The Best Rootin' Tootin' Shootin' Gunslinger in the Whole Damned Galaxy (10 page)

      
“Why don't we just pull off his mask and hold him up to the light?” asked Flint, shifting vigorously on the couch but failing to find a comfortable way to position his body.

      
“He is not wearing a mask,” said the blue man. “At least, not in the normal sense."

      
Flint snorted. “Yeah? Well, suppose you tell me where he came up with that outfit he's wearing."

      
“He is not wearing an outfit of any kind,” replied Mr. Ahasuerus. “Indeed, my guess is that he's quite naked."

      
“What are you talking about? You shook his goddamned hand when I brought him on board. Didn't you bother looking at what it was attached to?"

      
“What you and I saw and what he was wearing are two different things," explained Mr. Ahasuerus patiently. “The Jimorians are feared because they can supposedly cast illusory images of themselves: they can appear to be virtually anyone or anything at all.” He paused, fascinated by the thought. “I wonder if we can convince him to let us watch while he's establishing an identity."

      
“Are you saying that he looks like a man to us because he's controlling our minds?"
      
“No. I am sure that if he had the power to read or control your mind, he would have been able to assuage all your doubts. I am merely stating what I have been told about Jimorians, and what your experience with one would seem to support: that they have the ability to appear in any guise that they choose."

      
“If he
can't
read minds, how did he know about you and me and Tojo and Monk and everyone else in the carnival?” demanded Flint. “How did he learn English, slang and all?"

      
“I am not an expert on Jimorians,” said Mr. Ahasuerus. “But if I were to guess, I would say that picking up languages is probably a survival trait. After all, many of our non-human employees have learned English with very little difficulty. I seem to remember Kargennian remarking that he had mastered it in a single evening."

      
“Kargennian says a lot of things, most of 'em lies."

      
“I myself learned English in little more than two days,” added Mr. Ahasuerus, taking a sip of his coffee and trying not to look too smug. “It is a very simple language, really—far easier to master than, say, Rabolian or Canphorian."

      
“What about his knowledge of our personnel?” persisted Flint.

      
“Billybuck told him, obviously."

      
“The Dancer wouldn't give the time of day to a clock,” said Flint, finally giving up on the couch and walking over to an equally uncomfortable chair.

      
“Come now, Mr. Flint. Merely because
you
find it difficult to speak with him doesn't mean that others do. Didn't Billybuck himself tell you they had spoken all night? Surely the Jimorian would have asked some rather pointed questions if he had planned on impersonating a human and asking us for employment. One of the reasons they arouse so much opposition is that they are so thorough in their impersonations."

      
“Then how do you know
I'm
not one?” asked Flint.

      
The blue man flashed his teeth in his equivalent of a smile. “No Jimorian would be so rude.” He chuckled hoarsely, and then spoke again. “Absolutely nothing I have heard about the abilities of Jimorians would indicate that they can read minds, so while he might know in general how a sentient entity or even a Man might react to certain questions or situations, he couldn't possibly know how Thaddeus Flint would react. And he certainly couldn't match your capacity for abusing your body with alcohol and tobacco."

      
“You're sure this isn't just some fairy tale your mother invented to keep you in line after you came in from a hard day of pinching all the little bald blue girls in the neighborhood?"
 

      
“I am only repeating what I have heard,” replied Mr. Ahasuerus seriously. “Very little is known about them."

      
“Well, if it's true, I can see why everyone counts their teeth when a Jimorian comes into the room."

      
“They are really more to be pitied than feared,” said the blue man. “They spend their lives in constant danger; they are hated and feared everywhere except their home planet, they are frequently slaughtered for no reason other than being Jimorians. Indeed, the prevalent view is that they had been totally eradicated from the galaxy. For all we know, this specimen may be the last surviving member of his race, at any rate, he is certainly one of the last."

      
“I wonder what the hell he ever left home for,” mused Flint.

      
“Why do any of us?” said Mr. Ahasuerus gently. “To see the next world, to meet beings we had never imagined existed, to—"

      
“Spare me your platitudes,” interrupted Flint. “Most of us left just to make a buck. There's no reason to assume this guy is any different. So the question isn't whether to pity him or fear him, but how best to
use
him."

      
The blue man shook his head. “People—especially planet-bound people— hate and fear what they cannot understand. If you put him on display, or concoct some scheme to utilize his special talents, you are very likely inviting his death at the hands of our customers."

      
Flint stared at his partner. “What did you think I was going to do—turn him into a one-man freak show? He juggles, he does magic tricks, ask him and he'll probably swear that he can do a buck-and-wing. Stogie is slowing down and the Dancer's act has gotten shorter, so I say we put him to work in the specialty tent."

      
“An excellent suggestion,” agreed Mr. Ahasuerus. “Forgive me, but I naturally assumed that—"

      
“I know what you naturally assumed,” said Flint. “But we're rich, successful men these days, so we take something like a Jimorian and turn him into a third-rate entertainer.” He paused. “Do you know what I could have done with him back on Earth, or even the first couple of years out here?"

      
“I know,” said Mr. Ahasuerus distastefully.

