His real name was Felix Lomax, and he used it for the first 26 years of his life. But names have a way of changing on the Inner Frontier, metamorphizing to fit the natures of the men and women they're attached to.
Originally he'd been a Pioneer, one of that group of highly-trained specialists that opened new worlds for the Democracy, terraforming them when necessary, cataloging the various life forms, designing settlements, analyzing soils and minerals and water samples to determine exactly what type of colonists would be the most productive: miners, farmers, aquaculturalists, whatever. His specialty was Pacification, a euphemism for decimating native populations until such time as they were willing to allow colonization—or, in some instances, until there were none left to object.
During that period of his life he had been known as Double X, an easily-identifiable code name based on the spelling of his given name. (It was best not to use one's true name, just in case there were some survivors of the pacification process that resented the instrument of the policy rather than the formulators who were in their mile-high offices back on Deluros VIII, the capital world of Man, snug and secure in the heart of the Democracy.)
After four years of pacifying alien populations, something happened on the planet of Innesfree. He never spoke of it, never referred to it in any official document, but right in the middle of the campaign he quit and went off to the Inner Frontier. He bought a large ranch on Backgammon II, and spent the next two years raising mutated cattle, huge, 3,000-pound specimens that he sold to the Navy. During this time he was Felix Longface, for he never smiled, never joked, never seemed to take much of an interest in anything.
Then he finally put whatever demons were bothering him to rest, and went further into the Inner Frontier, returning to the trade he knew best: killing. For a while he was known as The Man in Black, for it was the only color he ever wore, but there were four other Men in Black on the Frontier, and before long he picked up the sobriquet of the Gravedancer, and that was the name that stuck. Not that he ever danced or visited cemeteries, but when he landed on a planet, it was only a matter of time before someone would be visiting a graveyard, never to return.
His personality didn't change much. He still didn't smile, and he seemed to take no pride in his craft—which was strange for a man in his occupation—but before long his reputation preceded him, and he didn't lack for customers. He picked and chose those that interested him, which was how he came to work for the Iceman, who was as close to a living legend as a man could become on the Inner Frontier, where most legends died just about the time that they were recognized as legends.
He didn't know much about the Iceman—no one did—but he knew that he had, in his day, faced both the Soothsayer and the Oracle and had lived to tell about it, which was more than anyone else could claim. He would have thought that the Iceman would be the very last person on the Frontier to require protection, so when the offer came, his interest was sufficiently aroused to accept the commission. He hadn't realized at the time that it would require him to pay a return visit to Greycloud, but it wouldn't have made any difference to him if he had known it.
As his ship braked to sublight speeds and the water world came up on his viewscreen, he checked out his arsenal, selected those weapons that he thought would be most effective in this environment, and requested permission to land on the single continent's tiny spaceport.
“Please identify yourself,” said a metallic voice, crackling with static.
“This is the Peacekeeper, Felix Lomax commanding, five days out of Last Chance.”
“Permission denied.”
“Why?”
“You are the Felix Lomax who is also known as the Gravedancer, are you not?”
“I've been called that, yes.”
“There are nine outstanding arrests warrants in your name, each for the crime of murder.”
“All the more reason why you should want to get your hands on me,” replied Lomax.
“We have no one here capable of taking you into custody against your will, Gravedancer,” said the voice. “I assume you have not come to give yourself up to the authorities.”
“A fair assumption.”
“Then permission to land is denied. If you attempt to land on Greycloud, we will fire on your ship and destroy it before it can touch down.”
“One moment,” said Lomax, breaking the connection.
He had his computer scan the spaceport and surrounding vicinity, searching for weaponry. It found none, nor had he expected so thinly-populated a world to have any defensive capabilities.
“Nice try, Greycloud,” he said, reactivating his radio. “Now please give me landing coordinates.”
“Denied.”
“I'm landing whether you like it or not. If you won't give me coordinates, you'd better clear the sky or risk a collision over the landing field. This is the Peacekeeper, over and out.”
