by Mike Resnick
Then they were both on Deluros together. Then Morales came to work aboard the Comet, and immediately thereafter Infante became a regular patron.”
“Are you suggesting that Infante was blackmailing Morales for something he had done on New Sumatra?”
“Not a chance. Either you or Morales might kill a blackmailer, but neither of you would then go out of your way to make sure the body was discovered while you were still on the ship.”
“A telling point,” commented Pagliacci. “You're as good as I thought you'd be.”
“So if the connection wasn't blackmail, then I have to assume they were working for a common cause, and that the cause has something to do with the Bello Affair.”
“For example?”
“Well,” said Crane, “now we get down to guess-work. I assume that some remnants of Bello's organization are headquartered on Deluros VIII. My guess is that Morales is some kind of contact man, and that Infante was a messenger. They couldn't converse by computer, since we'd have complete records of everything they said, so they had to meet in person.
There's no place as secure as the tunnel, but I imagine Morales and Infante could have exchanged a few words in the casino or the reception foyer without being overheard.”
“My own guess is that they passed written messages,” interjected Pagliacci.
“Then I'm right?” asked Crane.
“Let's say that you're very warm.”
“Then we come back to why you killed Infante,” said Crane, “and I keep coming up with the conclusion that it was to make Morales do something. If you'd wanted him to stop doing it, you'd have killed him instead of murdering a patron and risking the kind of investigation you wound up with.”
“Very good, Andy!” said Pagliacci. “I can see that you're going to make an excellent partner.”
“Anyway,” said Crane, ignoring his remark, “everything boils down to what you wanted Morales to do.”
“That it does.”
“And I keep coming up with the notion that, since he's a contact, you want him to get in touch with his superiors and tell them something.”
“Absolutely right.”
Crane stared at him. “I don't know a hell of a lot about New Sumatra, but I can't imagine that there's more than one man who makes this kind of risk worth taking.”
Pagliacci smiled. “You've got it, Andy.”
Crane nodded. “Bello's alive and hiding on Deluros VIII, isn't he?”
“A temporary yes to both questions,” replied Pagliacci. “He's alive and he's on Deluros; neither condition is going to last a whole lot longer.”
“How long has he been there?”
Pagliacci drained his second glass. “About five years.”
“And how did you find out about it?”
“I'll be happy to tell you as soon as you put your weapon away,” said Pagliacci. Crane hesitated. “Come on, Andy, you don't want me, not when I can give you the Bloody Butcher of New Sumatra. Hell, all I did was kill a man who was in the employ of a genocidal war criminal. It's not me you want—it's Bello. Think of what this can do for your career.”
“I'm thinking.”
“Then let me help you a little bit,” said Pagliacci, and now he was no longer smiling. “If you take me in, you're going to find yourself giving testimony against a fucking hero. I'll admit to everything you say, and I'll still get off the hook.”
“I assume you're willing to gamble your life on that?” said Crane dryly.
“On that, and on the fact that you're as incorruptible and ambitious as you think you are,” answered Pagliacci. “If you don't agree to work with me, our conversation ends now. You'll never know how to draw Bello out of hiding, and better men than you have failed to find him on Deluros.”
“There are no better men.”
“More men, then,” amended Pagliacci, momentarily surprised at the extent of the detective's ego. “But if you give me your word that you'll team up with me to capture Bello, I'll tell you what we have to do to get him up here.”
“Up here? You mean to the Comet?”
Pagliacci nodded. “Have we got a deal?”
“I'm considering it.”
“Well, consider it quickly. I'm due on stage in another hour.”
Crane stared at him for a long minute.
“All right,” he said at last, tucking his weapon away. “We're in business.”
“Good. I knew you were a reasonable man.”
“And now that we're partners, you're going to be a sober man. No more champagne.”
“Oh, I'm pretty sober,” said Pagliacci. He opened his left hand to reveal a tiny pistol. “I've had this trained on you the whole time, just in case we didn't strike a bargain.”
“I know,” said Crane calmly.
“The hell you did.”
“I did,” he repeated.
“Then why didn't you try to take it away from me?”
“Because I figured you were here to deal, not to kill me. Besides, that thing hasn't got much stopping power, and I guarantee you'd never get off a second shot.” He snorted contemptuously. “Have you ever actually fired that toy?”
“More often than you might think,” replied Pagliacci replacing it in his pocket. “And I've never needed a second shot yet.”
“If we're all through being macho, let's get down to facts. Who are you, and what's your interest in Quintus Bello? Are you a bounty hunter?”
“I'm Pagliacci.”
“And the rest of it?”
“I'm no bounty hunter. I'm a citizen—expatriate, to be sure—of New Sumatra, and I've been hunting that bastard down for more than a decade.”
“Alone?”
Pagliacci shook his head. “There's an organization.”
Crane nodded thoughtfully. “There would almost have to be. If he's kept this well-hidden, one man alone could never hunt him down. How many people are behind you?”
“A lot.”
“All New Sumatrans?”
