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

by Mike Resnick

  “Doc Holliday, born 1852, died 1887. Born again 1987, died 1987.” Tojo looked up. “It sounds eerie."

  “Think of what some exploration team from Earth will think when they stumble across it a few thousand years from now,” replied Flint with a smile.

  Tojo stared at the headstones for another minute, then turned to Flint. “I’m going to go back to the ship,” he announced. “I don’t know why, but these things make me nervous."

  Flint gave them one last glance. “I’ll come with you. It’s too goddamned hot to be walking around in the sun. I don’t know how Arizonans get through the day."

  They turned back onto Fourth Street and started walking toward the ship, which was about half a mile distant.

  “Hold on a minute,” said Flint, ducking into the general store and emerging a moment later with a piece of licorice. He tore it in half and held out a piece for Tojo. “Want some?"

  “No, thank you."

  He shrugged, put it into his pocket, and bit into the other piece.

  “Shit!” he muttered, spitting it out onto the dirt.

  “What’s the matter?” asked the hunchback.

  “Wax,” he said. “Or something like it.” He shrugged. “It’s my own damned fault for thinking Kargennian was a classy guy. I should have known he’d cut every corner he could. I can’t wait to take that bastard’s money tomorrow."

  “Thaddeus . . ."

  “Yeah?"

  “What are you going to do with the real robot?” asked Tojo. “What if somebody finds it?"

  Flint grinned. “We’ve got to bury something in the Holliday grave, don’t we?” He paused. “Borilliot will announce that he’s got to remove some valuable parts from the robot’s brain or innards or somewhere before we bury him, and he’ll make the switch; it was included in his fee. Then, a month or so from now, after he’s had a chance to patch the ringer up and make it a little more durable, we’ll announce that we’ve bought a new Doc Holliday from him, and that’ll be that."

  “It sounds simple,” agreed Tojo.

  “It is,” he replied. “Now let’s go tell the press what a close contest it’s going to be, and hope nobody sees that we’ve got our fingers crossed."

  Chapter 18

  The Dancer he growled,

  The Dancer he glared,

  The Dancer he spoke,

  And his soul he bared.

  “Now, Doc,” said the Dancer,

  “You should understand, sir,

  I must have the answer

  Before I can rest.”

  “And so I demand, sir,"

  Said Billybuck Dancer,

  “You ready your hand, sir,

  To see who’s the best.”

  “You haven’t a chance, sir,"

  Said Billybuck Dancer.

  “Now heed my command, sir,

  And on with the test!"

  And the Doc he smiled,

  And the Doc he grinned,

  And the Doc he roared

  Like a howling wind.

  “All right, fill your hand, sir,

  Young Billybuck Dancer,

  If you think you can, sir:

  I’ve just acquiesced.

  “To tell you my plan, sir,

  I aim to remand, sir,

  To Billybuck Dancer

  A hole in his chest.”

  “My gun I will fan, sir,

  And Billybuck Dancer

  Will make his last stand, sir,

  And soon lie at rest."

  —from “The Ballad of Billybuck Dancer"

  “What was that?” shrieked Jenny, pulling the covers up over her breasts.

  “Alarm clock,” muttered Flint, swinging his feet over the side of the bed and rubbing his face and scalp briskly.

  “But you don’t have an alarm clock!” said Jenny, blinking very rapidly and trying to clear her mind.

  “Same thing,” said Flint, feeling around on the floor for his pants and starting to slip them on. “I told the ship’s computer to buzz me on the intercom at four o’clock."

  “What in the world is so important that you have to do it at four in the morning, Thaddeus?” she asked.

  “A couple of last-minute arrangements for the fight,” he answered, putting on his shirt and hunting around the darkened compartment for his shoes and socks. He stubbed a toe, bellowed an obscenity, and continued searching more delicately.

  “I’ll be glad when that damned gunfight is finally over,” said Jenny, lying back down on the bed.

  “You and me both,” agreed Flint. “Where the hell are my shoes?"

  “I don’t know,” she said sleepily. “Come back to bed and forget about your shoes."

