by Mike Resnick
"Which in turn cringes in fear of Santiago, a common criminal with a price on his head."
"Santiago is not the only Man with a price on his head," said Sitting Bull meaningfully. "You would do well to remember that."
"Is that a threat?" demanded Virtue. "If there's a price on my head, it was put there by a criminal on Pegasus—and if you try to cash in on it, you're going to find out just what happens to self-important aliens who go around killing human journalists! Have you got that straight?"
Sitting Bull merely stared at her and made no reply.
"Now let's talk business," said Virtue. "We're in a hurry."
The alien continued staring at her.
"Now listen, you—" she began heatedly.
The Swagman touched her arm. "That's enough," he said. "He's not trying to jack up the price; he means what he says. And in case you've forgotten, we're surrounded by his enforcers."
"Are you trying to tell me that we came all this way for nothing?" demanded Virtue. "We talk to him for thirty seconds and just give up, is that it?"
"Not entirely," replied the Swagman. "We can at least find out how the competition is doing." He turned back to Sitting Bull. "We also seek information that does not concern Santiago."
"I will listen."
"There is a bounty hunter known as the Angel. Where is he now?"
They went through the same ritual about whom such information could and could not damage, after which Sitting Bull acknowledged that he could come up with the Angel's present location in a matter of minutes. He summoned a blue alien named Vittorio, asked him something in a tongue Virtue could not identify, dismissed him, and turned back to the Swagman.
Then the haggling began. Sitting Bull demanded 20,000 Bonaparte francs; the Swagman laughed in his face and countered with 750 credits. Ten minutes later they were still at it, 236 credits apart, and finally the Swagman gave in. The negotiated bill came to 6,819 credits, payable in advance.
The Swagman dug into his pocket and pulled out a sheaf of bills. Vittorio was summoned, emerged from a nearby wigwam, said something to Sitting Bull, collected the money, and then positioned himself a few paces behind Sitting Bull, his thin arms folded across his narrow chest.
"Now we will smoke a peace pipe," announced Sitting Bull. "And then I will give you that which you have purchased."
He nodded, and a brown, sluglike creature that Virtue had thought was a log undulated over to him and produced a long, meticulously crafted wooden pipe from somewhere within the folds of its thick, crusted skin.
Sitting Bull withdrew a tiny laser device, rekindled the logs between himself and the two humans, and gestured to the yellow caterpillar, which slithered over, picked up a burning twig, and held it just above the end of the pipe. Sitting Bull took a number of deep puffs, grunted his satisfaction, and then passed the pipe to the Swagman, who filled his mouth with smoke, seemed to analyze the taste of it for an instant, and then released it.
When it was Virtue's turn, he handed it to her and whispered, "Don't inhale."
She followed his instructions, took a couple of mouthfuls of thick gray smoke, made sure nothing went down her throat, and finally blew them out.
"What is it?" she asked, making a face and handing the pipe to the yellow alien, who ambulated away with it. "It seemed sickly sweet."
"Some kind of hallucinogenic compound," he replied softly. "It's one of his favorite parlor tricks." He grimaced. "My guess is that he insists on smoking it just so he can watch humans make asses of themselves. Get one puff of that stuff in your system and you'd still be seeing things a week from now." He turned to Sitting Bull. "May I have my information?"
"Vittorio says that the man you seek is currently on the planet of Glenovar, in the system of Zeta Halioth."
The Swagman frowned. "You're sure?"
"I am sure."
"There's no possibility of a mistake, or that you might have the wrong man?"
"None."
"All right." He paused. "I'll give you one last opportunity to talk about Santiago. We are prepared to make you a very handsome offer."
"I will not betray Santiago."
"I thought your livelihood consisted of betraying Men," interjected Virtue coldly.
"Only to the detriment of other Men," replied Sitting Bull placidly.
The Swagman stood up and helped Virtue to her feet. "Then I think it's time that we took our leave of you."
"You seek no other information?"
"No."
"Are you not curious about a shipment of anthracite sculptures in transit from Pisgah to Genovaith Four?" suggested the feathered alien, his lips curled back in what seemed to be a grin.
The Swagman smiled back at him. "I was so curious about it that I gave orders to waylay it when it passed by the Karobus system. That would have occurred, oh, about an hour ago."
"Truly?"
"Truly," said the Swagman.
"You are a very resourceful villain, Jolly Swagman," said Sitting Bull.
"In that case, perhaps I should apply for membership in the Great Sioux Nation," he replied wryly.
"You are not acceptable," said Sitting Bull. "Your weapons have been placed in your vehicle." He turned away and waddled back to his wigwam.
After the feathered alien had disappeared behind a flap in the tent, the Swagman turned to Virtue.
"We've got problems," he announced grimly.
"Oh?"
He nodded. "The Angel's a lot closer to Santiago than I thought he'd be at this time."
"Closer than we are?" she demanded.
"Probably."
"How can that be? If you know who he's seeing, why didn't we see this person first?"