He broke out of orbit and entered an elliptical path toward the spaceport, touching down about twenty minutes later. Once on the ground, he had the ship's sensors scan the area for armed personnel, found none, activated a number of security devices, and finally emerged through the hatch, the boots and a holograph of the dead man secured in a leather holdall that he slung over his left shoulder.
He walked about half a mile, past two small hangars, to the main traffic control and reception building, and entered warily. There were four clerks going about their business, one man and three women; none of them looked up at him or gave any indication that they were aware of his presence until he cleared his throat and three of them fidgeted nervously. He walked up the fourth, a grey-haired woman, and stood before her.
“Yes?” she said coldly.
“I need transportation into town,” he said.
“Do I look like a chauffeur?” she demanded.
“If I can't find one, you'll do.”
“Go away and leave me alone, Mr. Lomax,” she said. “I want nothing to do with you.”
“Do I know you?” he asked.
“No, but I know you,” she said, her eyes reflecting her hatred.
“Then tell me where I can find a ride into town, and you won't have to keep looking at me.”
“I wouldn't help you if you were bleeding to death on the street,” she said.
He stared at her for a long moment.
“Have it your way,” he said at last. “Before I leave, though,” he added, “I should point out that if anyone touches my ship, the ensuing explosion will flatten the spaceport and everything else within a radius of two miles.”
Then he turned on his heel and walked out the main entrance. The parking lot was almost empty—the planet had a tiny population and relatively little commerce with the rest of the galaxy—but as he stood, hands on hips, wondering what to do next, a small groundcar pulled up. He walked over to it before the driver could get out and opened the passenger's door.
“What's going on here?” demanded the driver, a young man in his early twenties.
“I'm paying you fifty credits to take me into town,” said Lomax.
“The hell you are!” snapped the young man. “I've got a shipment of computer parts to pick up.”
“They can wait.”
Lomax opened the door, sat down next to the driver, pulled out a sonic pistol, and pointed it at him.
“That wasn't a request,” he said calmly.
“Who are you?” demanded the driver. “What the hell is this all about?”
“I'm just a guy who needs a ride to town,” said Lomax. “Now drive.”
“Why don't you take an aircab?” said the young man, turning the car around.
“I wasn't aware you had any.”
“We do. I can drive you to their hangar.”
“I wouldn't want to put you to the trouble,” said Lomax. “Just get going.”
The young man stared at him, and suddenly his expression changed.
“You're him, aren't you?” he said.
“I'm whom?”
“The Gravedancer.”
“Some people call me that.”
“Damn!” said the young man, grinning and slamming his hand against the dashboard. “The Gravedancer himself, in my groundcar!” He turned to Lomax. “What are you here for?”
“Business.”
“Who are you going to kill?” asked the young man eagerly.
“No one.”
“You can tell me,” persisted the young man. “I'm on your side.”
“I'm just here to talk to the local bootmaker.”
The young man snorted contemptuously. “Come on, Gravedancer—do you expect me to believe you flew all the way to Greycloud for a pair of boots?”
“What you believe makes no difference to me,” said Lomax. “Just take me where I want to go.” He paused. “You can start by driving into town.”
The young man put the vehicle in motion, and a moment later they were traveling on a road that paralleled an ocean shoreline.
“I've been wondering if you'd ever come back.”
“You're too young to remember me,” said Lomax.
“I was twelve when you were here the last time,” replied the young man. “I saw you take on nine men at once.” He paused, then extended his hand. “My name's Neil. Neil Cayman.”
Lomax looked at his hand for a moment, then took it briefly.
“I'm Felix Lomax.”
Neil shook his head. “You're the Gravedancer.” He paused. “Where are you going from here?”
Lomax shrugged. “It all depends on what I learn while I'm here.”
Neil seemed lost in thought for a moment, then spoke up. “Do you want some company?”
“Where?”