      
Flint shook his head sadly. “What a fucking waste. I almost wish we were starving again, just so I could use this guy the way he
ought
to be used.” He lit a cigarette, exhaled two streams of smoke from his nostrils, and turned to his partner. “You know, success isn't everything it's cracked up to be. I'm worth how many million credits—forty? fifty?—and I still can't get a decent beer or a hamburger that isn't blue; I'm going to see the same four women for the rest of my life, and just between you and me I'm getting sick of the sight of them; those bastards at the Corporation are even less lovable when they grovel and kowtow than when we used to have to bamboozle 'em out of every little thing we needed; and when I get something like a Jimorian, a guy who was
born
to be a carny, I turn him into a second-rate version of W. C. Fields.” He smiled wryly. “I don't know—maybe Karl Marx knew a little something about capitalism that J. P. Morgan missed."

      
“The names are unfamiliar to me,” replied Mr. Ahasuerus.

      
“No great loss,” said Flint. “Neither of 'em was worth the powder to blow him to hell.” He shrugged. “I guess I'll hunt up our new employee after he's had a couple of hours to get used to the ship and figure out whether to let him juggle or do card tricks—or who knows, I might just have the robots whip up some snake oil and see how good he is at selling it."

      
“Snake oil?” repeated the blue man in a puzzled tone.

      
“Don't worry your pretty little head about it,” said Flint with a smile.

      
“But we have no snakes aboard the—"

      
The blue man was interrupted by a knocking at the door. “Come in,” he said, pressing a button on his computer console that caused the door to slide back into the wall.

      
“Diggs said that you wanted to see me,” said Tojo, stepping into the office.

      
“Hello, Thaddeus."

      
“Yes, I did,” replied Mr. Ahasuerus. “Please sit down."

      
“If it's not going to take too long, I'd rather stand,” said Tojo. “I don't want to offend you, but your chairs are, well . . ."

      
“Torture racks,” offered Flint.

      
“Probably it's just because of my back,” said Tojo apologetically.

      
“This won't take long at all,” replied the blue man. He opened a desk drawer and withdrew two gaily wrapped packages. Then, standing up, he carried one over to Flint and handed the other to Tojo.

      
“What's this all about?” asked Flint.

      
“I realize that we haven't celebrated any of your holidays since leaving Earth,” explained the blue man, “but according to my calendar, today is the last Thursday in November."

      
“So?"

      
“Happy Thanksgiving!” said Mr. Ahasuerus, contorting his lips to form a smile.

      
There was a momentary silence.

      
“I'm afraid you've got it all wrong,” said Flint. “On Thanksgiving we slaughter innocent birds and forget to abuse Indians. Christmas is when we defoliate forests and exchange gifts."

      
“Oh?” said the blue man, suddenly upset. “I am terribly sorry. I must have—"

      
“Then it's time for a new tradition,” stammered Tojo. “And I, for one, want to thank you for being so thoughtful.” He held the small package in his hand, staring at it. “What is it?"

      
“Open it up,” said Mr. Ahasuerus, his enthusiasm returning.

      
“I will,” said the hunchback, peeling off the wrapping paper. He came to a small box and lifted the lid.

      
“Well?” said Flint.

      
“It looks like a whistle,” said Tojo, holding up a small glistening object.

      
“It is,” said Mr. Ahasuerus, beaming like a proud parent. “It is goldplated."

      
“Just what a ringmaster needs,” said Tojo. “It was very thoughtful of you, Mr. Ahasuerus."

      
“There is an inscription,” said the blue man with childlike eagerness.

      
“Oh. I see it now,” said Tojo, holding the whistle up to the light. “
To Tojo
," he read, “
the finest barker in the galaxy. With appreciation, from the Ahasuerus and Flint Traveling Carnival and Sideshow
.” The little hunchback looked up with moistened eyes. “Thank you,” he said sincerely. “I will cherish this forever."

      
Mr. Ahasuerus glowed with satisfaction, as Tojo carefully replaced the whistle in its box.

      
“I'll find an appropriate chain for it before tonight,” said Tojo, “and I'll wear it at the performance."

      
“Good!” said the blue man. “I'm so glad that you're pleased with it."

      
“I just may go into insulin shock,” remarked Flint dryly.

      
“Aren't you going to open yours, Thaddeus?” asked Tojo.

      
“Later,” said Mr. Ahasuerus. “Mr. Flint's present is of a more personal nature."

      
Flint cocked an eyebrow, but said nothing.

      
“If it's all right with you,” said Tojo, “I'm going to hunt up a chain now."

      
“Hold on,” said Flint. He removed a thin gold chain from his neck. “Wait'll I pull this thing off”—he detached a life symbol—“and you can have the damned thing."

      
“Are you sure?” said Tojo hesitantly.

      
Flint nodded. “Yeah. Alma gave it to me just before we left Earth. I don't suppose it's going to hurt her feelings at this late date—and besides, it occasionally gets in the way, if you know what I mean."

      
“I think we all know what you mean,” said Mr. Ahasuerus disapprovingly.

      
“Thank you,” said Tojo, taking the chain and attaching the whistle to it. He paused at the doorway. “It's funny, your mentioning Alma just now."

      
“Yeah?"

      
“Yes. When I was down on the third level a few minutes ago, I could have sworn I saw her out of the corner of my eye. It must have been one of the other girls, but it sure fooled me for a second.” He shrugged awkwardly. “I guess I've been working too hard."

      
“If you have been,” said Flint, “you're the first. Probably you've been hanging around the Dancer too much. Living in the past might be contagious."

      
“I guess so,” said Tojo. He thanked Mr. Ahasuerus again and left.