by Mike Resnick
“Then how do we expect to approach Petrus, let alone land on it and make the switch?” asked Djibmet.
“I’m working on it,” said Pretorius.
“Is that the only answer we’re to be given?” demanded Djibmet.
“I could tell you the thirty-four approaches I’m considering and let you pick holes in each of them,” answered Pretorius, “but I’d rather wait until I had one that was foolproof.”
“He’s the best,” added Snake, “or they’d never trust him with this mission. Once it works, the damned war’ll be over in a year, our Michkag will make peace, and the combination of the Democracy and the Coalition will be all but invulnerable.”
At least I’m traveling with an optimist, thought Pretorius wryly.
Circe couldn’t read his thought, but she had no problem reading his reaction and smiled.
He sighed. Yeah, I know. The only thing worse is for nobody to believe in this thousand-to-one scheme.
“So do we just cool our heels here in No Man’s Land for a month?” asked Pandora.
“We’ll keep busy,” replied Pretorius. “It’ll give our Michkag another month to prepare for his impersonation. It’ll give you time to monitor more of their messages. It’ll give all of us time to probe for weaknesses. Also, in a few days I’ll adjust the ship’s gravity and atmosphere to match that of Petrus IV.”
“There’s a couple of pretty powerful pulse weapons that we didn’t jettison,” said Ortega. “We might start practicing with them, and maybe even hunt up some more on some of these worlds out here.”
“Waste of time,” said Pretorius.
“Oh?”
“We’re going to be five Men and an imposter on a planet that, for the duration we’re there, will be the most heavily guarded world in the Coalition. If there are less than half a million uniformed Kabori there I’d be surprised. Short of slipping a Q-bomb into a molar and blowing the whole world to smithereens—and nine out of ten Q bombs never detonate—just how much difference do you think heavy artillery will make?”
Ortega’s prosthetic face contorted into a hideous grimace.
“I just hate it when you lay it out like that,” he growled. “I like to think we have a chance of succeeding in this damned enterprise.”
“We do,” replied Pretorius. “But not by outshooting the bad guys.” He saw Djibmet offer the Kabori equivalent of a frown. “Excuse me,” he continued. “I misspoke. We won’t do it by outshooting the temporary enemy.”
The Kabori inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment.
“So we just float here for a month and hope no one will spot or question us?” said Snake.
“Not exactly,” answered Pretorius. “As we learn more about their defenses, we’ll gradually get closer to them. We’ll stop on the occasional planet where we might pick up something useful.”
“Useful?” asked Circe.
“Information, for the most part.”
“For the most part?” persisted Snake. “What else?”
Pretorius shrugged. “You never know.”
“I know you are good at your trade,” began Djibmet.
“The best,” said Snake.
“The best,” said Djibmet. “Therefore, I cannot believe that you have as little planned as you say. Are you—what is the expression?—are you holding out on us for some reason?”
Pretorius smiled. “As a matter of fact I am.”
“Do you distrust us?”
“No. At various times my life will be in each of your hands. If I distrusted any of you, I wouldn’t have accepted the assignment or solicited the aid of those assembled here.”
“Then why are you unwilling to confide in us?”
“Because our next port of call is not going to meet with universal approval aboard this ship,” answered Pretorius.
“Oh?” said Snake.
“Where are we headed?” asked Pandora.
“I’d like to know too,” said Circe.
Pretorius took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly. “We’re going to McPherson’s World.”
“There’s only one thing on McPherson’s World,” said Pandora.
“A Tradertown?” suggested Ortega.
“A Tradertown with the most notorious whorehouse on this side of the galaxy!” snapped Pandora.
Circe closed her eyes and concentrated. “He’s not kidding,” she said, frowning.
“A whorehouse!” repeated Snake angrily. “The most important mission in the history of the Democracy, and he’s stopping off at a whorehouse!”
Pretorius stared at Djibmet. “You had to ask,” he said at last.
8
The Tradertown was named for McPherson, as was the world, though no one quite remembered who he was or why he’d stopped there long enough to give the world his name. It was rumored that he’d found gold or fissionable materials there, but a couple of survey teams, three centuries apart, concluded that there was nothing worthwhile on the planet. It had some underground water (which had to be purified) and some sunny days (and one had to protect against the strong ultraviolet rays of its yellow-orange sun). There was enough vegetation to keep a few thousand herbivores alive, and enough predators to keep their herds from increasing, but most species stayed far away from the Tradertown.
McPherson—the town, not the planet—consisted of a landing field, a boardinghouse, a message-forwarding station, a spare parts shop for the more popular types of smaller spaceships, a general store that sold everything from dry goods to medicine to antique weaponry, and then there was Madam Methuselah’s, which had a fame far out of proportion to both its size and clientele.
From the outside it looked like a run-of-the-mill boardinghouse, with absolutely nothing special about it. The interior gave lie to that. The walls were covered with exotic and erotic art from half a hundred worlds; there was a huge, elegant bar, a trio of smaller drug dens—each accommodating a number of different races—and perhaps fifty elegant rooms, most of them hidden unobtrusively below ground level.
