by Mike Resnick
If he survived.
5.
“Okay, we're here,” announced Gin, getting out of the vehicle and approaching the dilapidated building.
“Where's here?” asked Chandler.
“It's called the Dreambasin.”
“A drug den?”
Gin nodded. “The Surgeon stops by here every couple of days.”
“Curious.”
“How so?” asked Gin.
“Professionals don't usually mess with drugs,” responded Chandler. “It screws up the perceptions and destroys the reflexes.”
“Oh, the Surgeon's no seed chewer,” said Gin. “But a lot of his clients are. If he's here, he's just tending to business.”
They walked up to the entrance, where Gin uttered a password and smiled into an overhead camera. The door slid back a moment later, and two muscular men confronted them.
“Who do you have with you, Gin?” asked one of them.
“He's my new employer,” answered the driver. “I personally vouch for him.”
The man turned to Chandler. “Name?”
“Joshua Chandler.”
“Where are you staying?”
“The Souk,” answered Chandler. “It's a boarding house on the west side of—”
“I know where it is,” interrupted the man. “Occupation?”
“Tourist.”
The man smiled. “Well, that's original, anyway.” He held out his hand. “Two hundred credits. And two hundred more for your employee.”
Chandler handed over the money. “Can we go in now?”
“As soon as you check your weapons with us.”
“Does the Surgeon check his?” asked Chandler.
“What the Surgeon does is none of your business, Mr. Chandler,” was the answer. “If you don't hand over your weapons, I'll have to remove them myself.” He placed a hand on the hilt of his laser pistol, as if to emphasize the point.
“That wouldn't be wise,” said Chandler softly.
Something in the tone of his voice made the man hesitate.
“Either you turn them over, or you can't enter,” he said lamely.
“Don't kill them,” Gin said to Chandler. “They're just doing their job.”
“If there's any killing done here, we're going to do it,” said the second man, finally choosing to speak.
“You don't know who you're dealing with,” said Gin with such conviction that the second man, too, seemed suddenly hesitant.
Nobody moved for a few seconds. Then Chandler removed his pistols and his knife and handed them to one of the men.
“Let's go,” he said to Gin, as the man stepped aside, staring at him with a mixture of anger and uncertainty.
They proceeded down a long, poorly-illuminated corridor, past a number of closed doors. The sickly sweet odor of palyp, an alien drug that humans had appropriated for themselves and now smoked in old-fashioned water pipes, permeated the air.
They passed one open door and Chandler glanced in. Four women lay suspended above the floor on cushions of air; he couldn't tell whether they had been smoking or injecting, but three of them were near-catatonic. The fourth, her face contorted in agony, saw him and reached out a trembling, supplicating hand. Chandler stared at her for a moment with an expression of distaste, then turned away and continued walking.
Finally they came to a spacious lounge. There were no chairs or couches in it, just a number of large pillows on the floor. Some eleven men and eight women sat or lay upon them, some in clusters of two and three, some alone. Many of them looked bewildered, as if they were just coming down from a high; others looked anxious, as if they were preparing for one. A few merely looked bored. There were half a dozen Domarian actigraphs on the walls, three-dimensional creations of concentric circles and intricately weaving lines that pulsed with energy and had an almost hypnotic effect upon the viewer.
Suddenly Gin stopped and tensed.
“Where is he?” asked Chandler softly.
“See those two guys talking in the corner?” whispered Gin, indicating a bald, rotund man dressed in a blue satin outfit and a small, wiry man with a widow's peak and an aquiline nose, who wore an expensively-tailored white tunic.
“Yes.”
“The fat one is Omar Tripoli. He's a banker, and he owns a couple of nightclubs in the Antarrean Quarter. The little guy is the Surgeon.”
“He doesn't look like much,” noted Chandler.
“The graveyards are full of people who didn't think he looked like much.”
Chandler stared at the Surgeon for another moment, then turned to Gin. “Wait here,” he ordered the driver.
“He's probably armed,” whispered Gin.
“Just do what I say,” answered Chandler, walking across the room and coming to a halt next to Omar Tripoli.
“We're having a private conversation,” said the Surgeon without looking up.
“I know,” said Chandler.
“Then go away,” said the Surgeon.
Chandler remained where he was, silent and motionless.
Finally the Surgeon looked at the man who was confronting him and got to his feet. “You don't listen very good, do you?”
“I haven't heard anything worth listening to,” replied Chandler.
“You're taking a big chance, friend,” said Tripoli.
“Not as big a chance as you're taking, Mr. Tripoli,” replied Chandler.
“What do you mean?” asked Tripoli nervously.
“You mean the Surgeon hasn't told you?” said Chandler with mock surprise.
“Told me what?”
“That he's leaving Port Marrakech this evening and going into a different business. If I were you, I wouldn't pay him another credit.”
“All right!” snapped the Surgeon. “Just who the hell are you?”
“Your successor,” said Chandler. He paused. “I think if you hurry, you can just make the flight to Binder X.”
