by Mike Resnick
The Injun laughed aloud. “I've lost my faith in the Democracy. I want half down, and the other half where I can get it when the job's done.”
“Give me a bank and an account number, and I'll have five million credits transferred there by tomorrow morning.”
“I'm not that dumb even when I'm on the seed,” said the Injun. “It'll go through so many middlemen that you'll lose track of it before it's halfway to its destination—and I don't go to work until it's where I want it to be.” He gave 32 the first step of the money route.
“What assurances do I have that you'll go through with it once the money's in place?”
“None,” answered the Injun. “Consider it an act of faith.” He paused. “Have we got a deal?”
There was a short pause. “I'll have to think it over.”
“Think fast. You've got less than a minute left.”
“Will you reinsert the transmitter so that I can monitor your progress?”
“Not a chance. I work alone.”
Another pause.
“All right. It's a deal.”
But, thought the Injun with a grin as he tossed the transmitter into an atomizer and began getting dressed, we didn't shake on it.
14.
The Injun lay back on his bed, staring at various two- and three-dimensional prints on the beige walls and wishing that the embassy had hired a bolder decorator. When the throbbing in his right ear and at the base of his skull finally began to subside, he decided to begin working.
“Computer, activate,” he ordered.
The computer on his desk hummed to life.
“Computer, do you know who I am?”
“You are Lieutenant James Two Feathers.”
“Do you know the nature of my assignment on Hades?”
“No, I do not.”
“Is anyone currently monitoring my room?”
“No.”
“Is anyone currently monitoring my conversation with you?” he continued.
“No.”
“Have I the authority to keep it that way?”
“I do not understand, Lieutenant Two Feathers,” answered the computer. “You must word your questions more precisely.”
“Is there a way that I can prevent anyone from monitoring this room?”
“No.”
“Can you warn me if and when the room is being monitored?”
“Yes.”
“I order you to do so.”
“Order received and enacted.”
“Good.” The Injun paused, trying to formulate his request properly. “I don't want anyone to know what information I am about to request of you. Is there a way to make this and all future conversations between you and me private, so that no one else can access them?”
“Yes.”
“How do I go about it?”
“You must instruct me to seal your work under a Priority Restriction.”
“Please seal all my work under a Priority Restriction.”
“Order received and enacted.”
“All right,” said the Injun. “Now let's get to work.” He paused as another surge of pain shot through his inner ear, then continued speaking after it had passed. “I have two missions on Hades. One is to assassinate the human woman known as the Oracle. The other is to prevent a man who is somewhere within the Alpha Crepello system from reaching her before I do. If I make contact with him, there is a possibility that I may have to kill him. Will your programming allow you to help me?”
“Yes,” replied the computer. “Helping you accomplish your mission will not set up any ethical conflicts within me.”
“Good. Do you have any information in your memory banks concerning a mercenary or bounty hunter who uses the professional name of the Whistler?”
“No.”
“He comes from the Inner Frontier. Can you access a computer that may have some information about him?”
“Possibly.”
Silence.
“Well?” demanded the Injun.
“You made no request, Lieutenant Two Feathers.”
“Try to access a computer that can supply you with data about the Whistler, and if you are successful, transmit that information to me.”
“Working...” There was a three-minute silence, during which time the Injun lay absolutely still and hoped the pain within his head would diminish. It had just begun to subside slightly when the computer spoke again. “The man known as the Whistler is actually Jeremiah Joshua Chandler. He is 38 years old. He is six feet two inches tall, weighs 178 pounds, and has auburn hair and blue eyes. He has no distinguishing scars or birthmarks. His home planet is Boyson III, which is known locally as The Frenchman's World. He is a bounty hunter who has made 27 reported kills, and has brought in eleven living fugitives. It is assumed that he has made even more unreported kills, but the number cannot be ascertained.”
“Impressive,” said the Injun. “Can you supply me with a photograph or holograph of him?”
“Yes.”
The Injun waited for a few seconds, then grimaced. “Please do so.”
Instantly a holograph of Chandler, taken from his passport, flashed on the small screen.
“I'm too far away to see it,” said the Injun. “Make it larger.”
Suddenly an image of Chandler's holograph, some four feet on a side, popped into existence just above the desk. The Injun studied the pale blue eyes, the high cheekbones, the humorless expression, trying without success to get some feel of the man from his image.
“Do you know if he's landed on Hades yet?”
“No.”
“No, he hasn't landed?”
“No, I do not know.”
“Don't all humans have to report to the embassy?”
“Yes,” answered the computer. “But my understanding is that residents of the Inner Frontier do not recognize the authority of the Democracy. Therefore, it is possible that he has landed without reporting his presence to the embassy.”
“Can you check it out with spaceport security?”
“No. I am denied access to the spaceport computer.”
