The Best Rootin' Tootin' Shootin' Gunslinger in the Whole Damned Galaxy (26 page)

      
“It's not bad, at that,” admitted Flint grudgingly.

      
They came to the end of the Midway, and Flint turned back to the ship.

      
“You're going to speak to Billybuck now?” asked Kargennian.

      
“Yeah, unless you nag me so much that I change my mind,” said Flint.

      
Flint left Kargennian where he was and began walking back to the ship through the Midway's maze of games. He stopped by Barbara's booth to tell her when he thought he'd be through with the day's chores, gave some free tickets for the Null-Gravity Ferris Wheel to a group of Philobin children, and finally reached the ship. He went to the Dancer's room, where he found the sharpshooter sitting on his bed, staring off into space, as usual.

      
He lit a cigarette, then activated the intercom system and summoned Borilliot.

      
“Hi, Thaddeus,” said the Dancer, snapping out of his trance. “What's up?"

      
“Kargennian tells me you've been a bad boy,” replied Flint with a smile.

      
“They want to turn Doc into a comic-book character,” said the Dancer fiercely. “I'm not gonna let 'em do it!"

      
“Was Doc Holliday a stupid man?"

      
“Of course not. He was a dentist, wasn't he?"

      
“You never heard of a stupid dentist?"

      
“He was smart,” repeated the Dancer.

      
“Well, he doesn't
sound
smart when they interview him,” responded Flint. “He sounds dull and stupid. Now, if you want him to keep sounding like that, fine . . . but, if you want him to sound smart and interesting, you're going to have to give Borilliot some stories he can use.” He paused and studied the sharpshooter. “Otherwise, people are going to think you're going up against a retard who can barely buckle his gunbelt."

      
“You really think so, Thaddeus?” asked the Dancer, his brow furrowed in thought.

      
“It's a possibility."

      
“All right,” said the Dancer at last. “But I ain't gonna tell him nothing that might make people laugh at the Doc."

      
“Fair enough,” said Flint. “He'll be here in a minute or two. You want me to stick around and referee?"

      
“That'd be nice."

      
“I almost hate to ask, but what have you got in your refrigerator today?"

      
“Milk,” said the Dancer. “Well, not really. I tried to tell the galley robots what buttermilk was like, and what I got is what they came up with.” He sighed. “It ain't real good, but I suppose it's healthy enough. Looks pretty awful, though."

      
“I think I'll take a raincheck,” said Flint, turning one of the Dancer's plain wooden chairs around and sitting down with the back pressed against his chest.

      
Borilliot entered the compartment a moment later.

      
“Ah, Mr. Flint!” said the alien. “How delightful to see you again."

      
“I kind of hoped I wouldn't be seeing
you
again,” replied Flint. “At least, not until after the gunfight."

      
“Never fear,” said Borilliot. “My lips are sealed."

      
“Well, I suppose sealed lips are a lot better than a slit throat,” said Flint, his face pleasant but his tone ominous.

      
“Believe me, you have nothing to worry about,” Borilliot assured him.

      
“That's not quite true,” said Flint. “But just keep telling yourself that if anything goes wrong, I've got a lot less to worry about than you do."

      
“What are you guys talking about?” asked the Dancer.

      
“Oh, just a couple of bets we made,” said Flint. He turned to the Dancer. “Now let's get down to business."

      
“I need colorful stories and anecdotes about Doc Holliday,” explained Borilliot, “and thus far Billybuck has been most reluctant to give them to me."

      
“You promise you won't make him sound like some kind of clown?" demanded the Dancer.

      
“On my honor."

      
“Okay,” said the Dancer with a sigh. He got up, walked over to his photo of Holliday, and stared at it. “Once, when he was in Dallas, some guy who thought he was cheating at cards wanted to shoot it out with him. Old Doc had already had a couple of run-ins with the Texas law, and he wasn't hot for no more go-rounds, so he kept putting it off. Finally this guy started getting real pushy, and Doc agreed to meet him the next day. But that night the guy had a toothache, and since Doc was the only dentist in town, he had to go to him. And old Doc, he put him under laughing gas and pulled every tooth in his head, and then set off for Kansas before the guy woke up."

      
“Excellent!” said Borilliot, making notes with his pocket computer. “That's just the kind of material I need."

      
“Good,” said the Dancer.

      
“Tell me some more."

      
“There ain't no more. Doc didn't spend much time as dentist after that."

      
“The stories needn't be about dentistry,” said Borilliot, trying to keep his frustration in check. “
Any
colorful incident will suffice."

      
“He wasn't a colorful kind of guy,” said the Dancer. “He was a dying man, trying his best to find someone fast enough to put him out of his misery."

      
“His foes, then,” suggested Borilliot. “Surely
they
must have been a colorful lot."

      
“They had colorful names, but they weren't much to write home about," said the Dancer. “Except maybe for Johhny Ringo."

      
“Tell me about
him
, then."

      
“Ain't much to tell. He was a hired killer."

      
“What made him different from the rest?” persisted Borilliot.