“Out there,” he said, waving his hand toward the sky. “I've spent my whole life on this world. I'd like to see something different.”
“I work alone.”
“I could be useful to you.”
“Every damned world I touch down on, there's always some kid who wants to go out and make a name for himself on the Inner Frontier,” answered Lomax. “Most of them die before the undertaker knows what name to put on their headstones.”
“I'm different,” said Neil.
“Yeah, I know,” said Lomax. “You're all different.”
“I've spent my whole life on Greycloud,” continued Neil. “I want to see what's out there.”
“Book passage with a tour group,” answered Lomax. “You'll live longer.”
“I don't want to see what tourists see,” persisted Neil. “I want to see the way the worlds really are, the way the people really live.” He paused. “I've got some money saved. I could be ready to go by this afternoon.”
“Not with me,” said Lomax.
“I'd do any kind of work you asked me to do, anything at all.”
“Not interested.”
The road turned inland, and was now lined by thick tropical foliage, which began thinning out as they moved farther away from the ocean.
“There have to be places where your face is known, where people run when they see you coming. I could go to those places and get information for you.”
“Today is an exception,” said Lomax. “Usually I'm after men, not information.”
“I could spot them for you, let you know what their habits are, where they're likely to be. I wouldn't ask for any pay or anything like that,” continued the young man. “Just a chance to get off this boring little world and travel with someone like you.”
“I admire your persistence,” said Lomax. “But the answer is the same. I work alone.”
“You're making a mistake, Gravedancer.”
Lomax shrugged. “It's possible. I've made them before.”
“Then let me come with you.”
“I've also learned to live with the consequences of my mistakes,” said Lomax. “The subject is closed.”
They came to a tiny town, composed of a broad single street lined with some four dozen stores and shops, an old hotel, and a pair of restaurants, one of which was serving its customers in a shaded outdoor patio area. Neil drove more than halfway down the street and pulled up to a storefront.
“I'll wait here for you,” he announced.
Lomax left the groundcar without a word, and entered the store, a warm, dusty, single-story building that displayed a number of leather goods in the windows: coats, jackets, belts, hats, boots. Toward the back were sheets of various leathers, and hanging carefully from the walls were a number of pelts.
“Yes?” said a thin, balding man, walking out from a back room. “Can I help you?”
“Possibly,” said Lomax, reaching into his leather holdall and withdrawing one of the dead man's boots. “Do you recognize this?”
The old man held it up to the light for a moment.
“Made from a Bluefire Dragon,” he said.
“You made it?”
“If anyone else on the Frontier makes ’em, I sure as hell haven't heard about it.” He examined it further. “This was a custom job, too. My label's not in it.”
“How many custom boots do you make in a year's time?”
“Oh, maybe fifty.”
“From Bluefire Dragons?”
“Maybe two or three.”
“Good,” said Lomax, pulling out the holograph and handing it over to the old man. “Do you recognize him?”
“Looks dead,” noted the old man.
“He is. Do you know him?”
The old man nodded. “Yeah, I made some boots for him maybe seven, eight months ago.”
“What can you tell me about him?”
“He wasn't real talkative,” said the old man. “Seems to me he spent most of the day waiting in the bar across the street, then picked up his boots, paid for ’em, and left.”
“Did he have a name?”
“Let me check my records,” said the old man, activating his computer. “Yeah. His name is ... was ... Cole. Jason Cole.”
“Did he pay cash?” asked Lomax.
“Yes.”
“So you don't know what world he banked on?”
“Probably Olympus,” answered the old man. “That's ... let me think, now ... Alpha Hayakawa IV.”
“Why makes you think he did his banking on Olympus?”
“He liked the boots so much he ordered a second pair. Had me ship them to an address on Olympus.”
“What address?”
“Well, now, that's privileged information, isn't it?” said the old man, staring at Lomax.
“I'd call it expensive information,” said Lomax, placing a pair of 200-credit notes on the counter.