“I see,” said the Injun. He paused, still trying to order his thoughts. “His assignment is to kidnap the human woman known as the Oracle. What, in your opinion, is his most likely course of action?”
“He will come to Hades, gain access to her, and forcibly remove her from the planet.”
The Injun grimaced again. “Let's take this one step at a time. If he wanted to come to Hades and keep his presence unknown, how would he do so?”
“He would not report his presence to the embassy.”
“That would just keep his presence unknown to you. How would he keep it unknown to the Blue Devils?”
“He has two options,” answered the computer. “Either he will have to keep his arrival secret from the spaceport security system, or he will have to disguise his identity.”
“How many humans have managed to avoid spaceport security?”
“I have insufficient data to answer that question.”
“How many are you aware of?”
“None.”
“Then let's assume it can't be done, and that he'll be disguised,” said the Injun. “What type of disguise is least likely to be penetrated by spaceport security?”
“I have insufficient data to answer that question.”
“You mean nobody's ever done it?”
“If it has been done successfully, by its very nature I am not aware of it,” answered the computer.
The Injun paused while he digested the information, then spoke again. “Hypothesize that he'll accomplish it. Where will he go next?”
“I have insufficient data to answer that question.”
“You are a goddamned pain in the ass!” snapped the Injun. “All right, let me restate it: if a human doesn't stay at the embassy, where is he most likely to stay?”
“There are four hotels that accept humans,” answered the computer. “None of their names can be pronounced or
spelled in Terran. They are code-named Blue House, Red House, White House, and Green House by members of the embassy staff.”
“They don't cater exclusively to humans, I take it?”
“That is correct.”
“Now hypothesize that he'll stay in one of the hotels. Let's assume Blue House. His next step will be to determine where to find the Oracle. How will he go about this?”
“First, he will use the vidphone directory. Then he will ask at the embassy. Then...”
“Stop!” commanded the Injun.
The computer was instantly silent.
“He doesn't want his presence known, remember? Asking the embassy is like waving a flag.”
“I do not understand the reference.”
“Look,” said the Injun irritably, “there are certain facts that you must take into consideration for this hypothesis. First, the Whistler is here illegally, and if his presence is discovered, he will either be imprisoned or deported, or possibly even executed. Second, he may already be aware of the fact that the Democracy does not want him to succeed in his mission, and has ordered his death. Third, the Oracle is under the protection of the Blue Devils, and they will almost certainly be suspicious of anyone who asks questions about her. Now, taking his need for absolute secrecy into account, how do you think he will go about locating her?”
“I have insufficient data to respond to that question.”
“Why?” exploded the Injun, sitting up in frustration and groaning at the sudden sharp pain inside his head.
“While I have the ability to shield certain files against scrutiny, I myself have not been programmed to initiate covert activities.”
“I'm just asking you to hypothesize, damn it!”
“I am incapable of attempting this hypothesis.”
The Injun lay back on the bed, propped his head up against a pillow, closed his eyes, and waited for the pain to pass.
“You're driving me crazy!” he muttered at last.
The machine made no response.
“Okay,” said the Injun as the pain subsided again. “Let's skip the Whistler for awhile and concentrate on the Oracle. What information do you have on her?”
“The Oracle is known to exist.”
There was a long pause.
“That's it?” said the Injun unbelievingly, as his whole body tensed in frustration and the pain returned.
“That is my only verifiable information. Everything else in my data banks is supposition or hypothesis.”
“Give it to me anyway.”
“The Oracle is believed to be Penelope Bailey, age 22. The Oracle is believed to be in the company of an alien being known as the Mock Turtle. The Oracle is believed to be a political renegade, and an enemy of the Democracy. The Oracle is believed to possess the power of precognition; if the supposition that she is Penelope Bailey is true, then the Oracle is known to possess the power of precognition. The Oracle is believed to have resided on Alpha Crepello III for between twelve and fourteen years. The Oracle is not believed to be a member of the government of Alpha Crepello III, but is believed to have considerable influence over its decisions.”
The Injun waited to make sure the computer was through, then spoke again:
“Does the Oracle reside in Quichancha?”
“I have insufficient data to answer that question.”
The Injun paused for a moment, considering his next question. “Does the Oracle ever grant audiences to humans?”
“No.”
“Does the Oracle ever grant audiences to members of alien races, other than the Blue Devils?”
“I have insufficient data to answer that question.”
“That means you don't know of any such audiences?”
“That is correct.”
“Has the Oracle left Hades at any time during the past twelve years?”
“I have insufficient data to answer that question.”
“All right,” said the Injun. “Let's assume that she came here twelve or thirteen years ago, and hasn't seen a member of any race except the Blue Devils since then. Do you possess any information to the contrary?”
“That is correct.”
