat on a small table. He picked it up and began examining it absently. “If I weren’t here, what would you do?” he asked suddenly.

  “But you are here,” Flint pointed out. “You may wish you weren’t, but you wanted to run a business, and being here goes with the territory.” Flint paused and leaned back in his chair, idly playing with the Pinch bottle. “Besides, did it ever occur to you that maybe I’m getting sick and tired of being responsible for everyone else?” he said. “That I am goddamned fed up with being the only one who can decide how to make Gloria happy, and when to make Monk and Batman stop fighting, and whether to let Diggs fleece the other crew members, and whether Stogie will kill himself if he keeps working, and whether to let the Dancer face the robot or not?"