  “Not just now,” he replied. After another minute of futile fumbling, he turned on the light. “Son of a bitch!” he murmured. “How the hell did they get on my desk?"

  “Turn it off!” moaned Jenny, rolling onto her stomach and sticking a pillow over her head while Flint donned his footware.

  He walked over to the bed, lifted the covers, took a long, approving look at what lay beneath them, gave Jenny a fond pat on her buttocks, and walked out the door of his compartment, switching off the light as he went. He strode the length of the empty corridor to the elevator bank, summoned one that took him down to the bowels of the ship, and emerged a moment later. The storage area was silent and deserted, a huge maze of rooms filled to overflowing with crates and boxes, some of which had not been opened since Flint had joined the Corporation. He was aware of the hollow echo of his footsteps as he walked across the highly polished floor, and the grotesque shape of his shadow in the dim light. Finally he found the room he sought, opened the door, tried unsuccessfully to find the light switch, and decided to make do with the diffused light that trickled in from the corridor.

  There were numerous boxes stacked neatly around the compartment, and he began opening the larger ones at random. The first contained two of Gloria Stunkel’s breakaway evening gowns, the second held an aluminum stool for Monk’s long-departed animals, and the third housed a trio of dummies from the time when Stogie was thinking about becoming a ventriloquist.

  “Looking for something, Thaddeus?” drawled a soft, amused voice.

  Flint stood erect and wheeled around, peering into the shadows at the back of the room.

  “Maybe I can help you,” said the Dancer, stepping out from behind a pair of upright crates. “Catch."

  A small round object flew out of the darkness toward Flint in a gentle arc.

  Flint caught it, held it up, and stared at it. “What the hell have you done?” he demanded.

  “Maybe I should ask you the same thing,” replied the Dancer pleasantly.

  “You’re going to look pretty goddamned silly fighting a headless robot," said Flint.

  “It ain’t from my robot, Thaddeus,” said the Dancer. “It’s from yours."

  “What are you talking about?"

  The Dancer stepped forward so that Flint could make out some of his features instead of just his outline. “I come down here every night to talk to the Doc,” explained the sharpshooter patiently. “Of course,” he added with a smile, “since he’s turned off he don’t say nothing back, but he’s a real good listener. Anyhow,” he continued, “one day a couple of months back there was a new box in the room, and I got a little curious about it, so during a lull in the conversation I moseyed over to see what was in it."

  Suddenly his smile vanished, to be replaced by a look of hurt. “You didn’t have no right to make another one, Thaddeus."

  “Then you knew about it all along?” demanded Flint.

  The Dancer nodded. “Yep. But I figured if I ripped it up too soon, you might get another, so I waited for tonight.” He walked to one of the upright crates and opened it to reveal what very little remained of the second Holliday robot.

  “You asshole!” exploded Flint. “Do you know how much that machine cost me?"

  “You shouldn’t of done it,” said the Dancer placidly.


  “You just tore thirty-five million credits to shreds!” ranted Flint. “Plus ten million more to keep that ugly little red bastard quiet! Do you know how much money that is?"

  “Don’t make no difference. You done wrong."

  “Shut up!” Flint tried to pull a cigarette out of his pocket inadvertently broke it in half, and hurled the rest of the pack against a wall. The robot’s head followed a second later, bouncing off the wall with a sickening thud. “Do you know how long I had to work for that fucking money?” He began pacing back and forth down the length of the room. “Do you have any goddamned idea what you just did? I spent damned near every penny I had just to save your stupid fucking life, and you tear the goddamned robot apart!"

  “What are you talking about?” asked the Dancer, frowning. “I’m gonna win."

  “You’re going to lose!” snapped Flint. He made a conscious effort to control his temper and lower his voice. “They ran a tape of you and the robot back on Darbeena, and he’s faster."

  The Dancer stared at him, puzzled. “You mean your robot was slower?” he asked at last.

  “Of course it was slower. What the hell did you think it was?"

  “I just figured it was a robot that could get back up and fight me every time we hit a new planet,” said the Dancer sincerely. “I figured you didn’t want a fight to the death like everyone’s talking about."