“You've got balls, mister, I'll give you that,” said the Surgeon. “I wonder how you'll feel when you see them rolling across the floor?”
“Save your threats,” said Chandler calmly. “Mr. Tripoli isn't impressed by them—and neither am I.”
Suddenly a wicked-looking knife appeared in the Surgeon's right hand. “Are you going to tell me who you are, or am I going to have to take your ID off your body?”
“I've no objection to telling you. My name's Chandler.”
“I never heard of you.”
“That's just one of my names. Some people call me the Whistler.”
The Surgeon's eyes widened briefly, but he didn't lower the knife or back away.
“You can still walk out of here,” said Chandler. “In fact, as long as you're turning your business over to me, I'll even pay for your ticket.”
“You think you can buy me off with a spaceship ticket?” said the Surgeon with a harsh laugh.
“Not really,” answered Chandler. “But I thought I'd offer you the opportunity to live.”
“I've got a little something to offer you!” grated the Surgeon. He flipped his knife back and forth between his hands a number of times, then lunged forward with his left hand extended.
Chandler grabbed his wrist, sidestepped the thrust, and then, more rapidly than Tripoli or Gin could follow, delivered three quick blows, one to the groin, one to the Adam's apple, and a final one upward against the nose, forcing the bones into the brain. The Surgeon was dead before he hit the floor. Chandler picked up the knife and tucked it into one of his many pockets. Everything had happened so quickly that most of the people in the room were still too stunned to react.
Chandler turned to Tripoli. “This is neither the time nor the place to conduct our business,” he said with perfect calm. “I'll be in touch with you tomorrow or the next day; you'll find that my prices are quite reasonable for the services I provide. In the meantime, you might tell your friends that the Whistler has come to town.”
He stepped over the Surgeon's body and walked acros
s the lounge, paying no attention to any of the men and women who stared in awe at him.
“Let's go,” he said to Gin.
They walked back down the long corridor to the Dreambasin's entrance, picked up Chandler's weapons, and were in the landcar and driving away before anyone reported the killing.
“That was some show you put on, Whistler!” said Gin with the enthusiasm of a small boy for one of his sports heroes. “You were awesome!”
“Well, I've established my credentials, anyway,” said Chandler. He paused. “It was a necessary if wasteful object lesson.”
“Wasteful?” asked Gin, puzzled. “How?”
“I had to kill a man who had never met me, who presented no threat to me, and who was not my enemy. Wouldn't you call that wasteful?”
“Not at all.”
“Then it's a fortunate thing that you don't have my ability to kill,” said Chandler.
“We're growing a strange crop of assassins this season,” remarked Gin, amused.
“This was not an assassination,” said Chandler. “It was an execution.”
“Well, whatever you call it, he's dead,” replied Gin, dismissing the subject with a shrug. “Where to now, Whistler?”
“Take me back to the Souk,” replied Chandler. “I think I've accomplished quite enough for one morning. I'm going to read for awhile and then take a nap.”
“Just like that?”
“I'm sorry his death was necessary,” said Chandler irritably. “I have no intention of joining the mourners.”
“I'd be surprised if there are any,” said Gin. He paused. “By the way, I think you can expect the authorities to come calling on you. As long as we confine our killing to each other, they won't give you too much trouble, but they'll have to at least talk to you, just for show.”
“It was self-defense,” answered Chandler. “I've got more than a dozen witnesses.”
“True,” agreed Gin. He paused again. “You want me on call outside the Souk?”
“Not for a few hours,” answered Chandler. “Right now I want you to make the rounds and tell everyone what happened.” He handed a pair of bills to Gin. “And since talking is such dry work, you can use this to lubricate yourself.”
“With pleasure,” said Gin, taking the bills and stuffing them into a pocket. “I never liked that mean-spirited little slasher anyway.”
“He was just a man doing a job,” said Chandler. “From now on I'll be doing it.”
“Well, you're the Man of the Hour, as they say,” enthused the driver. “By tomorrow the whole damned city will know you're here to stay.”
“How soon will word of this reach the other moons?” asked Chandler.
“Before nightfall,” Gin assured him.
He wanted to ask if Hades would hear of it too, but decided not to. The one person for whom he was putting on this performance already knew who he was, and he would be surprised if she didn't also know of the Surgeon's death by the time he reached his rooming house. It was a perfectly logical step for a man in his business to have taken: you could work your way up through the ranks, or if you were good enough and strong enough, you could take on the top dog and assimilate his territory. He had evinced no interest in Hades, had made no inquiries about the Oracle, nor would he. He had come to Port Marrakech for business, and he now had a ready-made clientele to service. It was as simple and clear-cut as that.
The only question, he mused wryly as the landcar pulled up to the Souk, was whether she'd buy it.
6.
The police woke Chandler from his nap and took him to the local station to record his statement concerning the Surgeon's killing. He got the distinct impression that they were just going through the motions, that the death of an assassin, regardless of the circumstances, didn't bother them in the least. When his deposition matched the various eyewitness accounts, they released him with the bored instructions to keep within the law during his stay on Port Marrakech.