      
“He was probably the only gunman in the West besides Doc who'd gone to college,” replied the Dancer. “Anyway, Ringo used to read poems and stuff like that in Greek, in between shooting people."

      
“Fascinating!” remarked the alien.

      
“You think so?"

      
“Absolutely. Do go on."

      
“I've
went
on. That's all there is that's interesting about him."

      
“How did Doc Holliday kill him?"

      
“Nobody's real sure about that. Once, he called Doc out in Tombstone. He was wearing this bandanna, and he wanted each of 'em to hold one end of it in their teeth and draw while they were like that. Doc was willing, but Wyatt Earp, he was having his troubles running the town and thought it would be bad for business, so he broke it up. Then Doc decided to go out hunting for Ringo after the gunfight at the O.K. Corral. They found Ringo a couple of weeks later, sitting propped up against a tree with a book of poems in his hand and a bullet hole smack dab between his eyes."

      
“You see?” said Borilliot happily. “It
was
interesting."

      
“And that's the kind of stuff you need for these here interviews?” asked the Dancer. He shook his head. “They're gonna be dull as dishwater. The people ought to know about how fast he was. They don't care about Johnny Ringo, or what he did to some guy with a toothache in Dallas."

      
“Why don't you let
me
be the judge of that?” replied Borilliot.

      
The Dancer shrugged, but made no reply.

      
“Maybe I can help,” suggested Flint, who had been listening intently.

      
“I would certainly appreciate it,” said the alien.

      
“Dancer, I want you to tell him about every gunfight Doc Holliday was in, and I want you to name the men he killed. Can you do that?"

      
“I guess so."

      
“And he ought to know about—what the hell was her name? You know, the whore he hung out with."

      
“No."

      
“She broke him out of jail once. Don't you think people ought to know about it?"

      
“They'll think the wrong things,” said the Dancer. “He never cared for her. He just let her hang around 'cause she'd saved his life, and when she tried to turn him in a few years later he kicked her out."
 

      
“Tell him anyway. What was her name?"

      
“Big Nose Kate Elder,” said the Dancer reluctantly.

      
“Very picturesque,” remarked Borilliot.

      
“Well, I ain't gonna talk about her."

      
“I thought you were going to be helpful,” Flint reminded him.

      
“Telling people that he lived with a whore ain't being helpful to
Doc
,” said the Dancer.

      
Flint sighed. “Well,” he said, turning to Borilliot, “I guess you're not going to hear about his love life. What else do you need?"

      
“A description of Tombstone would be helpful."

      
“He wasn't there all that long,” said the Dancer.

      
“It doesn't matter,” replied the alien. “You're going to face the robot in a town built to resemble the Old West, and it might as well be Tombstone as any other."

      
“Really?” said the Dancer, his face brightening perceptibly. “You mean we ain't fighting in a stadium?"

      
“That's right."

      
“Well,” said the Dancer, suddenly enthused, “the O.K. Corral was on Fourth Street, right between Fly's Photo Studio and a mineral assay office. Then, to the north . . ."

      
He went on and on, rapturously detailing the street where he would face the robot, and Flint, after seeing that the verbal reconstruction of Tombstone was likely to continue for an hour or so, quietly got to his feet and walked out into the corridor.

      
He went down to the mess hall, which was deserted except for a pair of Korbussian games workers, huge furry beings who looked as if they ate humans for appetizers but were actually vegetarians, got himself a beer and a rare steak, cursed at the galley robots for changing the color of the artificial meat from blue to yellow, and sat down at his usual corner table.

      
Kargennian entered a few minutes later and walked over to Flint's table, taking a winding path through the room to keep as much distance between himself and the Korbussians as possible.

      
“May I speak to you for a moment, Mr. Flint?"

      
“Shoot."

      
“Galaheen IX has offered us three million credits if Billybuck and the robot will appear on the same bill for a single performance. I thought I would check with you first and make sure we can fit it into our schedule before I agree to it."

      
“Out of the question,” replied Flint, washing down the last of his steak with the remainder of his beer.

      
“But we have four empty dates between Ruthven II and Beta Delta IV. Surely we could divert to the Galaheen system for a day!"

      
“First of all,” said Flint, “I don't know where the hell any of these worlds are. Second, I don't remember when
I
became
we
. And third, you can't put the Dancer and the robot on the same bill."

      
“Why not?"

      
“Because if the Dancer sees him in action, nothing in the world can make him wait for Tombstone. He'll call him out then and there."

      
“Would he really do that?” asked Kargennian skeptically.

      
“I already told you he would,” said Flint. “But if you don't believe me, go ahead and accept the date. I mean, hell, it's only money."

      
“No,” said Kargennian uneasily. “I think I shall defer to your judgment in this matter. We can't chance Billybuck's getting injured.” He paused, lost in thought for a moment, and then bolted up. “In fact, I think it might be best if he were not to perform any dangerous tricks in the ring for the next month."

      
“It's nice to know that you care about him so much,” remarked Flint with a smile.

      
“I care about
all
sentient beings,” answered the rotund little alien. “And of course, we don't want to do anything to jeopardize the promotion."

      
“You're real people, Kargennian,” said Flint.