  Flint shook his head. “I don’t care if you kill the robot,” he said slowly, articulating each word as if speaking to a child. “I just wanted to make sure he didn’t kill you."

  “You really think I’ll lose?” asked the Dancer, his voice curious but unperturbed.

  “Yes,” answered Flint reluctantly, squinting into the darkness and trying unsuccessfully to see the expression on the sharpshooter’s face. “Yes, I do."

  “And they really clocked him out faster ’n me?"

  Flint nodded.

  “Well,” said the Dancer, turning his head just enough for Flint to see his satisfied smile, “it ought to be an interesting fight."

  “Don’t you understand what I’m telling you?” persisted Flint.

  “Uh-huh,” said the Dancer, moving to the middle of the room and sitting down atop a large box. “You’re telling me that I’m finally gonna face someone who’s got a chance."

  “He’s got more than a chance, Dancer,” said Flint, walking over to his cigarettes and picking them up off the floor. “Don’t you understand? They ran the two of you side by side, and he’s faster. Not by much, but faster."

  “I wouldn’t want him any other way,” said the Dancer, his face mirroring his happiness. “He’s the best opponent a man could have."

  “You just don’t understand!"

  The Dancer chuckled softly. “Sure I do, Thaddeus,” he replied with an amiable smile. “But no one would remember the O.K. Corral if Doc and the Earps had faced a bunch of kids or cripples, and ain’t no one gonna remember me for killing that Darbeenan feller.” He looked into Flint’s eyes. “You measure a man by what he beats, Thaddeus—not by what he avoids."

  “And what if he beats you?” asked Flint, lighting up a cigarette.

  “If it is in the cards, then that’s the way it’ll be,” answered the Dancer with a shrug.

  “You still think you can win!” exclaimed Flint in disbelief.

  “Old Doc ain’t never going to get no faster,” said the Dancer. “Me, I plan to."

  “You mean you can draw faster than you did on Darbeena?"

  The Dancer shrugged again. “Who knows? I guess we’ll all find out tomorrow."

  “You act like this is some kind of game,” said Flint. “Well, let me tell you— it isn’t.” He paused. “And stop calling him Doc."

  “That’s his name."

  “But he’s a robot, not Doc Holliday. Try to get that through your head. He’s not going to wake up coughing, because he doesn’t have any lungs. If it’s windy or raining, he’s got twenty trillion circuits that will take it into account and allow for it in less time than you can measure. If he stands facing the sun, he’ll adjust the prismatic lenses in his eyes so he can still see you. He’ll never need a cane, or have a muscle cramp, or an upset stomach, or a headache, or a hangover.” Flint paused for breath. “He’s not Doc Holliday. He’s a goddamned killing machine!"

  “If he’s faster than the Doc, so much the better,” said the Dancer after seeming to consider what he’d heard.

  “You mean that!” said Flint in wonderment. “You really mean it!"

  “That’s the way I want it,” said the Dancer. “Just once, I got to face someone good."

  “Even if he kills you?"

  The Dancer nodded. “Even so. Ain’t nobody I know of ever avoided dying, Thaddeus. The best a man can do is choose when and how . . . and I can’t think of no better way than facing Doc Holliday on the streets of Tombstone."

  Flint ground his cigarette out on the floor and immediately lit another.

  “Look,” he said, starting to pace again. “We can call the fight off—postpone it for a month. I can get Fuzzy-Wuzzy to testify that you’ve sprained your gun hand or something like that. Then, during the interim, I’ll have Borilliot make the robot exactly the same speed as you. Hell,” he added, “we might even make enough extra money with another four weeks of betting to pay for the one you destroyed. What do you say to that?"

  “I say no."

  “But, damn it, Dancer. I thought you wanted a fair contest!” yelled Flint. “This one is rigged for the robot!"

  “He don’t care if he wins or loses,” said the Dancer gently. “I do. That evens up the odds."

  “By the same token, he also won’t care if we rig him to draw two hundredths of a second slower."

