by Mike Resnick
The star charts called it Boyson III. Locally it was known as The Frenchman's World.
In the beginning it had been a wild, untamed jungle planet, covered with dense vegetation and a plethora of exotic animals. Then Man had moved in, had killed most of the animals and plowed under the jungle, and had turned it into an agricultural world, supplying food for all the nearby mining planets. But within twenty years alien viruses destroyed the imported meat animals, the imported corn and wheat, and even the hybrid animals and crops. After that the colonists all went elsewhere, and Boyson III slowly reverted back into a jungle world over the next six centuries.
Then the Frenchman had arrived. They said that he'd spent his whole life collecting alien animals for zoos back in the Democracy, and that he had retired to Boyson III to spend his remaining years hunting for sport. He had erected a sprawling white house on the banks of a wide river, had invited some friends to join him, and eventually word of the hunting leaked out and a small safari industry developed.
All that had been more than 200 years ago. The Frenchman's World hadn't changed much in the interim, except that its wildlife had been pretty thoroughly decimated, and only a handful of guides remained, the rest having migrated to newly-opened worlds where their clients could fill their trophy rooms with less effort.
It was estimated that the permanent human population of The Frenchman's World was now less than two hundred. One of them, who was said to be the last man to have been born on the planet, had moved into the Frenchman's old house and created his own private landing strip by the river.
His name was Joshua Jeremiah Chandler. He had been a very successful hunter in his youth, but no one had seen him on the safari trail in almost a decade. He was known, initially on the Frenchman's World and finally all across the Inner Frontier, as the Whistler, from a trick he had of whistling to get an animal's attention just before he shot it. He was a very private, even secretive, man, who kept his business and his thoughts to himself. He was gone from the planet for long periods of time, and he did almost all his banking on other worlds. No mail or radio messages ever came for him, though from time to time a small ship landed at his strip by the river.
The Iceman's ship was the most recent to touch down, and as he walked up the long, winding path to the house, he found himself sweating profusely in the heat and the humidity, and wondering why anyone would choose to live in such surroundings. He slapped a purple-and-gold flying insect that had landed on the side of his neck, barely avoided stepping on a nasty-looking horned reptile that hissed at him and scuttled off into the thick undergrowth, and mopped his face with a handkerchief.
When he emerged from the bush, he climbed a stone staircase and found himself standing on a large deck that extended far out over the river. The water was teeming with life: huge aquatic marsupials, delicate watersnakes, long ugly reptiles, all swam among a plethora of colorful fish that dwelt near the surface. The forest that lined the water had been cleared from the far bank, so that observers on the deck could watch herbivores coming down to the river to drink. Right now there were clouds of butterflies flying low over the water, and a score of avians walked methodically across the clearing, pecking at the ground, while a handful of waterbirds waded in the shallows, searching for small fish.
The Iceman heard a glass door slide into a wall, and a moment later a tall, lean, auburn-haired man in his late thirties walked out onto the deck. He was dressed in a nondescript brown outfit that seemed to have pockets everywhere. A large-brimmed hat shaded his eyes from the glare of the sun.
“I see you made it,” said Chandler by way of greeting.
“You're a hard man to find, Whistler,” replied the Iceman.
“You managed.” Chandler paused. “Care for a drink?”
The Iceman nodded. “Please.”
“I really ought to charge you,” said Chandler with an amused smile as he led the Iceman into the interior of the house. “I don't recall you ever giving me a free drink back on Last Chance.”
“And you never will,” said the Iceman, returning Chandler's smile. The room in which he found himself was quite large, and the cool stone floor, whitewashed walls, and widespread eaves helped to dissipate the heat. There were a few stuffed chairs, covered with the pelts of native animals, a rug made of the head and fur of a large carnivore, a small book-and-tape case, a subspace radio set, and a clock made of some strange translucent substance that seemed to be forever shimmering and changing colors. The walls were lined with framed wanted posters, each depicting an outlaw that Chandler had killed or captured.
“Interesting trophies,” commented the Iceman, gesturing to the posters.
“People make the best hunting,” answered Chandler. He walked behind a hardwood bar and opened a small refrigerator. “What'll it be?”
“Anything cold.”
Chandler mixed two identical drinks and handed one to the Iceman. “This should do it.”
The Iceman took a long swallow. “Thanks.”
“Anything for a client,” said Chandler. He looked intently at the Iceman. “You are a client, aren't you?”
“Potentially.” The Iceman looked out across the river. “Do you mind if we go back out on the deck? It may be a pain in the ass to get here, but it's really lovely once you arrive.”
“Why not?” assented Chandler, leading him back out to the deck.
“It must be very convenient, to be able to stand right here and shoot dinner,” continued the Iceman.
Chandler shrugged. “I wouldn't know.”
“Oh?”
“I never hunt within five miles of here. I don't want to frighten the game away.” He paused. “Some animals are for eating, some are for sport, and some are for looking at. These are for looking at.”
“You know,” said the Iceman, “now that I think of it, I haven't seen any weapons around here.”