“Some of us.” Pagliacci frowned. “There weren't all that many New Sumatrans left by the time he was done.”
They fell silent as the tram passed by once more.
“What actually happened on New Sumatra, anyway?” asked Crane. “I had the computer retrieve the newstapes, but I haven't had a chance to go over them yet.”
“There were 47,000 colonists on New Sumatra,” said Pagliacci, his face expressionless beneath the clown's make-up. “An incredibly virulent disease hit us, some kind of mutated virus, and killed 12,000 of us before our medics managed to identify it. A scientific team on Sirius V finally synthesized an antidote and shipped it to New Sumatra. We knew it would take about two weeks to arrive, and in the meantime we isolated the colonists who had contracted the disease so that it couldn't spread, since it frequently took less than two weeks to kill. We set up a pair of hospital camps a considerable distance from the population centers, and waited for the medication. It arrived on time.” He paused, and now the muscles in his jaws began twitching visibly. “But two days before it arrived, Bello ordered an air strike on each camp and destroyed every living soul in them.” He paused again. “I suppose I should be more grateful than I am. I used to be a mediocre businessman; now I'm a first-rate killer.”
Crane remained silent for what he felt was a proper length of time, and then spoke.
“Why didn't you kill him then and there?”
“He put the entire world under martial law, and then surrendered to the Navy when it arrived.” Pagliacci grimaced. “I thought justice was being done.”
“So your organization was formed after he escaped from prison?”
Pagliacci nodded. “He had help. No one escapes from a top security prison on his own. We've taken care of most of the helpers, but Bello himself has eluded us.”
“Until now.”
“Until now. We figured out after awhile that if we killed everyone who had shown any loyalty to him we'd never be able to get a line on his whereabouts, so we decided
to leave half a dozen of his supporters—mostly military officers—under covert observation. Morales was mine.”
“But he wasn't an officer.”
“No—but he prepared a video presentation for Bello's lawyer, so we felt reasonably sure that he was sympathetic to Bello's cause.”
“How did you know ten years ago that you'd have to be a nightclub performer to keep tabs on him?”
“I didn't,” admitted Pagliacci. “But this identity allows me to hide, or at least mask, my facial features, and I can come and go freely to any world that I feel I have to visit.”
“Your organization's got that much clout?” asked Crane.
“It's not as much as you think,” replied Pagliacci. “We have extremely impressive credentials and we don't charge very much.”
“We?” repeated Crane. “You're all clowns?”
“We're all entertainers.”
“So your organization masquerades as a theatrical booking agency.”
“I didn't say that.”
“You didn't have to.” Crane paused. “How long have you been keeping tabs on Morales?”
“Since we caught up with him about four years ago.”
“Then why move now?” asked Crane. “Why the sudden pressure?”
“The Republic knows Bello is on Deluros VIII.”
“Oh?”
“You look surprised. Don't be. The fact that they haven't been able to ferret him out in all this time isn't something they're very likely to broadcast.” He paused. “Anyway, we learned from a lieutenant we captured that Morales was sent up here to arrange an escape route for Bello. At some unspecified point in time he was to transmit a message, Bello was to come up to the Comet on a shuttle flight, and a very fast ship would be waiting to take him to some new refuge.”
“Then what was the point of killing Infante?” asked Crane, genuinely puzzled. “All it would have done would be to scare Morales off.”
“This is a carefully orchestrated campaign,” replied Pagliacci. “We're simultaneously putting all kinds of pressure on Bello's Deluros operatives. I wanted to convince Morales we were getting close to him, and force him to send that message while he still had the chance.”
“Well, for a man who's a smart killer, you make an awfully dumb conspirator,” replied Crane. “If Infante was the go-between, there's no way Bello could inform Morales that he's under siege.”
“Morales knows. Bello's been under siege for six months.”
“Even so, if this guy is half as loyal as you think, nothing in the universe is going to make him send that message. You should have waited until he felt safe.”
“I couldn't,” replied Pagliacci. “I leave the ship in another three weeks.”
“Then you should have let the next guy handle it.”
“Never!” said Pagliacci passionately. “He killed my wife and three daughters! I've spent ten years of my life tracking him down, and no one is going to rob me of my vengeance at the last moment!”
“Maybe we'd better get a couple of ground rules straight here,” said Crane, a note of concern in his voice. “On the unlikely assumption that Bello actually comes up to the Comet, my job is to capture him, not kill him. Vainmill doesn't need any more murders on this ship.”
“Absolutely.”
“Then why do I have the feeling that you're going to strangle him with your bare hands the second you see him?”
“I won't deny that I want to,” admitted Pagliacci grimly. “But my job is also to bring him back to prison. People have already forgotten what happened on New Sumatra. Even a man as obviously well-informed as yourself no longer remembered the details. He's got to be taken back alive, and with maximum publicity, so that the Republic will never forget his crimes.”
“At least for the next three or four years,” commented Crane ironically.
“This time it will be different,” said Pagliacci. “This time we'll have holographs of the trial and we'll have access to the court transcripts.”
