The Best Rootin' Tootin' Shootin' Gunslinger in the Whole Damned Galaxy (22 page)

      
“We're going to want this to be as accurate as possible,” he announced at last, “so let me ask you some further questions."

      
“Shoot,” said the Dancer, leaning up against a wall next to photos of Cole Younger and Bat Masterson, both of them dressed formally and posed very self-consciously.

      
“Did Doc Holliday always wear gray? Having seen your pictures of famed desperadoes, I think he'd look much more striking in black, which seems to have been almost a tribal color."

      
“Gray,” said the Dancer firmly.

      
“You're sure?” asked Borilliot. The Dancer nodded, and the little alien sighed. “All right. Gray it is. What about a hat?"

      
“What about one?"

      
“Did he wear one, and if so, what type?” persisted the alien. “I notice that most of the men in your photographs are wearing hats, and that the styles differ markedly."

      
The Dancer glanced up and down his wall, found a hat that he liked, and pointed to it. “Make it like this one."

      
“Gray, too?"

      
“Yep."

      
“Now, this knife hanging down from his neck,” continued Borilliot, pointing toward Jiminy. “Are you absolutely sure that you want it? After all, he won't be using it in your contest."

      
“He wore it."

      
“I'm sure he did, but—"

      
“He
wore
it,” repeated the Dancer.

      
Borilliot sighed again, made a note on his computer, and looked up. “Was he right-handed or left-handed?"

      
“How should I know?” responded the Dancer.

      
“Right-handed, I think,” offered Jiminy. “Most of the humans on the ship favor their right hands, so you might as well have the robot do the same."

      
“All right,” agreed the alien. “How about scars?"

      
“I don't think he had any,” replied the Dancer. “At least, he wasn't never wounded."

      
“Not once in all those gunfights?” asked Jiminy in disbelief.

      
The Dancer shook his head. “Closest he ever came was at the O.K. Corral—a bullet bounced off his belt buckle."

      
“He must have been a formidable figure,” remarked Borilliot. “I wish he didn't look so infirm."

      
“He was dying."

      
“Ah, yes—the tuberculosis. Shall I give him a cough? I could make it absolutely spontaneous.” The little red alien smiled. “It might even save your life, if it should occur during the battle."

      
“I don't need no edge,” said the Dancer.

      
Borilliot stared at him for a moment, then shrugged. “Did he have any other physical deficiencies I should know about?” he asked at last. “Nearsightedness, perhaps?"

      
“No. Just the consumption,” said the Dancer. “It was ailment enough for any man.” He turned to Jiminy. “You know, he was so weak from it that he had to use a cane to walk to the O.K. Corral.” He smiled, as if remembering the event personally. “But once he got there, he killed both McLowry brothers."

      
“Needs a cane to locomote,” muttered Borilliot to himself as he made an entry on his computer.

      
“Not this time around, he don't,” said the Dancer.

      
“But—"

      
“I don't care how puny he looks,” said the Dancer. “This time he fights healthy."

      
“It's your funeral,” said the alien with a shrug. He shifted his weight on the bed. “Now, the robot will have to participate in numerous interviews as part of the pre-fight publicity, so I will have to know what the real Doc Holliday's voice was like."

      
“You mean high or low or like that?” asked the Dancer.

      
Borilliot nodded.

      
“I don't know. He came from Georgia, though, so I guess he talked with a Southern accent. Does that help?"

      
“Not unless you can tell me what a Southern accent sounds like."

      
“Jenny's from one of the Carolinas,” said the Dancer. “Listen to her."

      
“Who is Jenny, and what is a Carolina?” asked the alien.

      
“Carolina's a place,” answered Jiminy. “Two of them, actually. As for Jenny, I'll point her out to you."

      
“How did you know about the Carolinas?” asked the Dancer curiously.

      
Jiminy smiled. “You think
you're
the only one I talk to on this ship?” He paused. “By the way, can I change back now?"

      
“You need any more pictures?” the Dancer asked the little alien.

      
“I guess not,” answered Borilliot.

      
“Thank you,” said Jiminy, instantly changing to his usual persona.

      
“That's quite an ability you have there,” remarked Borilliot. “I've never seen a Jimorian before."

      
“I wouldn't bet every last credit I owned on that,” said Jiminy.

      
The alien looked startled for a moment, then emitted a low chuckle.

      
“Probably you're right.” He stared at Jiminy. “Tell me, is it difficult to establish an identity?"

      
“Only at first, like when I was being Doc Holliday,” replied Jiminy. “After I've maintained an identity for a few days, it becomes almost second nature to me."

      
“I could certainly use you in my business."

      
“No, thanks,” said Jiminy. “I'm happy right where I am."

      
“You're sure?” Jiminy nodded. “Well, if you ever change your mind, Mr. Ahasuerus knows how to get in contact with me. There could be a lot of money in it for both of us.” He waited for a reaction, didn't receive one, and turned back to the Dancer. “I'll need a few details for the robot's first couple of interviews."

      
“For instance?"

      
“How long did Doc Holliday live, and how many men did he kill?"