“Oh, there are weapons,” Chandler assured him. “But not for the game.”
A delicate white avian landed atop one of the aquatic marsupials and began picking insects off its head.
“I miss this place whenever I'm away from it,” said Chandler, standing at the edge of the deck and looking across the river. “If I take this assignment, how long will I be gone?”
“I won't lie to you,” said the Iceman. “This job doesn't figure to be easy or fast.”
“What does it entail?” asked Chandler, sipping his drink and staring out at the river.
“I'm not sure yet.”
Chandler arched an eyebrow, but made no comment.
“Have you ever heard of Penelope Bailey?” continued the Iceman, after a pause.
“I think everyone must have heard of her, back about ten or fifteen years ago,” answered Chandler. “They were offering one hell of a reward for her.”
“That's the one.”
“As I recall, everybody wanted her: the Democracy, a couple of alien worlds, even some pirate.” He paused. “I never did hear what happened to her, just that one day a bunch of bounty hunters turned up dead, and after that nobody seemed all that interested in trying to collect the reward.” He turned to the Iceman. “There was a story making the rounds that that you were involved in some way.”
“I was.”
“What was all the fuss about?” asked Chandler. “Hundreds of people were after her, but no one ever said what made a little girl worth five or six million credits.”
“She wasn't exactly your normal, run-of-the-mill little girl,” said the Iceman wryly.
Chandler picked a few pieces of stale bread out of one of his pockets and laid them out on the railing, then watched as a trio of colorful avians descended, picked them up, and flew off with them. “If you want me to find her and bring her back, you're going to have to tell me what made her worth all that money,” he said at last.
“I will,” said the Iceman, taking a sip of his drink. “And you won't have to find her.”
“You know where she is?”
“Perhaps.”
“Either you do or you don't.”
“I know the location of the person I'm sending you after,” replied the Iceman. “I don't know if she's Penelope Bailey.”
“Would you know Penelope Bailey if you saw her?” asked Chandler.
“It's been a long time, and she's a grown woman now,” answered the Iceman. “I honestly don't know if I'd recognize her.”
“Then how will you know if I bring you the right woman?”
“There are other ways of telling.” The Iceman paused. “Also, if she is Penelope Bailey, there's every likelihood that you won't be able to bring her back.”
Chandler looked up at sky, which had suddenly clouded over. “It rains every afternoon about this time,” he said. “Let's go inside and make ourselves comfortable, and you can lay it out for me.”
He led the Iceman back inside the house, ordered the glass portals to slide shut, and walked over to a pair of chairs that had been carved out of the native hardwood of the surrounding forest and covered with the pelts of some blue-skinned animals.
“All right,” he said, when both men had seated themselves. “I'm listening.”
“Penelope Bailey was eight years old when I met her,” said the Iceman. “The Democracy had taken her away from her parents when she was five or six, and an alien had stolen her from the Democracy. By the time I ran across her, she was in the company of a woman who used to work for me.”
“Why did the Democracy seize her in the first place?” asked Chandler.
“She has a gift—a talent, if you will—that they wanted.”
“What was it?”
“She's prescient.”
“You mean she can predict the future?”
The Iceman shook his head. “It's not that simple.” He paused. “She can see an almost infinite number of possible futures, and she can manipulate events so that the one most favorable to her comes to pass.”
Chandler stared at him for a long moment. “I don't believe it,” he said at last.
“It's the truth. I've seen it in action.”
“Then why isn't she Queen of the whole damned universe?”
“When I first met her, she could only see those futures in which she faced imminent danger. By the time we parted, she could see the outcome of everything from poker hands to gunfights, and could manipulate things so they'd come out the way she wanted them to—but she could only see a few hours into the future.” He paused again. “If her power never extended beyond that, she could make herself a very rich, very powerful woman, but in the larger scheme of things she'd be no more than a nuisance.”
“But you think her talent has continued to mature,” said Chandler. It was not a question.
“I don't know why it shouldn't have,” replied the Iceman. “It grew more powerful almost daily when I knew her.”
“I'm surprised you didn't try to kill her.”
“I did.” He patted his prosthetic leg. “This is what I got for my trouble.”
Chandler nodded, but said nothing.
“The last time I saw her she was with an alien called the Mock Turtle—I'll swear that's what it looked like—and to the best of my knowledge, no human has seen her since.”
“Why an alien?”
“It practically worshipped her, and it seemed convinced that once she developed her powers, she could keep the Democracy from assimilating its world.”
“Is the girl on its world?” asked Chandler.
The Iceman shook his head. “No. I've been there twice, and there's no sign of them.”
“So that's where you go when you're not on Last Chance,” said Chandler, not at all surprised. “You're hunting for Penelope Bailey.”
“It hasn't done any good.” The Iceman grimaced and finished his drink. “If there's someone better equipped to stay hidden than a woman who can see all possible futures, I can't imagine who it is.”
“Then how did you find her?” asked Chandler.
