by Mike Resnick
“I don't have to do anything,” said the Iceman. “You're paying me three million credits to listen to you, nothing more.”
“There's lots more.”
“I'm a rich man. I don't need it.”
“And there's the chance for vengeance.”
“You don't take vengeance on a hurricane or an ion storm,” said the Iceman. “They're forces of nature. If you survive an encounter with them, you count yourself lucky and you make sure that it never happens again.” He paused. “Penelope's the same thing—a force of nature. I'd love to see somebody kill her, I don't think it can happen, and I'm not dumb enough to volunteer. I had my shot at her when I was a lot younger and stronger, and I was lucky to come away alive.”
“You sound very cool and dispassionate,” said 32. “But I researched you thoroughly, Carlos. You followed every lead you could get your hands on for fourteen years. You traveled all over the Inner Frontier looking for her. That's not the behavior of a man who's afraid to face her again.”
“In the beginning I hunted her with a passion,” admitted the Iceman. “I won't deny it.” He paused. “But a man can't survive on hatred for fourteen years. After a while the blood cools and the passion fades, and toward the end I was hunting her more out of curiosity than hatred. I wanted to find out what she had become, how she had managed to stay hidden all these years, what her plans were.”
“She's only two systems away from here,” said 32. “And you still don't know the answers to your questions.”
“When she's ready to move, we'll all know.”
32 finished his brandy, and looked across the desk at the Iceman. “We can't afford to find out,” he said. “We've got to kill her now.”
“Maybe all she wants is to be left alone.”
“If you had those powers, would you want to be left alone to live in obscurity?” demanded 32.
“No, but...”
“But what?”
“But I'm human,” said the Iceman. “She probably isn't, not anymore.”
“That's all the more reason to terminate her.”
“If you say so.”
“Ten million credits,” said 32.
The Iceman made no answer, but stared at some fixed point on the wall.
“Well?” said 32.
“Be quiet,” said the Iceman. “I'm thinking.”
“Computing expenses?”
“I said be quiet!”
32 looked at the Iceman, then shrugged and was silent.
The Iceman remained motionless for almost a minute, then turned back to 32.
“You've got a big problem on your hands,” he said.
“That's what I've been explaining to you.”
The Iceman shook his head. “It's not the one you think.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It's been so long since I've seen her that I tend to forget what she can do,” said the Iceman. “You've got two men on Hades...”
“One that we know of.”
“Take my word, you've got two there,” said the Iceman.
“All right, for the sake of argument,” said 32. “What has that got to do with anything?”
“Why are they still alive?”
32 looked confused. “I don't think I understand the question.”
“Why didn't the Injun's ship crash when it landed? Why was the Whistler able to kill whoever it was he killed on the moons?”
“You think she wants them alive?” asked 32. “Why?”
“There's only one reason I can think of,” answered the Iceman. “She's being held against her will, and wants them to bring her out.”
“Against her will?” repeated 32. “How is that possible?”
“I don't know ... but I know if she didn't want to leave, the Injun wouldn't have been alive long enough to get your tampering undone. The surgeon would have sneezed or flinched at the wrong moment, and he'd never have survived.” He paused. “You were right. If you can't call the Whistler off, you'll have to kill him. And probably the Injun, too. If she wants to leave Hades, then you've got to stop her.”
“My orders are to kill her.”
“Fuck your orders,” said the Iceman. “You had her when she was six years old and you couldn't keep her even then. I tried to kill her when she was eight, and I failed. But now, somehow, the inhabitants of Hades have actually managed to keep her there against her will all these years, even though her powers have doubtless matured.” He stared at 32. “You let her off that planet and there will be hell to pay. She doesn't need a navy to conquer a world; all she has to do is choose the one future out of a million in which its star explodes, or a meteor plows into it. Give her an army of five thousand men and she would win any battle against any force in the galaxy, just by picking and choosing which outcome she wants for each skirmish. She probably can't be killed, but she can be contained—they're containing her right now.”
“If you're right, then these are the perfect conditions under which to assassinate her,” persisted 32.
“You still don't understand,” said the Iceman. “Let's say she's locked up in a cell. If you tried to shoot her, she'd cough or sneeze or twitch or do something that would bring about the one future in which you blew the lock off the door.”
“We've still got to try.”
“No!” snapped the Iceman. “Once and for all, try to understand what I'm saying to you: they've found a way to contain her. We'd be crazy to tamper with it.”
“But we can't just sit back and do nothing!” protested 32.
“We could have, before you hired me and sent the Injun after her,” said the Iceman. “But like I said, you've got a big problem on your hands. The first one of them to reach her is going to free her, whether he means to or not.” He paused for a very long moment. “Put the ten million in my account,” he said reluctantly. “I'm going to have to go in after them.”
“I thought you didn't want any part of it.”
“I don't,” said the Iceman. “But I'm the only one who can call the Whistler off. He'll kill anyone else you send.”
“What about the Injun?”