It was a brothel, with females of more than a dozen races, and a few males as well. It had been patronized by dictators, kings, and celebrities from all fields of endeavor. It was even said that the legendary Santiago himself had once stopped in, though no one really believed it.
There was one person who could have confirmed it, or definitively denied it, and that was Madam Methuselah, who was the most exotic thing about the brothel, for she had been its madam since the day it had opened some eight centuries earlier. She looked like a woman in her early twenties, though some said her eyes, which had seen so much, appeared ancient. But the madam wore no makeup, never dyed her hair or wore a wig, had not undergone cosmetic surgery or spent a day away from the brothel in half a millennium, and yet she possessed not a wrinkle nor a single gray hair, and she moved with the grace of a woman not long out of her teens.
Which is not to say that she didn’t rule her domain with an iron fist. There were other brothels around the galaxy, some on nearby worlds, but Madam Methuselah’s was unique for two of the services it offered: privacy and confidentiality. Not necessarily between bedmates, although that was private and confidential as well. But when people, often of different races, required absolute privacy in which to consummate their business, be it economic, military, or political, they knew that the madam would provide them a soundproof, windowless room that had no hidden microphones or holo cameras, and that there would be no record anywhere of their having been there.
Her rules were strict, and her word was the only law in the only town on this world. Her assistants—she disliked the words “bouncers” and “enforcers”—were unobtrusive until a weapon was drawn or a prostitute was abused, and then their response was swift and deadly. A running total of recently deceased rule-breakers was kept on the wall over the magnificent polished bar as a reminder that civilized behavior was not only requested but insisted upon.
Madam Methuselah herself was not beyond conducting some private business of he
r own—not sexual business, for it had been hundreds of years since anyone had seen her take a client to bed, but business of a different sort. Many a man or woman came to the brothel, sat down for a private conversation with the madam, and left a few minutes later with the information they had come for. She never sold such information but rather traded it, so that she always had new information to trade and hence new reasons for people to make the trip to McPherson’s World and perhaps spend a day or a night sampling the brothel’s more usual services while they were there.
She was waiting for Pretorius when he entered.
“Hello, Nathan. They told me your ship had landed.” She smiled at him. “It’s been awhile. Are you here to fertilize any of my frail flowers?”
“Have I ever?”
“One can always hope. Let’s have a drink in the bar, and then we’ll go to my quarters for a chat.”
“Let’s skip the bar,” said Pretorius.
“That’s not like you, Nathan.”
“I’ve got three furious women on my ship who only half-believe I’m here to talk. The sooner I get back there, the better.”
“Three?” she said, arching an eyebrow. “I think your eyes are bigger than your—”
“Don’t say it,” he interrupted, and she laughed.
“All right,” she said. “Follow me.”
She led him through the bar to the elegant entrance of an airlift.
A moment later they had ascended to the expansive and beautifully furnished fourth floor, which constituted her living quarters and was filled with eight centuries of memorabilia.
“Computer,” she said, “secure this level.” She turned to Pretorius. “Have a seat, Nathan.”
“Thanks,” he said, sitting in a chair that immediately changed its shape to conform to his body.
“I heard you had some difficulty on your last assignment,” she said, lighting up a thin Altairian cigar.
“There are bits of me all the hell over the galaxy,” he acknowledged. “The last one was no different.”
“And you’re on another one now?”
He nodded.
“Care to tell me about it?” she asked.
“This one you’ll have to keep to yourself.”
She grimaced. “For how long?”
“You’ll know when.”
She considered it for a moment, then nodded her consent.
“I need two things,” he continued “First, I need to know exactly when Michkag is due to land on Petrus IV.”
If the mention of Michkag’s name surprised her she didn’t show it.
“Thirty-four Standard days from now.”
“He’s moved it up?” said Pretorius.
“I don’t know what your information was,” she replied. “I just know when he’s due there.”
“Okay, thanks.”
She smiled at him. “Come on, Nathan. I’m sure you needed that, but you could have gotten it other places. What’s the second thing you need?”
He stared at her for a long moment. “I need a shape-changer, and I need it soon.”
A broad smile spread across her face. “You’re going to try to replace Michkag!” She took a deep breath, exhaled it slowly, and shook her head. “You’ll never get away with it, Nathan. When’s the last time you touched a doorknob or a computer or damned near anything else that didn’t read your DNA?”
Pretorius saw no reason to tell her about the clone, so he merely shrugged. “I don’t create the plans,” he responded. “I just carry them out.”
“Oh, come on, Nathan, everyone at your level improvises. At least tell me that I’m wrong, that this isn’t what you want a shape-changer for.”
“You’re wrong,” said Pretorius. “This isn’t want I want a shape-changer for.”
She stared at him intently. “I can’t tell if you’re lying or not.”
He grinned at her. “Good. I’m getting better at this. Maybe I’ll join the Diplomatic Corps.”
“If you live through this foolishness,” she said.