“Well, considering that the poor man has passed on, I suppose there's no harm in it,” said the old man, greedily snatching up the money and stuffing it into a leather pouch that he wore around his neck. “Computer, print out Jason Cole's address.”
The address emerged an instant later, and the old man handed it to Lomax.
“I'd say good hunting,” said the old man. “But it appears to me that your hunting is already done.”
“I have a feeling it's just starting.”
“Well, in that case, good luck, Gravedancer.”
“You know me?” said Lomax sharply.
“It'd be hard to forget you,” said the old man. “You were the only exciting thing to happen to Greycloud in half a century.” He paused. “Don't worry about me alerting the authorities or nothing. First, they probably couldn't stop you from whatever you're doing; and second, most of them you killed deserved what they got.”
“Thanks.”
“But let me give you a word of advice, Gravedancer.”
“What is it?”
“Would I be right in figuring you plan to take a trip to Olympus next?”
“You might be.”
“I'd be real careful there if I were you.”
“Oh?”
The old man nodded. “Now and then I hear things from people who are passing through.”
“What kind of things?”
“Oh, I don't put much stock in the details,” answered the old man. “You know how people tend to exaggerate out here. But those who are willing to talk about it at all don't make it sound like a real friendly place.”
“I'll keep it in mind,” said Lomax, walking to the door.
“Can I interest you in a pair of boots while you're here?” the old man called after him. “Or maybe a new holster for all those weapons?”
“Maybe next time,” answered Lomax.
“Men in your line of work don't usually live long enough for there to be a next time,” said the old man with a half-amused smile. “This is your second trip here, so you're already on borrowed time.”
“Next time,” repeated Lomax, walking out into the street.
Neil was waiting for him, and opened the door.
“Did you find out what you needed to know?” he asked.
“Possibly,” said Lomax, settling back on his seat. “At least I know where I'm going next.”
“Where?”
Lomax looked over at him and smiled. “Elsewhere,” he said.
They drove to the spaceport in silence. Then Neil parked the groundcar.
“You're sure you won't take me?”
“You'll live longer on Greycloud, kid.”
“I thought the quality of life was supposed to be important,” said Neil sardonically.
“You've been misinformed.”
Neil left the vehicle and walked to the cargo area while Lomax entered the main building.
The gray-haired woman who had refused to help him earlier glared at him, but beneath the mask of hatred he thought he saw a certain smugness, a brief look of triumph before the mask was fully in place.
He walked slowly to the door leading to the landing field, scrutinizing the area carefully. A pair of lead-suited mechanics were gingerly bringing out a small packet of plutonium to fuel an ancient cargo ship that was still powered by a nuclear pile, and a crew of three men were fixing a couple of cracks and potholes at the adjoining landing strip, but otherwise the place seemed deserted. Then, suddenly, he saw a brief movement out of the corner of his eye, coming from the roof of a hangar. He turned to face it, but couldn't spot anything out of the ordinary.
He lit a cigar, leaned lazily against a wall, and continued scanning the strip. A moment later the sun glinted off some metal on the roof of another hangar.
He walked to a vidphone directory and picked out a name at random, then approached the gray-haired woman.
“Call Jonathan Sturm and tell him that the Gravedancer's on his way,” he said, walking out the front entrance before she could utter a reply or a refusal. “He's got until dark to put his affairs in order and make his peace with whatever god he worships.”
He walked directly to the groundcar, entered it, and waited for Neil Cayman to emerge from the cargo area, carrying a box of computer parts.
“I thought you'd be gone by now,” said Neil, surprised.
“Change of plans,” said Lomax. “Do you own a ship?”
Neil seemed amused. “Where would I get a spaceship?”
“How about your parents or your employer?”
“Well, yeah, my boss has a little four-man job.”
“Here?”
“Yes,” said the young man. “It's in one of the hangars.”
“Will they let you move it out to the landing field?”
“I suppose so.”
Lomax peeled off five large-denomination notes. “It'll be sundown in about three hours. Do it then.”