“If he's on the seed, he's off in dreamland somewhere—and if he tries to kill the Whistler, you can bury what's left of him.”
“But if he's clean, and he can't find the Whistler, he'll be going after the Oracle.”
“Then I'll have to find him and stop him.”
“As you pointed out, you're a fat old man with one leg,” said 32. “What makes you think you can stop him?”
“He won't know why I'm there, and he has no reason to kill me,” answered the Iceman. “And hopefully I'll have the Whistler on my side.” He paused and stared grimly across the desk at 32. “You've only got one other alternative.”
“What is it?”
“Blow up the whole damned planet—and do it with unmanned ships that have been programmed thousands of light years away.”
“We can't kill 200 million Blue Devils, just to get rid of someone who might constitute a threat!” protested 32.
“We've done a lot worse in the past,” said the Iceman.
“I will not go down in history as a genocidal maniac!”
The Iceman sighed. “Then I'll have to go to Hades and try to find the Whistler and the Injun before they find her.”
“What makes you think she'll let you land?”
“I'll find a way. That's part of what you're paying me for.”
32 considered all he had heard for a long moment, then shook his head in confusion. “I just don't know,” he said at last. “When you lay it out, it sounds reasonable...” He sighed. “But when all is said and done, I'm supposed to have her assassinated, and here we are, talking about how to keep the two assassins from reaching her.”
“It's up to you,” said the Iceman. “I'm an old man. I imagine I can live out my life before she turns the Democracy inside out.” He got to his feet. “I'm going back up to my ship. I'll stay docked in orbit for ten more hours. I'm sure you've
recorded our conversation; play it to whoever can change your orders. If I don't hear from you by then, I'll assume you're still going to try to kill her, and I'll go back to Last Chance.”
It didn't take ten hours, or even eight.
Five hours later the Democracy transferred ten million credits to the Iceman's account on Last Chance.
And ten minutes after that, the Iceman activated his ship and took off for Hades, wondering whether he would live long enough to spend a single credit of his money.
24.
As he approached the planet, his radio came to life.
“You are approaching Alpha Crepello III,” said an accented voice. “Please identify yourself.”
“This is the Space Mouse, Registration Number 932K1P23, five Galactic Standard days out of Last Chance, via Philemon II, Carlos Mendoza commanding.”
“Alpha Crepello III is closed to all unauthorized visitors.”
“Let me speak to whoever is in charge,” said the Iceman.
“That is impossible.”
“I have vital information to convey to him.”
“What is the nature of your information?”
“My information is not for underlings,” replied the Iceman. “I must speak to your superior.”
“I have explained that this is impossible.”
“Then give me your name and military identification number,” said the Iceman. “I want to know who to blame when your commander asks why he was not contacted.”
There was a momentary silence. “Please wait,” said the voice at last.
The Iceman allowed himself the luxury of a smile, and opened a container of beer while he waited for his demand to get passed up the chain of command to someone who would finally accept responsibility.
It took eleven minutes.
Then the image of a Blue Devil, its outfit bedecked with glittering stones that the Iceman took to be medals, appeared on his viewscreen.
“I am Praed Tropo,” said the Blue Devil.
“You're in charge?”
“I am in a position of authority. What information have you for me?”
“It's very sensitive,” answered the Iceman. “I'd much rather tell you in person.”
“You are not allowed to land on Alpha Crepello III.”
“Not even to save the Oracle's life?” asked the Iceman.
There was no change in the Blue Devil's expression, but its voice seemed to drop half an octave. “Continue,” it said.
“There is a human assassin, currently on Alpha Crepello III, who has been hired to terminate the Oracle. This assassin does not work for the Democracy; in fact, the Democracy, which does not want to be involved in an interplanetary incident, has assigned me the task of stopping him. To do this, I will need your assistance.”
“The Oracle is in no danger,” replied Praed Tropo. “She cannot be harmed.”
“The Democracy controls more than 50,000 worlds, and this is the best assassin on any of them,” said the Iceman. “Are you sure you care to take that chance?”
“If he is the best assassin, how do you propose to stop him?”
“I don't,” answered the Iceman. “I am an old man, well past my prime. But I know his methods, and I can identify him. I hope to enlist your aid in apprehending him.”
“Transmit his holograph and retinagram to us, and we will attend to him,” said Praed Tropo.
“I have accepted a commission of ten million credits to apprehend him,” said the Iceman. “This money is payable only upon the successful completion of my assignment, and the Democracy will have no reason to pay me if I turn the job over to you. Either we work together, or I return to Last Chance and your Oracle can take her chances.”
“Why should I believe you?” demanded Praed Tropo.
“You can authenticate my story with the man who hired me,” said the Iceman.
“Why should I believe any Man?”
He'd been waiting for that question. Now it was time to play his trump card, the offer on which he was willing to wager his life.
“I will be happy to put myself in your custody until you are convinced that I am telling the truth. Surely you have the equivalent of a lie detector; I will willingly submit to interrogation while monitored by any such mechanism.”
