by Mike Resnick
“I meant what I said,” replied the Iceman seriously.
3.
The radio beeped to life.
“You are now within the Alpha Crepello system,” said a mechanical voice. “Please identify yourself.”
“This is the Gamestalker, Registration Number 237H8J99, eight Galactic Standard days out of The Frenchman's World, Joshua Jeremiah Chandler commanding.”
“We have no record of The Frenchman's World, Gamestalker.”
“It's the third planet in the Solidad system on the Inner Frontier,” responded Chandler.
There was a brief silence.
“What is your purpose for visiting the Alpha Crepello system, Gamestalker?”
“Business.”
“State the nature of your business, please.”
“I'm a salesman.”
“What do you sell?”
“Rare stamps and coins.”
“Have you a confirmed appointment with any inhabitant of the Alpha Crepello system?”
“Yes.”
“With whom is your appointment?”
“Carlos Mendoza,” replied Chandler, using the first name that came to mind. “I believe he resides on Alpha Crepello III.”
Another silence.
“We have no record of any Carlos Mendoza living on Alpha Crepello III. Is Carlos Mendoza a human?”
“Yes.”
“He does not reside on Alpha Crepello III,” said the voice with finality.
“Then perhaps he is merely a visitor,” said Chandler. “All I know is that I was supposed to meet him there.”
“The Alpha Crepello system is not a member of the Democracy,” said the voice. “We have no reciprocal trade agreements with the Democracy, we have no military treaties with the Democracy, and we do not recognize Democracy passports. No one may land on Alpha Crepello III without special permission of the government, and this permission is rarely given to members of your race.” There was a brief pause. “You may land on any of Alpha Crepello III's terraformed moons, but if you attempt to land on Alpha Crepello III itself, you will be detained and your ship will be subject to confiscation.”
“Thank you,” said Chandler. “Gamestalker over and out.”
The Iceman had told him that he wouldn't be allowed to land on the planet itself, so he was neither surprised nor disappointed that permission had been denied him. He sighed, stretched, and stared at his viewscreen.
“Computer,” he said, “bring up holograms, charts and readouts on Alpha Crepello III's terraformed moons.”
“Working ... done,” replied his ship's computer.
There were three of them—Port Maracaibo, Port Samarkand, and Port Marrakech. Each had once been rich in fissionable materials, and had been terraformed by the long-defunct Republic almost two millennia ago. The inhabitants of Alpha Crepello III had objected, and the Navy had subdued them in a brief but furious battle. Then, when the Democracy had succeeded the Republic, Alpha Crepello III—which had been dubbed Hades by its human ambassador because of its reddish soil and incredibly hot climate—had declined to remain an active member of the galactic community and had cut all ties with its neighboring worlds as well as with Deluros VIII, the huge, distant world that had become the capital of the race of Man. Since the moons were virtually mined out by that time and Man had more immediate conquests and problems to deal with, Hades had been allowed to go its own way.
The three moons were of little or no use to the residents of Hades, and as the miners left, other Men moved in, men who were seeking worlds that had no official ties with the Democracy. Hades had originally objected, but the prospect of another war convinced them to practice a form of benign neglect toward the moons and their new inhabitants, and over the centuries the moons gradually became a clearing house for black market goods, a sanctuary for human outlaws, a gathering place for mercenaries, and a conduit between the free worlds of the Quinellus Cluster and the regulated worlds of mankind's vast Democracy.
“Computer,” said Chandler, “how many humans reside on each of the terraformed moons?”
“126,214 on Port Maracaibo, 18,755 on Port Samarkand, and 187,440 on Port Marakech,” replied the computer. “These figures are accurate as of the last census, taken seven years ago.”
“What form of currency is in use on each of the moons?”
“They accept all forms of human currency that are traded within the Democracy and on the Inner Frontier, plus the currencies of Hades, Canphor VI, Canphor VII, and Lodin XI. The value of each is pegged to the daily exchange rate of the Democracy Credit as determined on Deluros VIII.”
“Please give me their climactic and gravitational readouts.”
“All three moons were terraformed by the same Republic Pioneer team, and are identical in climate and gravity,” responded the computer. “Gravity is .98% Earth and Deluros Standard, temperature is a constant 22 degrees Celsius by day and 17 degrees Celsius by night, atmosphere is Earth and Deluros VIII normal.”
“Do they all have spaceports?”
“They possess spaceports for Class H and smaller ships. Larger ships are required to dock in orbiting hangars.”
“There doesn't seem much to choose among them,” remarked Chandler.
It was neither a question nor a command, so the computer did not respond.
“Which one is closest to Hades?”
“Port Marrakech.”
“All right,” said Chandler. “Port Marrakech it is.”
His landing was uneventful, and shortly thereafter he made his way through the crowded spaceport. He spotted a few faces here and there that he remembered seeing on wanted posters, but he paid them no attention, concentrating only on making his way to the main exit. Once outside, he hailed a groundcar that took him into the heart of the nearby city—as far as he could tell the only city on Port Marrakech. The buildings boasted numerous exotic arches and angles, and most of them had been whitewashed. He was unaware of the genesis of the name “Marrakech", but he assumed that it was a city somewhere in the galaxy that greatly resembled the one in which he now found himself; the architecture was too much of a piece, and too different from the other worlds he had seen, not to have been carefully planned.