“Do you seriously think anyone's going to look at them or read them?”
“Yes, I do,” answered Pagliacci. “Because we'll have something else we didn't have the last time around.”
“Oh? What is that?”
“We'll have a genuine, bonafide hero, Andy,” said Pagliacci. “We'll have you. You'll be fabled in song and story—and the songs and stories will all be about how you brought the Bloody Butcher to justice.”
“I suppose I could learn to live with that,” replied Crane with a tiny smile.
“Somehow I knew you could.”
“But before you turn me into a video idol,” continued Crane, “we've still got a little problem: namely, that I think you blew it when you tried to frighten Morales.”
Pagliacci shook his head. “I had hoped he would send the message out of fear, or a sense of urgency, but now we'll simply have to apply another method.”
“Did you have one in mind?”
“Compulsion.”
“He's probably been conditioned to withstand anything you can dish out,” replied Crane.
“But not anything you can dish out,” said Pagliacci.
“I don't think I follow you.”
“You're an executive with the Vainmill Corporation, Andy. That means you probably have access to a lot of places on this ship that are off-limits to a nightclub comic.”
“Such as?”
“Such as the hospital's medical storeroom,” replied Pagliacci with a grin. “It shouldn't take much effort on your part to find some nice will-sapping drug there—I've seen it used on a couple of violent drunks—and then we'll just pay Morales a visit, fuck around with his bloodstream for a few minutes, and tell him to send his message. It's got to be coded, so Bello will never know what condition our boy is in.”
“Niathol,” said Crane.
“What?”
“Niathol. That's the name of the drug.” Crane walked out onto the floor of the tunnel. “Well, let's get to work. I just hope to hell you're right about Morales transmitting the message rather than sending it back with Infante.”
“That's what our information says,” replied Pagliacci. “Besides, we'll know in another hour or two if it was right.” He checked his chronometer. “I've got to give another show in half an hour. Let's get the hell out of here before that damned tram comes back and runs us down.”
The detective nodded and began walking. “I'll pick you up at the club after I get the niathol.”
“Maybe I'll hit you with my detective routine after all,” chuckled Pagliacci.
“You do, and the deal's off,” said Crane unsmilingly.
Chapter 9
Crane had just removed a tiny container of niathol from a refrigeration unit in the hospital, and was searching for a syringe when the intercom system came to life.
“Mr. Crane?” said the Dragon Lady's voice.
He walked over to a terminal and activated it, and her holograph was projected a few feet in front of him.
“Yes?” he said.
“I wonder if you could come to my office?”
“Right now?” he replied. “I'm kind of busy.”
“It's rather important.”
“All right. I'll be there in five minutes.”
He broke the connection, left a message for Pagliacci that he might be a few minutes late, hunted up a syringe, and took the slidewalk to the Home.
It took him no more than a minute to take the elevator up two levels and walk down the hall to her office. The door opened as he approached it and promptly slid shut behind him.
He had seen the room when he had spoken to her via holograph, but this was the first time he had actually been inside it. One wall housed an ancient, hand-carved wooden bookcase containing a very thorough tape and disk library, as well as one of the Comet's omnipresent wet bars, while a number of paintings, some of them alien in origin, covered the other walls. Her chrome desk was plain and utilitarian, as were the three chairs that faced it. There was a bank of compu
ter terminals a few feet to the left of the desk, but only one screen that he could see. Everything seemed neat, well-organized, and uncluttered.
The Dragon Lady, wearing another burgundy robe, was seated behind her desk.
“What's up?” asked Crane, sitting down opposite her. “Has somebody made an attempt to get to Morales?”
“Not yet.” She paused. “I think they will soon, though. That's what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“They?”
She nodded. “Oh, yes, Mr. Crane. I suspect we're dealing with more than one person here.”
“You do?”
“Yes. And by the way, you don't need a syringe for niathol. It can be administered orally.”
“The bastard would probably bite a couple of my fingers off,” replied Crane calmly. “I'll stick with the syringe, if it's all the same to you.”
“Aren't you surprised that I know about the niathol?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I'd be surprised if you didn't.”
He smiled. “I spotted the cameras in the tunnel.”
“You did tell me to improve our security.”
“I know.”
“Would you have told me about Pagliacci if I hadn't ordered the cameras to be placed there last night?”
“Not a chance,” he responded. “That would prove you were too stupid or too careless to trust with the information.” He paused. “I hope to hell that you didn't get me all the way over here just to brag about how competent you are.”
“I got you here because a serious problem exists, and I want to know how you plan to handle it,” said the Dragon Lady.
“I'll give the niathol to Morales, get him to send the message, and arrest Bello as soon as he arrives.”
“That isn't the problem,” she replied. “We've still got a murderer walking around the ship.”
“Pagliacci? He's not going anywhere.”
“He's a killer.”
“He's all through killing. He wants Bello alive as much as I do.”
“That doesn't make him any less of a murderer,” she pointed out. “He's already killed Infante.”
“This thing is a lot bigger than Infante,” said Crane.