Gin was waiting for him when the police dropped him off at the Souk.
“I see you had company,” he noted as the police vehicle sped away.
“They weren't any problem.”
“They'd probably have pinned a medal on you if they could have gotten away with it,” said Gin. “The Surgeon wasn't exactly the most popular guy in town.”
“Neither will I be, when I take over his client list.”
“Yeah. Well, in his case, it was a matter of preferring the devil they don't know to the devil they knew.”
“I get the distinct impression that they'll leave me alone as long as I don't kill the wrong person.”
“That's about right.”
“So,” continued Chandler, “I think until I know my way around a little better, I might be well-advised to confine my activities to the other moons and Hades.”
“I can help you out,” said Gin. “I know who to lay off of.”
“Thanks for the offer, but I don't really want to stake my life on your expertise.”
“Okay,” said Gin with a shrug. “Have it your way. But you might as well forget about Hades. There can't be a thousand Men on the planet.”
“That implies they're pretty important men,” said Chandler. “Someone might want one of them dead.”
“Forget it,” said Gin with conviction. “Ever since the Oracle set up shop there, the place is a goddamned fortress.”
“Who is the Oracle?” asked Chandler. “One of the Blue Devils?”
Gin shook his head. “They say she's a human woman. I don't know if it's true or not: almost nobody ever gets to see her.”
“Why would a human woman want to live on Hades?” asked Chandler.
“Beats me.”
“More to the point, if the Blue Devils hate us, why would they let her live there?”
“Who knows?” replied Gin. “I don't pay much attention to politics.”
“Politics?”
“Well, maybe it's not politics. But whatever it is, it doesn't concern the three Ports, and if they leave us alone, that's good enough for me.”
“It's interesting, though,” said Chandler, “a woman living down there. Why do they call her the Oracle? Has she got a real name?”
“You got me,” said Gin.
“Could you find out?”
“I dunno. I never thought much about it.” Gin paused. “It wouldn't do you much good, though.”
“Why not?”
“First, because you aren't allowed to land on Hades. Second, the Oracle and the Blue Devils leave us alone. And third, because every now and then someone shows up on one of the Ports and starts asking too many questions about her, and then one day he just isn't around any more. So, since you like being alive and I like being employed, let's concentrate on the Surgeon's client list.”
“Find out what you can, anyway.”
“Why are you so interested in her?” asked Gin.
“I never met an Oracle before. Maybe she could tell me what numbers to bet on next time I play roulette.”
“You can make a lot more money just doing what you do best, and you don't have to risk your life trying to meet her.”
“Are you telling me that the Oracle kills people?”
“Whistler, I don't know anything for sure about the Oracle,” said Gin in exasperation. “But I know the Blue Devils will kill you if you try to land on Hades without their permission.”
“Sounds like the Democracy ought to move in,” suggested Chandler.
“We keep waiting for them to, but so far they haven't shown any interest in it.” He paused. “Now, can we let the subject drop?”
“You look nervous.”
“People who talk about the Oracle have this habit of disappearing,” answered Gin. “Me, I like it here.”
Chandler shrugged. “What the hell, I was just curious. It's time to consider more important things.”
“Such as?”
“Such as dinner. Give me a chance to change, and then I want you to take me to the best restaurant
in town. We'll add it to Mr. Tripoli's bill.”
“Have you heard from him?”
“I will,” replied Chandler confidently. “He has work to be done, and I've already proven to him that I'm better at it than the Surgeon.” He walked to the airlift. “I'll be back down in about twenty minutes.”
He went to his room, took a quick Dryshower, shaved, and dressed in a semi-formal dark gray outfit that had been specially tailored to hide the bulk of three handguns—one sonic, one laser, and one projectile. Then, feeling somewhat refreshed and quite hungry, he left his room, strode to the airlift, and floated gently down to the lobby.
“Well?” he said, walking up to Gin. “Where are we going?”
“You're going to the Green Diamond,” said Gin. “I'm taking my budget and my wardrobe to a place that's more to my taste.” He paused. “I can supply you a companion, if you'd like.”
“Some other time.”
Gin shrugged and led the way to the landcar and drove through the early evening traffic.
“This looks familiar,” remarked Chandler as they began entering a seedy-looking area. “Isn't this the Platinum Quarter?”
“Not bad for a guy who's only been here once,” answered Gin.
“Are you sure we're going to the best restaurant in the city?” continued Chandler dubiously.
“It's a private club,” said Gin. “Don't pay any attention to the exterior; they don't want people wandering in off the street.”
“How am I going to get in if it's private?”
Gin smiled. “Word about this morning has gotten out. You won't have any trouble.”
“You'd better be right,” said Chandler. “I don't like making a fool of myself.”
“Trust me,” said Gin, pulling up to a dilapidated building. The windows were boarded up, the walls badly needed a coat of whitewash, and the door was one of the few on the block that didn't boast intricate carvings. “Well, here you are.”