“Where to now?” asked the driver as they entered the heavy traffic of the city center.
“I've never been here before,” replied Chandler. “Can you recommend a hotel?”
“With or without?”
“With or without what?”
The driver shrugged. “Whatever you want—women, men, drugs, gambling, you name it.”
“Without, I think.”
The driver grinned. “That may be a little harder. This isn't the Democracy, you know.”
Chandler leaned forward and handed him a fifty-credit note. “Why don't you fill me in?” he suggested.
“You thirsty?” asked the driver.
“Should I be?”
“I can fill you in a lot better if my mouth doesn't go dry halfway through.”
“I've already given you fifty credits. You can buy a drink after we're through.”
“You've already made a couple of mistakes,” said the driver meaningfully. “I can tell you about them while we drink, or you can learn about them the hard way.”
“Suddenly I'm thirsty,” said Chandler.
“I thought you might be,” chuckled the driver. “By the way, my name's Gin.”
“Just Gin?”
“Gin's my game, gin's my drink, Gin's my name.”
“Okay, Gin,” said Chandler. “Where do you think we ought to have this drink?”
“I'm already heading there,” said Gin. “It's not real fancy, but they don't water the booze and people will leave us pretty much alone.”
Chandler leaned back and observed the city as the vehicle sped through it. Most of the buildings were centuries old, and except for a handful of truly palatial structures in the downtown area, they looked their age. There was a definite seediness to the city, as if most of the res
idents were transients: small hotels and rooming houses greatly outnumbered apartments, and restaurants and bars were omnipresent, implying that almost no one ever ate or drank at home. There was an almost tangible gloom, partially due to the ambience, partially due to the fact that Hades cast its massive shadow across the moon's surface.
“Here we are,” announced Gin, pulling up in front of a tavern that was indistinguishable from four others on the same block.
“Lead the way,” said Chandler, getting out of the vehicle.
He fell into step behind Gin and soon entered the dimly-lit interior. There were some two dozen tables and booths, half of them empty, the other half occupied by Men and aliens conversing in low voices. A very tired-looking woman was performing a very unenthusiastic striptease to recorded music in one corner; a Lodinite was observing her with clinical detachment, while none of the other customers paid her the slightest attention.
“How does this one suit you?” asked Gin, indicating a booth as far from the door as possible.
“Fine,” replied Chandler.
Both men seated themselves, and Gin raised his hand and made a swift signal in the air. An overweight waiter arrived a moment later with a pair of green-tinted drinks.
“What is it?” asked Chandler, staring at his glass and frowning.
Gin shrugged. “They call it a Dustbuster on Binder X. Here it's a Number Five.”
“What's in it?”
“Lots of stuff, most of it good for you,” answered Gin, picking up his glass and downing it with a single swallow.
Chandler raised his own glass, stared at it for a moment, then took a sip.
“Well?” asked Gin.
“It'll do.”
“Best damned drink you ever had, and that's all you've got to say?”
“You're the one with the thirst. I'm just here to talk.”
“Right,” said Gin, signaling for another drink. “Hope you don't mind,” he said, “but talking is mighty dry work.”
“I have a feeling that everything you do is mighty dry work,” said Chandler sardonically.
“Now that you mention it...” said Gin, and laughed. “By the way, you got a name?”
“Chandler.”
“Okay,” said Gin with a shrug. “But if I were you, I'd change it.”
“Why?”
“Why advertise that the Whistler has come to Port Marrakech?”
“There are a lot of Chandlers in the galaxy. What makes you think I'm the Whistler?”
“How many Chandlers come out of the spaceport with five guns and a knife hidden on their persons?” grinned Gin. “That was your first mistake. My groundcar's got a security system that registers on the dash.”
“I know,” said Chandler calmly. “I spotted it the second you opened the door for me.”
“You did?”
Chandler nodded. “I figured it was for your own protection. After all, if it was against the law to bring weapons onto the planet, they'd have stopped me at Spaceport Security.”
“Makes sense,” admitted Gin. “Still, there are ways of landing here without being spotted. By morning, everyone will know that the Whistler is on Port Marrakech.”
“Do you plan to tell them?”
Gin shook his head. “I won't have to. By now someone in Spaceport Security has checked out your ship's registration, or run your retinagram through a computer, or just out-and-out recognized you. Especially if you used Chandler as your name.”
“So they know who I am,” said Chandler. “So what? From what I can tell, this place is loaded with killers and worse.”
“You didn't come here for your health,” said Gin. “I've heard all about you: When the Whistler shows up, people start dying.”
“I'm not after anyone on Port Marrakech. If I was, nobody would know I was here.”
“Yeah, I believe you,” said Gin. He paused. “So what are you doing here?”
“You're supposed to be answering questions, not me,” said Chandler. “What do you think was my other mistake?”