“Once they find out that I helped you, I'll be arrested.”
Lomax shook his head. “You'll have plenty of time to fabricate an alibi. Almost every cop on the planet is going to be waiting for me at Jonathan Sturm's house.”
“Sturm? What have you got against him?”
“Nothing,” answered Lomax. “I never met the man.”
“Then why—?”
“Just do what I said, okay?”
Neil stared at him. “I take it they've set a trap for you?” he asked at last.
Lomax nodded. “Will you help me?”
“I can't believe someone like you couldn't take them all out.”
“Maybe I could,” agreed Lomax. “But no one is paying me to do it, and when you put your life on the line often enough, you learn just how valuable a commodity it is. If I have to fight my way to my ship, I will—but if there's an easier way, I'll take it.” He paused. “I need to hide until sunset, and then I need you to move your ship.” He stared at the young man. “Now, are you going to help me or not?”
“Yeah, I'll help you, Gravedancer.”
“Good.”
“On one condition,” added Neil.
“Oh?”
“Take me with you. I've had it with this planet.”
“I told you...”
Neil handed the money back to him. “That's my price.”
Lomax grimaced.
“All right, it's a deal,” he said at last.
Neil withdrew all his money from his bank, then parked in a secluded spot where he and Lomax waited until nightfall.
Then they drove back to the spaceport, where Neil approached the hangar and had them bring his employer's ship out onto the reinforced pavement of the take-off strip. While the ship's computer was waiting for takeoff clearance, the young man raced out of the cockpit and stopped the first security man he could find.
“Something's wrong!” he panted.
“What?” asked the man.
“Someone's hiding in the cargo compartment of my ship; the computer spotted the extra weight. I just got a glimpse of him. He's dressed all in black.”
“You keep away from the ship,” the security man instructed him. “We'll take it for here.”
Lomax watched from the shadows until he was convinced all the security personnel had surrounded Neil's employer's ship. Then he walked, briskly and silently, to his own ship, where he found the young man waiting at the hatch.
“Nothing to it,” grinned Neil as Lomax uttered the proper code words to open the hatch without detonating the security system within the ship.
“Let's go,” said Lomax, entering the ship. “The second I activate the ignition, they're going to know they were duped. Grab a seat, strap yourself in, and keep your fingers crossed that no one is approaching on our exit path.”
“No one ever comes here,” said Neil, seating himself in the cramped cockpit. “That's why I want to get the hell out of here.”
Lomax fed the coordinates of Olympus into the navigational computer, waited until it had chosen a flight path, then hit the ignition. As he had predicted, it brought all the armed security men back from the other ship, but he managed to take off before they could get off any damaging shots.
“So where are we going?” asked Neil Cayman when they had left the system and achieved light speeds.
“Olympus,” answered Lomax.
The young man had the computer cast a cartographic hologram in the air above his seat. “I can't find it,” he announced after a moment's scrutiny.
“Try Alpha Hayakawa IV,” suggested Lomax.
“Right. Here it is. I wonder why the difference in names?”
“Standard,” replied Lomax. “Most of the planets are named after the head of the Pioneer team that opened them up. Roman numerals indicate how far out from the sun it is; any other number tells you how many prior planets the man had opened.”
“I don't follow you.”
“This is Alpha Hayakawa IV,” explained Lomax. “That means it was first charted by a man or woman named Hayakawa, and that it's the fourth planet from a binary sun. But if you look elsewhere, you might also find that it's Jones 39 or Jones 22, which means that it's the 39th or 22nd planet opened up by some guy from the Pioneer Corps named Jones.” He paused. “And of course, the first thing the settlers did was change the name. Probably it's got some mountain that looks like a holo of Mount Olympus back on Earth, or maybe the first Governor was a Greek scholar, or maybe they had a civil war and the general on the winning side was named Olympus.”
“It gets confusing, doesn't it?” said Neil. “All these names to learn.”