      
“He died when he was thirty-five,” answered the Dancer. “As for how many men he killed, no one's real sure. Anywhere from ten to sixty."

      
“That's a pretty big range,” noted Borilliot. “Don't they keep records on your planet?"

      
“Well,” replied the Dancer with a smile, “it wasn't the kind of thing that the folks involved was real eager to see go into the record books, if you catch my drift."

      
“All right,” said Borilliot, concentrating on his computer's tiny keyboard.

      
“If Doc Holliday were to brag about the biggest odds he ever faced, what would he say?"

      
“He wouldn't,” said the Dancer. “Old Doc, he never bragged about what he done."

      
“You don't understand,” explained Borilliot. “I need this information to program the robot."

      
“If the robot's gonna be like Doc, he shouldn't brag neither,” said the Dancer firmly.

      
“I
must
have some details!” said Borilliot irritably. “The Corporation is putting a lot of time and money into this, and I can't just give them a robot that blushes and sucks his finger and says that he's too modest to discuss his accomplishments!"

      
“All Kargennian cares about is that the fight comes off,” said the Dancer.

      
“Wrong,” said the alien. “The fight has to come off before a paying audience— and we can't draw a paying audience unless you cooperate with me."

      
The Dancer lowered his head in thought for a long moment, then looked up. “All right—but I ain't making nothing up."

      
“You won't have to,” interjected Jiminy. “That's why we're doing a Doc Holliday robot in the first place."

      
“I repeat,” said Borilliot, “what were the biggest odds he ever faced?"

      
“Once, in Dodge, he faced twenty-five or thirty men who were ganging up on Wyatt Earp. Pat Garrett was one of 'em—that was back before he turned lawman and gunned down Billy the Kid—and old Doc, he made the whole lot of 'em back off."

      
“How many of them did he kill?” asked Borilliot.

      
“None."

      
“But I thought you said—"

      
“You asked me the biggest odds he ever faced. I told you."

      
“What was the largest number he ever faced in a fight?"

      
“By himself?” asked the Dancer. “They say he killed eight Mexicans in a fight over a card game south of the border."

      
“Eight men,” repeated Borilliot, entering it in his computer.

      
“Most people don't believe it, though,” added the Dancer. “Doc got blamed for lots of stuff once he got a reputation."

      
Borilliot looked across the small room at the Dancer. “Did he actually kill
anyone
?"

      
“Yep."

      
“You are doing everything you can to hinder my compilation of the data I need,” complained Borilliot. “I cannot work under these conditions."

      
“You ain't asking nothing important,” said the Dancer.

      
“And what would
you
consider an important question?” said the alien sarcastically.

      
“If it was me making a gunfighter, I'd want to know how good he was with a gun."

      
“All right. How good was he?"

      
“The best,” replied the Dancer.

      
“Then tell me why you think so!” demanded Borilliot hotly.

      
“I really think you should, Billybuck,” added Jiminy. “After all, he can't build the robot without this information, so the sooner you tell him all the things you've told me, the sooner he can go to work."

      
“Okay,” said the Dancer grudgingly. “But Doc can't sound like he's bragging."

      
“He won't—I promise."

      
The Dancer spent the next hour telling the little alien about Holliday's days in Dodge City and Tombstone, Denver and Las Vegas, his life as a dentist in Dallas and as a gambler in Leadville. When he had finally finished his litany of death, Borilliot turned off the computer and shook his head.

      
“An amazingly primitive planet,” he remarked in wonderment. “But then,” he added thoughtfully, “if it wasn't, it wouldn't have produced people like you and Doc Holliday, would it?"

      
“Actually,” said Jiminy defensively, “they're a fascinating race. Very few of them go around shooting each other."

      
“Only because of a lack of weapons, I'm sure,” replied Borilliot. “It is common knowledge within the Corporation that this entire enterprise began because Mr. Flint kidnapped twelve tourists, and certainly the biggest money-maker the carnival has had besides Billybuck Dancer was Jupiter Monk during the period when he and Batman of Sabellius III waged what amounted to a war in the ring."

      
“Well, now,” said Jiminy, “I never said they were comprehensible—but they
are
fascinating."

      
“Actually,” said a wry voice from the doorway, “I only kidnapped
eleven
tourists. Mr. Ahasuerus was their guide."

      
“Hi, Thaddeus,” said the Dancer, as Flint entered the small compartment.

      
“Just seeing how things are coming along,” said Flint. He gestured to the refrigerator. “Got anything in there besides milk and Coke?"

      
“Ice water,” was the reply.

      
Flint made a face. “I think I'll pass.” He turned to Borilliot. “Jesus, but you're the spitting image of Kargennian!"

      
“I'll assume that's a compliment,” replied the alien.

      
“Assume any damned thing you want,” said Flint. He looked in the refrigerator, just to make sure the Dancer hadn't forgotten to mention a sixpack of beer. Finally he straightened up. “How long is it going to take to build this damned robot?"

      
“Fifteen to twenty days,” answered Borilliot. “Kargennian told me that this was to be a rush job."

      
“I suppose it is,” replied Flint without enthusiasm.