  “Probably not,” agreed the Dancer. “But I will. This is the fight you set up; this is the fight that’s gonna take place."

  “Damn it, Dancer!” said Flint, unable to decide whether he was sad or furious. “All of the talking in the world isn’t going to make him any slower, and it’s not going to make you any faster."

  “Then I guess we’re all through talking,” said the Dancer with a shrug.

  “No!” Flint slammed the flat of his hand into a bulkhead. “I’m not sending you out to get killed, and that’s that!"

  “You ain’t sending me nowhere,” said the Dancer serenely. “I’m going because I want to."

  “But you just don’t understand . . ."

  “You’re worried about me, and I appreciate it, Thaddeus. I truly do. But I’ve been waiting for something like this since I was seventeen, and I can’t let you take it away from me. I know you don’t believe it, but I’d rather be shot down by someone faster than me than spend the rest of my life never knowing if I was the best or not."

  “A fat lot of good it’ll do you,” muttered Flint.

  “Dying ain’t the worst thing that can happen to a man, Thaddeus,” said the Dancer. “Sometimes living’s worse, if he don’t know what he’s living for. And besides,” he added with a smile, “I don’t aim to lose."

  “He’s faster,” replied Flint wearily.

  “Sometimes being faster ain’t enough. Maybe I’ll crouch down when I draw, like the Sundance Kid used to do."

  Flint shook his head sadly. “He’ll adjust. He can think faster than you can."

  “And maybe I’ll just beat him because I want it more than he does."

  “I can’t let you face him, Dancer,” said Flint.

  “You ought to be just about the last guy in the world to stop someone from doing what he wants, Thaddeus,” replied the Dancer.

  “What makes you think so?"

  “’Cause nobody ever stopped you,” answered the Dancer with a gentle smile. “Remember when you kidnapped Mr. Ahasuerus and all the other aliens? We all told you not to, but you did it anyway."

  “We were starving,” said Flint. “And besides, it all worked out in the end."

  “It worked out when you wanted it to,” the Dancer reminded him. “You kept ’em
like animals. Everyone bitched about it, but you did what you thought you had to do—and when you thought you had to turn ’em loose, you did that, too.” Flint stared at him, but said nothing. “And even before that, no one could ever tell you what to do. If you wanted to go north and we all wanted to play Florida, we went north. If you wanted the girls to work strong and they didn’t want to, they worked strong. When Jupiter wanted more animals and you didn’t see any need for ’em, he didn’t get ’em."

  “There were decisions to be made,” said Flint. “Someone had to make them."

  The Dancer shook his head. “Not someone, Thaddeus—you. That’s the way you are. Like when you decided Monk and Batman had fought long enough, you saw to it that they never went into the ring again."

  “I had nothing to do with that,” said Flint defensively.

  “Come on, Thaddeus—I was there. Those two guys didn’t have no problem that wasn’t of their own making until the night you got sick and tired of what they were doing.” He paused and smiled again. “I ain’t saying that what you done is good or bad, Thaddeus. I’m saying that it was what you wanted to do— and now I’m asking you to let me do what I want to do."

  “I never wanted to kill myself."

  “Neither do I. But I seen you take on a hell of a lot of rubes and cops and unhappy husbands who were bigger and stronger than you, and you never let nobody tell you not to. So why are you telling me what I got to do?"

  “It’s not the same thing,” said Flint uneasily. “You’re . . . well . . ."

  “A little bit crazy?” asked the Dancer. He chuckled. “Don’t look so upset. I heard you say it often enough. Well, maybe I am.” The smile vanished. “But maybe I looked at things only I could see, and now, tomorrow, everyone’s gonna get a chance to see ’em—so maybe I ain’t so crazy after all. Maybe Jiminy was like kind of a sign, the way he turned into Doc Holliday that first day he was on the ship. If you want something as bad as I want this gunfight, if you wish for it as hard and as long as I been wishing for this, then maybe it’s just got to come true.” He paused. “It’s gonna take place in seven or eight more hours, Thaddeus. Don’t make it not come true."