“Are there any spaceports on Hades other than the one in Quichancha?”
“No.”
The Injun analyzed all the information he had been given, and suddenly smiled. “Then I know how I'm going to find her. I wonder if the Whistler is smart enough to figure it out.”
The machine made no reply.
“Are you denied all access to the spaceport computer, or just to its security functions?”
“I am denied access to all aspects of spaceport security.”
“What about shipping and receiving?”
“I do not understand the question.”
“Can you access cargo manifests from the spaceport's shipping docks?”
“Yes, provided the manifests do not include items associated with planetary security.”
“This is almost too simple,” said the Injun. “What this embassy needs is more killers and less bureaucrats.” He smiled again. “Computer, access the manifests of all goods received in the past two weeks.”
“Working ... accessed, with the stated exceptions.”
“Good. Now go through them and access a list of all human foodstuffs that have been imported from Hades’ moons.”
“Working ... accessed.”
“Now eliminate all those items that were ordered by the embassy or the four hotels that cater to humans.”
“Working ... eliminated.”
“Now eliminate all those items that were ordered by the three restaurants in Quichancha.”
“How many items remain?” asked the Injun.
“Four.”
“Were all four items in the same shipment?”
“No. They were in two shipments, spaced ten days apart.”
“To whom were they consigned?”
“To Vrief Domo,” answered the computer.
“Who or what is Vrief Domo?”
“A native of Alpha Crepello III.”
“A Blue Devil?”
“That is correct.”
“I knew she couldn't make a steady diet of that goddamned native meat!” exclaimed the Injun triumphantly. “Computer, can you show me what Vrief Domo looks like?”
“Yes.”
Silence.
“Then do so, damn it!” said the Injun.
A holograph of a Blue Devil replaced that of Chandler.
“Shit!” muttered the Injun. “They all look alike to me.” He paused. “What data do you possess on him?”
“Vrief Domo is employed by the government of Alpha Crepello III.”
“The planetary government, not the government of Quichancha?” interrupted the Injun.
“That is correct.”
“What are his duties?”
“Unknown.”
“Where is his place of business?”
“The House of Rule.”
“The House of Rule?” repeated the Injun, frowning. “What's that?”
“The House of Rule is the complex of buildings from which Alpha Crepello III is governed.”
The Injun considered this, then shook his head. “It's got to be crawling with security.” He paused. “You must know something else about him. Give me everything you have.”
“Once every ten days Vrief Domo accepts a shipment of human foodstuffs at the Quichancha spaceport. That is the only information I possess about him.”
“Where does he take it?”
“Working...” There was a lengthy silence. “Unknown.”
“Do you know where he lives?”
“No.”
“Can you find out where he lives?”
“Working ... yes.”
“Is his residence in Quichancha?”
“Yes.”
“What's the address?”
“Quichancha has no addresses in human terms.”
“Can you pinpoint his residence on a map of t
he city?”
“Yes.”
The Injun waited patiently.
“Then do so, goddammit!”
The holograph of Vrief Domo was replaced by a three-dimensional grid of the city, with a tiny flashing dot pinpointing the Blue Devil's living quarters.
“I want a hard copy of this.”
“Working ... done.”
“And I also want a hard copy of Vrief Domo's holograph. A two-dimensional representation is acceptable.”
“Working ... done.”
“Where are they?” asked the Injun.
“My printer is in the large right-hand drawer of your desk. You will find the hard copies there.”
“How far is the embassy from Vrief Domo's quarters?”
“Approximately 1173 meters.”
“Approximately?”
“1173.239 meters, to be exact.”
“Is that in a straight line, or following the streets?”
“A straight line.”
“How far is it via the streets?”
“The shortest route is approximately 4.2 kilometers.”
“Very good, computer. Make sure no one can access what we've just discussed.”
“You have already placed all your interactions with me under a Priority Restriction.”
“I was just reminding you.”
“I am incapable of forgetting.”
“Fine. Deactivate.”
The computer went dead, and the Injun got to his feet and walked over to the desk. He opened the right-hand drawer and pulled out his two hard copies. He carefully folded the map and put it into a pocket of his tunic, then held up the picture of Vrief Domo, his first tangible link to the Oracle.
“Gotcha, you son of a bitch!” he said.
If his head hadn't begun throbbing again, he might even have felt sorry for the Blue Devil.
15.
The Injun waited for two days.
By that time the pain had subsided, and he had made discreet inquiries to make sure that his five million credits was in the pipeline. 32 was still tracing it, of course, but the Injun was confident that it would become more and more difficult with every transaction until it was finally impossible.
He had the computer match the handful of incoming humans against the embassy's list of anticipated arrivals, and wasn't surprised when they checked out. If the Whistler was half as good as he was supposed to be, it was going to take more than an embassy computer to find him.