“I will need time to consider this,” said Praed Tropo.
“I understand,” said the Iceman. “But you must understand that every minute you delay works in the assassin's favor.”
And the less time you have to come up with a question I'm unprepared for, the better.
This time the silence lasted for less than thirty seconds.
“We will transmit landing coordinates to your ship,” said Praed Tropo. “All weapons systems must be disarmed or you will be destroyed.”
“I have no weapons systems,” answered the Iceman.
“We are transmitting now.”
The Iceman touched down at a military spaceport some forty minutes later, stepped out into the incredibly hot air of Hades, and was immediately taken into custody by a squadron of Blue Devils. They marched him into a nearby building, where Praed Tropo was waiting for him.
“You realize that if we discover that you have lied to us, you will be imprisoned and quite probably executed,” was Tropo's greeting to him.
“I do,” answered the Iceman. “But once you find out I'm telling you the truth, I trust that you'll be willing to work with me.”
“We shall see.”
“Look,” said the Iceman. “I'm just an independent businessman, trying to become more independent. Personally, I don't care whether your Oracle lives a million years or dies tomorrow.”
“What is that to me?” said Praed Tropo.
“I'm trying to tell you that you can trust me because I'm motivated by the most basic human emotion: greed. I have no reason to lie to you, and every reason to tell you the truth.”
“If you are indeed telling the truth, you have nothing to worry about, Mendoza,” replied Praed Tropo. “Follow me.”
Praed Tropo began walking down a corridor, and the Iceman, still accompanied by the squadron of Blue Devils, fell into step behind him. It wasn't like any corridor the Iceman had ever seen before: it was as if it had been designed by a drunken architect, and built by madmen. The ceiling rose to a height of fifteen feet, then dropped to the point where they all had to bend over to keep from bumping their heads, then rose again. It zigged and zagged for no discernable purpose, passing no doorways or rooms along the way, and finally, when he was convinced that they had completed a very erratic circle and were about to wind up where they had started, it abruptly terminated in a large room.
The walls were set at oblique angles to each other, and the ceiling rose and fell like a wave on a turbulent ocean. At the far end of the room was a row of machines, none of which bore any resemblance to anything with which the Iceman was familiar, and near one of them was a chair. Not a chair constructed for human use, but as he stared at it, the Iceman decided that a Blue Devil would probably be just as uncomfortable on it as he would.
He was led to the chair and told to sit down. Then Praed Tropo placed a small metal disk on the back of his neck, and another on his left wrist. Four Blue Devils trained their weapons on him.
“We are now prepared to interrogate you,” said the Blue Devil. “If you should lie, you will receive a near-lethal correction that will affect your nerve centers. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” replied the Iceman.
“Should you attempt to escape before the interrogation is completed, you will be shot. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Very well,” said Praed Tropo. “What is your name?”
“Carlos Mendoza.”
“What is your home planet?”
“Last Chance.”
“We have no record of a Last Chance.”
“It's official name is Madison IV.”
“Why are you here, Mendoza?”
Here it comes, thought the Iceman
. Keep calm, don't get excited, and choose your words very carefully. Do it right and you can beat this machine.
“I have come to Alpha Crepello III to prevent an assassin named Chandler from carrying out his assignment.”
He waited for a jolt, and relaxed when it didn't occur.
“What is Chandler's assignment?”
“He is a hired killer who has come for the Oracle.”
“How do you know this?”
Careful.
“I am on intimate terms with the man who hired him.”
“And who hired you to prevent him from carrying out his assignment?”
“A high-level official in the Democracy. I don't know his real name, but his code name is 32. He is currently stationed on Philemon II. He has offered to pay me ten million credits if I accomplish my mission.”
“How did this Chandler manage to land on Alpha Crepello III?” asked Praed Tropo.
“I don't know.”
“Where is he now?”
“I don't know.”
“But you know that he has definitely been commissioned to assassinate the Oracle?”
Pause. Take a deep breath. Construct your answer precisely. Think.
“I know that when the circumstances are right, he will try to kill her.”
The Iceman half-expected to be jolted by a near-lethal shock, but nothing happened.
“Have you met this Chandler personally?” continued Praed Tropo.
“Yes.”
“And you can identify him?”
“Yes.”
“What good is that to us if he is the master of disguise you claim him to be?”
“I know his methods. I'll know him when I see him.”
“You are absolutely sure of this?” said Praed Tropo. “There is no doubt in your mind?”
“I am absolutely sure of it,” repeated the Iceman. “There is no doubt whatsoever in my mind.” He paused. “If that answers your questions, can you disconnect me from this device now? I'm very uneasy being attached to it, and I'm afraid that it may misinterpret my nervousness as false answers.”
“You'll be disconnected when I am through questioning you,” answered Praed Tropo. “And not until then.”
He asked the Iceman the same set of questions three more times, then had him supply a list of Chandler's known victims.