“You asked me for a hotel.” Gin smiled. “Not smart. A killer shouldn't let people know he's come to town, and he sure as hell shouldn't let people know where he's staying.”
“Unless what?” asked Chandler.
Gin stared at him. “Unless you want people to know you're here.”
“That's right.”
“Then you must be after someone on Port Samarkand or Port Maracaibo.” He frowned. “But that doesn't make any sense. Why would you land here?”
“Why I landed here is my concern,” said Chandler as the waiter arrived with another drink for Gin.
“You sure you don't want to tell me who you're after, Whistler? I've got pretty good connections. Maybe I could help you find him"—he paused and grinned—"for a small consideration.”
“I'm not after a who, I'm after a what: information, remember?”
Gin sighed. “Have it your way. I was just trying to be helpful.”
“You're not trying hard enough,” said Chandler. “We've been here ten minutes and you haven't told me a damned thing.”
“What do you want to know?”
There was only one piece of information Chandler actually wanted, which was how to get to Hades—but he spent the next half hour asking numerous questions about Port Marrakech, at the end of which he knew more about the local trade in drugs, prostitution, and black market goods than he ever wanted to know.
“Sounds good,” he said at last. “Things have been slow on the Inner Frontier. I'm considering setting up shop here.”
“You'll have lots of competition in your line of work,” said Gin.
“Not for long,” replied Chandler.
Gin stared at him and nodded his agreement. “No, I suppose you won't—not if you're half as good as they say you are.”
“Could be that I'll need a driver who knows his way around, and can tell me where all the bodies are buried,” continued Chandler.
“Yeah?” said Gin, his face alive with interest.
“It's possible. Think you might know anyone who'd be interested in the job?”
Gin grinned. “You're looking at him.”
“You've got a job.”
“On a moon loaded with killers, I like the security of working for the best killer of all.”
“Well, you're pretty good at talking, I'll give you that,” said Chandler. “How are you at keeping your mouth shut?”
“You can trust me, Whistler.”
“If you come to work for me and I find that I can't trust you, I don't envy you your death.” Chandler paused. “Do you still want the job?”
“What does it pay?”
“More than driving back and forth to the airport and taking kickbacks from bars and hotels—and you'll get it in cash.”
“I still need a figure. After all, I'll have to use my own vehicle. I gotta figure my expenses.”
“How much are you making now?”
“Counting all the perks?” said Gin. “It comes to maybe 600 credits a week.”
“I'll double it.”
Gin extended his hand across the table. “Deal!”
Chandler took the proffered hand. “Deal,” he replied. “You're on my payroll, starting this minute.”
“Great!” said Gin. There was a momentary silence. “Uh ... what do we do now?”
“We finish our drinks and I find a place to sleep.”
“And then what?”
“Eventually I wake up.”
“I mean, what do I do?”
“You're on call around the clock,” answered Chandler. “I expect to see you parked outside of wherever I spend the night when I wake up in the morning. I also expect you to keep your eyes and ears open. If you hear of anyone who's looking for someone in my line of work, you tell me. Even more important: if you see anyone watching me, you let me know.”
“Right,” said Gin. He signaled the waiter for another drink.
“And you show up sober,” added Chandler.<
br />
“You got it.”
“By the way, I don't plan to confine my activities just to Port Marrakech. Have you ever been to Port Samarkand or Port Maracaibo?”
“I know ’em almost as well as I know Port Marrakech,” Gin assured him.
“Good,” said Chandler. “That should prove helpful.” He paused. “What about Hades?”
“You don't want any part of Hades, Whistler,” said Gin. “They got nothing but these blue-skinned aliens there—Blue Devils, we call ’em. Even if you got a contract to knock one of them off, you'd never be able to tell ’em apart.”
“You've been there?”
“No, but I've seen my share of Blue Devils. Ugly-looking sons of bitches.”
“Do any humans live on Hades?”
“Not to my knowledge,” answered Gin. He shrugged. “Hell, who'd want to?”
Chandler didn't want to display too much interest in Hades, so he let the subject drop and spent another twenty minutes asking questions about the other two moons before he decided it was time to leave.
He checked into one of the better rooming houses, paid for a week in advance, and went to his room, confident that he'd made a decent start; he was in no hurry to get to Hades until he learned more about it. He'd go through the motions of setting up business on Port Marrakech, and in a day or a week or a month, Gin or someone else would tell him what he needed to know about Hades and the mysterious Oracle. In the meantime, he might even accept a contract or two, just to prove the authenticity to his cover story.
He had shaved and showered, and was just about to nod off to sleep when the vidphone blinked.
“Yeah?” he said, staring at a blank screen.
“You are the Whistler, are you not?” said a voice that might or might not have been human.
“My name is Chandler.”
“You are the Whistler,” repeated the voice tonelessly. It paused for a moment. “A word of advice, Whistler: go home.”
“Who is this?” demanded Chandler, trying without success to bring up an image on the screen.
“I will not repeat my warning, Whistler,” said the voice. “I know who you are, I know why you are here, and I tell you that your mission is destined to fail. If you are still here tomorrow morning, your life is at hazard.”