“Even more so when the native lifeforms have their own name for their world,” said Lomax with a smile. “You get the hang of it after awhile.”
“I like the notion of the inhabitants choosing their own name for their world,” said Neil. “Now that I'm going out to the Frontier, I want to pick my own name.”
“You've got one.”
“I don't like it. I want something colorful, like Gravedancer or Catastrophe Baker or Cemetery Smith.”
“That's your right, I suppose.” Lomax converted to auto-pilot, unstrapped himself, and stood up, stretching his arms.
“You suppose?” asked Neil, following him back to the cargo area, which he had converted into a small lounge, with a pair of comfortable chairs secured to the deck.
Lomax sat down and lit a thin cigar. “If you're any good at anything, usually you'll find someone has picked your name for you, and you're pretty much stuck with it whether you like it or not.”
“I could wait a long time,” said the young man ruefully, as he sat down opposite Lomax. “The only thing I'm really good at is wishing I was somewhere else.”
“That's a start.”
“It is?”
“Ever hear of Faraway Jones?” asked Lomax.
“No. Who is he?”
“An old man who's probably been to six, seven hundred worlds.”
“Is he an explorer?”
“No.”
“A cartographer?”
Lomax shook his head. “People say that when he was as young as you are, he fell in love with a girl on Binder X. Nobody knows what happened, but evidently he did something to make her leave him, and he's been hunting for her ever since.” Lomax paused. “He must have been searching for her for, oh, close on to seventy years now.”
“Do you think she's still alive?” asked Neil dubiously.
“Probably not. Seventy years is a long time for anyone to survive on the Inner Frontier.”
“Then why does he keep looking?”
Lomax shrugged. “You'd have to ask him.”
“Will I ever see him?”
“Hit enough worlds out there and you'll run into him sooner or later.”
“Who else will I see?” asked the young man eagerly.
“I don't know. Who do you want to see?”
“Everyone. All the colorful characters I've heard about and read about.” He smiled at Lomax. “They all seem so much bigger than life.”
Lomax returned the smile. “I know how you feel. When I was your age, I wanted to go out to the Frontier and see all my heroes too.” He paused. “After awhile, you learn that they all bleed and they all die.”
“What about the Prophet?”
“Who's he?”
“I don't know. Just someone I heard about on the video.”
“This year's outlaw hero,” snorted Lomax. “Take my word for it, kid: some bounty hunter will bring him down, just like they brought down Santiago and all the rest of ’em.”
“Still, I want to see them all for myself.” Neil paused. “You're the only famous person I've ever met.”
Lomax smiled ruefully. “Let me tell you, fame isn't everything it's cracked up to be—especially out on the Frontier.”
“You say that because you see famous people all the time,” protested the young man. “But no one else special has ever come to Greycloud.”
“There's nothing very special about pointing a weapon and killing people,” said Lomax.
“Sure there is,” argued Neil. “How many men can do it?”
“Too damned many.”
“Still, I want to go out there and see them for myself.”
“You may be disappointed,” said Lomax.
“I doubt it.”
“What do you think—that there are a couple of thousand worlds out there populated only by killers and folk heroes? Kid, the Inner Frontier is filled with miners and farmers and merchants and doctors and everything else you need to run a planet.”
“I know that,” said Neil irritably. “But they're not the ones who interest me.”
“Something tells me that you'll find all the colorful characters you're looking for.” Lomax paused. “Kids like you usually do.”
“Maybe I can even become one myself,” said Neil, trying to hide his eagerness.
“If you live long enough,” said Lomax. “Now let's start taking care of business.”
“What business do we have before we reach Olympus?”
“Well, to begin with,” said Lomax, “they've probably issued a kidnapping warrant for me. I want you to radio Olympus and tell them you've come with me of your own volition.”
“They won't believe me.”
“Perhaps not, but I want it on the record.”
Neil nodded. “All right.”
“And then, since you're going to have to start earning your keep, I want you to go into the galley and make me up some dinner.” He paused. “Soya products only. No red meat, no dairy products.”