He nodded seriously. “If I live through it.”
“You know there are only three shape-changing races in the galaxy,” she said, “none of them especially friendly to the Democracy, none of them especially inimical to the Coalition—and unless some of the major wormholes have moved, none of them within twenty days of the Orion constellation.”
“If it was easy, I wouldn’t be spending time talking to you while three women aboard my ship are planning a humiliating death for me for coming here,” he said with a smile.
“All right,” she said. “You’ll have to stretch the definition, but I can help you.”
“Stretch the definition?” he repeated, frowning.
“If he—or it, I’m really not sure which—functions as a shape-changer, do you really care what he is?”
“He can change into any shape the situation calls for?” persisted Pretorius.
“Any living shape,” she replied. “I very much doubt that he could pass for a hospital or a spaceship.”
“That’s no problem. Even the Domarians can’t do that, and they’re supposed to be the most accomplished shape-changers in the galaxy.”
“Good,” said Madam Methuselah. “Then I’ll be able to help my old friend”—she suddenly stared hard into his eyes—“who will not forget that he owes me one—a big one.”
“I won’t forget.”
“You had better succeed in this cockamamie scheme, whatever it is. Dead men never pay their debts.”
“I assure you it is my earnest intention to live through it,” he said with a smile.
“Good. Then I think I shall help you.” She got up, walked to a nearby bar, opened a bottle of Alphard brandy, and filled two exquisite crystal glasses, carrying one over to Pretorius and sitting down with the other.
“Thanks,” he said, taking a sip. “Good as ever.”
“We don’t water the liquor or misrepresent the frail flowers,” she replied. “All right, Nathan. The creature you want—there’s no sense pretending he’s a Man—is Gzychurlyx.”
“Say that name again?”
She did so.
He sighed. “I’ll die of old age before I pronounce it right.” He finished his brandy. “Is he here?”
“In the house?” she asked, surprised.
“On the planet.”
She shook her head. “No. I heard he was on Belore V last week. I imagine he’s still there.”
“You’re sure?”
“Unless a countryman has made his bail, and he’s the only one of his kind I’ve ever seen or even heard of.”
“How many jails has Belore got?”
“Just one,” she replied. “It’s not much more heavily populated than this world.”
“Okay,” he said, getting to his feet. “I’d better get back to the ship and convince them that I actually did come away with information,” he said with a wry smile.
“Good luck,” she said, rising and walking him to the door. “I’ll be watching. So to speak.”
“Thanks,” he said. “And I owe you one.”
“Maybe only a half,” she said as he stepped out into the hall.
He frowned. “A half?”
“He’s got a shortcoming.”
Pretorius was about to ask what she was referring to, but the door had already slid shut, and a burly assistant was escorting him to the airlift and then out the door.
9
Belore V was a dirtball of a planet. Not much grew on it, not many people chose to live on it. The air was a little thin, the gravity a little heavy, the sun a little hot . . . but its location was perfect for a huge gambling emporium that catered to all races. It was almost exactly equidistant between Deluros, Orion, Sett, and the headquarters of four minor alien empires. One had only to look at the spaceport to see the vast array of races that frequented the casino.
Pretorius set the Goodwill down in that section reserved for ships of its type, about three miles from the small town that en
circled the huge building, then had the computer pinpoint the jail.
“You must be feeling a bit cramped in this ship,” he announced to the others. “Unlike McPherson’s World, there’s actually something for you to do here, so if you want to take a few hours at the casino, grab an upscale meal, or just breathe a little of what passes for fresh air here, go ahead, since I don’t know the next time you’ll have an opportunity to do so.” He turned to Circe. “All except you. I want you with me. And of course Michkag can’t be seen, so you’ll have to stay on the ship.”
“I will remain with him,” announced Djibmet.
“Okay,” said Pandora. “I’ve activated the ship’s security and tied it into the spaceport’s security headquarters, so we’ll be under a double watch while we’re gone—our own and theirs. The password is ‘football.’”
“What the hell is football?” asked Snake.
“A human sport from a few thousand years ago,” answered Pandora. “Remember to say it when you touch any part of the ship after we leave it, or you’re going to get one hell of a correction.”
“Correction?” asked Ortega, frowning.
“Shock,” she replied. “Not lethal, but it’ll knock you on your ass for a few minutes.”
“All right,” said Pretorius as the airlock’s door slid into the hull and a stairway lowered to the ground. “Try not to come back drunk or dead broke.”
Pandora checked the security one more time, nodded her approval, and Snake and Ortega left the ship. She followed them a moment later, and a driverless vehicle pulled up within seconds, waited for them to enter, and raced off toward the casino.
“You ready?” asked Pretorius.
“Let’s go,” replied Circe, walking to the airlock.
They climbed down, and when the ship sensed that they were on the ground the stairway retracted and the airlock was instantly sealed.
A vehicle appeared almost instantly and paused while they climbed aboard.
“Welcome to Belore V,” it said. “Have you reservations at the hotel?”
“No,” said Pretorius.