"I don't know who he's seeing. What I do know is that there are three or four lines of pursuit for someone who's hunting Santiago. We're following the one that's tied in to his smuggling operations; if the Angel's on Glenovar, he's following a money trail." He frowned. "And he's doing a damned good job of it: he's gotten as far in four weeks as you have in almost a year—and he didn't have Cain helping him. I've got a feeling that he's within three or four worlds of someone who can probably give him Santiago's headquarters planet, and might even be able to toss in his address and room number."
"Will Altair of Altair be able to do the same for Cain?" asked Virtue.
The Swagman shrugged. "I don't know. Perhaps."
"But you doubt it."
"I really don't know," he replied.
Virtue stood up and turned to Sitting Bull's wigwam.
"Hey. Sitting Bull!" she hollered. "Come back out."
The alien emerged a moment later.
"What is your price for killing the Angel?" she asked him.
He was silent for a minute, as if weighing his expenses.
"Five million credits," he announced at last.
"Five million?" she repeated incredulously. "You must be joking! That's more than the Democracy is offering for any criminal except Santiago!"
"It will take many of my warriors, and most of them will die." He paused. "The Songbird is a killer, and he is also your partner. Why do you not ask him to kill the Angel?"
"Because I'm asking you," she snapped, wondering irritably if there was anyone on the Frontier who didn't know she had teamed up with Cain.
"I have told you my price. Will you pay it?"
"Not a chance," she replied.
Sitting Bull went back into his wigwam without another word.
"Where will the Angel be heading after he leaves Glenovar?" asked Virtue as she and the Swagman began walking back to the landcar.
He shrugged. "Who knows? The Lambda Karos system, probably. Sooner or later most money trails pass through there."
"Perhaps we should try to get there first and eliminate his contact," she suggested.
"I don't know who his contact is—and even if I did know, I think it's a fair assumption that from this point on, all of his contacts are pretty good at taking care of themselves. You'd need a s
pecialist for that, someone like Cain."
"Well?" she said expectantly.
He sighed. "Out of the question. We also need him for our own line of inquiry. Of the three of us, he's the most likely to survive a meeting with Altair of Altair and some of the others who are waiting along the way. You have many wonderful qualities, Virtue—you lie and cheat and blackmail and bluff with great panache, and you're thoroughly delightful in bed—but you simply aren't a skilled professional killer."
Virtue took a deep breath, held it for perhaps half a minute, then released it explosively.
"You think the Angel is going to get there first, don't you?" she said bluntly.
He shrugged noncommittally. "The possibility exists."
Virtue stared at her companion for a long moment, and as she did so she found herself concluding that she had put her money on the wrong horse.
"Maybe I should go out to the Lambda Karos system and wait for him there," she suggested with what she hoped was the proper degree of detachment.
"Him?" repeated the Swagman. "You mean the Angel? What good would that do?"
She shrugged innocently. "Who knows? Maybe I can find some way to misdirect him, or at least slow him down." She paused. "At any rate, we'll have a clear idea of where he is and how fast he's progressing. That has to be of some use to us."
"I'm afraid you're being just a little transparent, my dear," replied the Swagman with the hint of an amused smile. "How can you possibly misdirect him if you don't know who his contact is, or what information the contact will feed him? As for having a clear idea of where he's at, that's infinitely less important than possessing a clear idea of where he's going." He paused, then chuckled and shook his head. "You haven't done your homework very well, Virtue: the Angel doesn't take partners. Ever."
"Who said anything about becoming the Angel's partner?" she demanded heatedly, annoyed with herself for being so obvious. "I just want to keep tabs on him, and possibly send him off in the wrong direction."
"Or accompany him in the right one," suggested the Swagman wryly.
"You're a very distrusting man," said Virtue. "I suppose it can be blamed on your upbringing."
"How about blaming it on my present company?"
"You can waste your time assessing the blame," she said. "I intend to spend mine hunting up the Angel."
"You're being foolish, my dear," said the Swagman. "Or perhaps you weren't listening to Sitting Bull as closely as you should have been."
"What are you talking about?"
"Sokol's still got a hit out on you. In fact, the only reason that Sitting Bull didn't have you killed the minute you landed is because you were with me, and I've sent a lot of business his way over the years. As soon as you go off by yourself, you're fair game again."
"Do you think I'm going to quake in terror over a squat little alien who lives in a tent?" she said with a laugh.
"It could be anyone you might meet. You don't know who Sokol may have contacted." He paused. "As for Sitting Bull, he doesn't look like much, and he doesn't surround himself with luxury, but he's a pretty formidable antagonist."
"And if I stay with you, you're going to protect me?"
"Indirectly. Most people don't like to offend me."
"At least Cain has had a little experience killing people."
He smiled. "I hire people like Cain, my dear."
They came to a fallen tree that was blocking their way and walked around it.
"What's the greatest single piece of alien artwork in the galaxy?" she asked suddenly.
He thought for a moment. "There's a mile-long tapestry on Antares Three," he said. "Forty generations of Antareans have worked on it, and it tells the history of their race in about two thousand exquisite scenes. I'd say that's about the rarest. Why?"
"What would you risk to get your hands on it?"
"Everything I have."