“I don't see how that makes you a better killer,” said Neil.
“It makes me a healthier one,” responded Lomax. “I've got high blood pressure and a high cholesterol count. No sense letting these control patches I wear do all the work.”
The young man smiled. “You're kidding.”
“Why should you think so?”
“I just can't imagine the Gravedancer sticking medical patches in his body for that stuff.”
An amused smile crossed Lomax's face. “You probably can't imagine that I've got a prosthetic eye, and that my current set of teeth are three years old, either.”
“Is that true?”
“Kid, there are very few whole men walking around the Inner Frontier,” answered Lomax. “Now go send those messages.”
Neil activated the radio and spoke briefly to his father, who was alternately distressed and enraged, but finally realized that there was nothing he could do about the situation, and even volunteered to send some money ahead to Olympus, an offer the young man refused.
Then they ate, the young man insisting on having the same bland food as Lomax.
Finally they strapped themselves into the bunks that folded out from the bulkhead in the short corridor between the galley and the cargo area, and went to sleep.
Lomax awoke with a start an hour later.
“Shit!” he muttered.
“What is it?” asked Neil, sitting up abruptly.
“I put us on auto pilot, but I forgot to activate the Avoidance Sensors. We're probably okay, but it'd be just my luck to smash into the only damned meteor within five parsecs.”
“I'll take care of it,” said Neil, walking to the control panel.
“Wait a minute and I'll hit the lights,” said Lomax.
“Not necessary,” came the answer.
“Even if you know where the sensor control is, you still have to be able to see it to make the adjustment.”
“It's done,” said Neil, returning to his cot in total darkness.
“How the hell did you do it?” asked Lomax.
“I thought I told you: I work with computers. I was picking up some parts when I met you.”
“So?”
“A couple of years ago I programmed a pair of microchips for infrared vision and had them surgically inserted in my eyes.”
“You can really see in the dark?”
“Sure,” said Neil.
“Amazing!” muttered Lomax.
“Oh, that's nothing. I've got chips in me that enhance my hearing and my sense of smell, too.”
“You designed yourself?”
“It's what I do.”
“I suppose if you had to, you could probably design one that would speed up all your reactions,” said Lomax.
“Given enough time, I probably could. Why?”
“It might prove useful where you're going.”
“You know, it never occurred to me,” admitted Neil thoughtfully.
“Well, it's an idea, anyway,” said Lomax, laying back down on his cot.
“It's a damned good idea, Gravedancer,” said Neil. “If I'm going to live on the Frontier, I ought to be ... well, prepared.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” agreed Lomax. “Out here you need any edge you can get. I just went up against a man who had a laser built into a fake finger. Never spotted it. If the fat old man I'm working for hadn't been a little more alert than I was, I wouldn't have lived long enough to get to Greycloud.”
“A weapon in a prosthetic finger...” mused Neil. “I could do that.” He considered the proposition. “Hell, I could turn my whole body into a killing machine.”
“Who do you plan on killing?” asked Lomax.
“No one.”
“Then why bother?”
“Because one of these days someone may want to kill me, and it's best to be prepared.”
“Contrary to what you may have seen on the video, life on the Inner Frontier isn't one prolonged gunfight,” said Lomax.
“Yours is.”
“My life is like anyone else's in my profession,” replied Lomax. “Endless stretches of boredom, punctuated by very brief periods of danger that make you wonder what was so wrong with the boredom in the first place.”
“Well, it can't hurt to be prepared,” said the young man stubbornly. “After all, you suggested it.”
“I know,” said Lomax sleepily. “You do what you want to do.”
“I'll start designing what I need on the ship's computer in the morning.”
“Fine,” yawned Lomax. “At least I know what to call you now.”
“You do?”
“Yeah. From this day forward, you're the Silicon Kid.”
Neil smiled happily in the darkness. “I like that!”
“Somehow I thought you might,” said Lomax.