“I didn't,” answered the Iceman. “But a week ago I was approached by a woman who represented herself as Penelope's mother. She thinks she knows where the girl is, and she hired me to bring her back.”
“Represented herself?” repeated Chandler. “That's a curious choice of words.”
“She lied from start to finish.”
“What makes you think so?”
“She knew things she had no business knowing.”
“Such as?”
“She knew that Penelope escaped with an alien—but only about ten people on a little planet called Killhaven know that. She knew that I've been searching for her—but I've never told that to anyone.” He paused. “She knew that she was looking for the Iceman, and not for Carlos Mendoza.”
“She works for the Democracy, of course.”
The Iceman nodded in agreement. “Nobody else has the resources to spy on me for fourteen years.”
“They've been after her for fourteen years...” began Chandler.
“Sixteen,” interjected the Iceman.
“All right, sixteen. Why have they approached you now?”
“Because they think they've found her.”
“That's not good enough,” said Chandler. “Why did they lie to you? Or, better still, if they've found her, why don't they just go in after her themselves?”
“I'm sure they've sent their best people in after her and failed, or else they would never have approached me.” The Iceman suddenly noticed his drink, and finished it with a single swallow. “As for why they sent someone who pretended to be Penelope's mother, it's simple enough: the Inner Frontier doesn't owe any allegiance to the Democracy, and they don't know if I'd be willing to help them. Also,” he added, “I killed some of their bounty hunters fourteen years ago.”
“Why did you want to save her from a bunch of bounty hunters?”
“She was never in any danger from them,” answered the Iceman. “I was trying to save another member of her party.” He paused. “It didn't help.”
“You make Penelope Bailey sound very formidable,” commented Chandler.
“She is,” the Iceman assured him seriously. “Make no mistake about it.”
“Where do they think she is?”
“A planet called Alpha Crepello III, out in the Quinellus Cluster.”
“And they're sure it's her?”
The Iceman shook his head. “They think it is; they don't know for sure.”
“What makes them think so?”
“There's supposed to be a young human woman there, living among the aliens, who's known as the Oracle.”
“And that's it?”
“Probably not,” said the Iceman. He paused. “Almost certainly not. But that's all I've been told.”
“That's not much to go on,” said Chandler. “What do you think they've kept back?”
“Probably something about how many men they've sent in and never heard from again. That's the kind of thing that would convince them they're right, and it's also guaranteed to discourage a potential recruit.”
Chandler was silent for a long moment. Then he looked across at the Iceman. “I've got a question for you.”
“What is it?”
“This little girl cost you a leg, and I gather she killed a friend of yours.”
“Indirectly.”
“Then why aren't you going after her yourself?”
“I'm a 61-year-old man with a pot belly and an artificial leg,” answered the Iceman. “If it really is Penelope Bailey, I'd be dead before I could get close to her. Maybe I could have done it 20 years ago, but not now.” He looked directly at Chandler. “That's why I've come to you, Whistler—of all the men in this business, you're just about the best. You've infiltrated half a dozen worlds, and you're a better killer than I ever was.”
“Can she be killed?”
The Iceman shrugged. “I don't know.”
“What kind of money are we talking about here?”
“Half a million up front, another half million when the job is complete
d.”
“Credits?” asked Chandler with a frown.
“Maria Theresa dollars.”
Chandler nodded. “Time limit?”
“If you haven't gotten to her in six months’ time, you're never going to reach her.”
“What if I come back empty-handed?”
“If you accept the assignment, the front money's yours no matter what happens,” said the Iceman.
“Will Bettina Bailey agree to that?”
“Considering that she's not really Bettina Bailey, I don't see that she has any choice.”
“What about expenses?” asked Chandler.
The Iceman chuckled. “Not with a half million up front.”
“I may need to hire some help along the way.”
“I'd advise against it,” said the Iceman.
“Why?”
“The less attention you attract to yourself, the more likely you are to come out of this alive.”
“I may want to hire some men to draw attention away from me.”
“That's your privilege.” The Iceman stared at him thoughtfully. “If you're successful and you can prove to me that you needed them, you'll be reimbursed.”
Chandler eyed him thoughtfully. “What do you get out of this?”
“Money, satisfaction, revenge—take your choice.”
Chandler smiled. “All of the above.” He paused. “Do they speak any Terran on this planet?”
“I don't know ... but according to my star charts, it's got three terraformed moons that are inhabited by humans. They're your logical starting point.”
“Why not just approach her directly?”
“If direct approaches worked, the Democracy wouldn't have sought me out,” answered the Iceman. He paused. “Will you take the job?”
Chandler considered the proposition for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah, I'll take it.”
“Good,” said the Iceman. “If it turns out that the Oracle isn't Penelope Bailey, bring her out.”
“And if she is Penelope Bailey?”
“Once you know it's her, find a way to get word back to me. There's no way you're going to bring her out if she doesn't want to come, so kill her if you can.” He paused again. “If I don't hear from you in six months, I'll know you're dead.”
“You mean you'll assume I'm dead.”