"Well, Santiago's the greatest single story in the galaxy, and I'll take whatever risk is necessary to find him."
"I should add that I wouldn't risk my life for that tapestry," said the Swagman.
"That's because you're not hungry anymore," said Virtue. "I still am. I want to be the best—and if seeing the Angel can help me get what I want, then I'm willing to do it."
They reached the landcar, and the Swagman picked his pistols up off the seat and put them back into his pockets.
"You're sure you won't reconsider?"
"I'm sure."
He sighed. "Then maybe I'd better go with you."
"There's no need for both of us to go out there. I'll keep you and Cain informed of his whereabouts." She paused. "I think your best course of action is to go to Altair and hook up with him there."
"Probably," he agreed reluctantly. "A question arises, however: How am I going to get there? My ship's back on Goldenrod."
"You're a resourceful man," said Virtue. "I'm sure you'll find a way." She paused. "Now please take me back to my ship."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then I'll walk, and the result will be the same, except that I'll tell Cain that you're working for the Angel and that he should kill you on sight."
The Swagman looked at her, surprised only that he felt no surprise. "I suppose you would, at that." He paused. "The nearest major planet is Kakkab Kastu Four. Can you at least drop me there?"
She considered his suggestion for a moment, then nodded. "I suppose another few hours doesn't matter, as long as I get where I'm going." She turned to him. "But you'll pay for the extra fuel."
"We'll subtract it from your half of Sitting Bull's fee."
"I never agreed to pay Sitting Bull," she said. "I could have gotten the same information from Cain."
"If he's still alive."
"If he's not, I want half the reward if you kill Santiago."
"You're quite an operator, my dear," said the Swagman, shaking his head with mock weariness.
"One does what one must," said Virtue.
"Spare me your platitudes," he said dryly.
"I consider them words to live by."
"Only until you meet the Angel," he predicted. "Then may God have mercy on your soul, for He'll be presented with it soon enough."
Part 3: The Jolly Swagman's Book
11.
Come if you dare, come but beware,
Come to the lair of Altair of Altair.
Offer a prayer for the men foul and fair,
Trapped in the snare of Altair of Altair.
* * * *
They tell a lot of stories about Altair of Altair out on the Frontier.
Some say that, like the Jolly Swagman, she was raised by aliens and grew up with a bitter hatred of her own race that the Swagman somehow avoided.
Others say she wasn't human at all, but that she could change her shape at will and enticed her victims to their deaths with an irresistible siren song.
Homer of Troy, the self-proclaimed People's Poet who spent half a lifetime trying unsuccessfully to write a saga of the Frontier that would rival Black Orpheus' epic in popularity, swore that she was a mutant who killed her enemies by the use of mental thunderbolts that shattered their minds.
There was even a group on Walpurgis III, a planet colonized by covens and devil-worshipers, that believed she was a devoted practitioner of the Black Arts who brought destruction through spells and potions.
As for Black Orpheus himself, he went directly to the source, as always. It took him almost a month to track her down after he'd reached the Altair system, and then he had to wait another week before she would agree to see him. When they finally met face to face, he took one look at her and decided that she was the most beautiful woman he had seen since the death of his beloved Eurydice.
By the time he left some twenty minutes later, he wasn't even sure that she was a woman—but he knew that she was the most formidable killer he had ever encountered.
He never spoke of her again, although he did write a couple of verses about her, and when others asked about Altair o
f Altair he always found a way to change the subject. Nobody knows what happened during their one brief meeting, but it obviously had a profound effect upon him, one that lasted for the remainder of his life.
One of the people who wished that Black Orpheus had written a little more about her was Sebastian Cain, if only so he would have some idea of what to expect when he finally reached her.
It had taken him two weeks to discover that she did not live on Altair III, but rather under it, and now he stalked, gun in hand, through the labyrinthian network of tunnels and corridors that led to her chamber. It had cost him ten thousand credits just to find out how and where to enter the seemingly endless maze, and he had then spent the better part of two days losing the trio of men who had been tailing him since he had touched down. Finally, reasonably certain that he was no longer being followed, he had entered the subterranean world of Altair of Altair.
That had been two hours ago. Since then the temperature had dropped somewhat, and the air had become dank and stale. The corridors themselves were illuminated by diffuse blue light that gave them a surreal glow, but none of them were marked or labeled, and after he found himself back where he had started, he withdrew a small knife and began carving crude directional symbols at every intersection.
He paused, wiped some sweat from his face, and cursed under his breath. There had to be a quicker way into her headquarters, and he decided to give himself one more hour. If he found her by then, well and good; if not, he would retrace his steps, return to the surface, take his money back from the man who had sold him his information and possibly kill him as well, and start his search all over again from scratch. If he went back to his hotel, he was sure to pick up his troika of followers once more; possibly he would separate one from the others and find some means, painless or otherwise, of extracting the information he needed.
He began walking again, wondering if he wouldn't be better off going immediately to the surface and searching for a more direct route. Then he came to yet another intersection and found that the right-hand tunnel glowed a rich red, as opposed to the usual blue. He entered it without hesitation.
