Confucius IV wasn't much of a world. It consisted of three abandoned Tradertowns, a handful of mines which were mostly played out, some enormous flat fields that didn't have rich enough soil or get enough rain, and one small city.
The city, New Macao, was pretty unimpressive even by the standards of the Inner Frontier. Its cobblestone streets, created to be charming, were in dire need of repair and caused equal havoc to feet and tires. The major hotel resembled a steel-and-glass pagoda, and the rooms were furnished with the same lack of taste displayed by the architect. Another hotel resembled an emperor's palace, as conceived by someone who had never seen either an emperor or a palace. The streets were narrow and winding, with an abundance of bars and drug dens and an absolute minimum of official supervision.
“I like it,” said the Silicon Kid, as he and the Iceman walked down the main street, past the two hotels and a trio of overpriced nightclubs.
“It's filthy and dangerous,” replied the Iceman.
“That's what I like about it. It's exotic.”
“Your definition of exotic and mine differ considerably,” said the Iceman wryly.
“Look at the men standing in the doorways of some of those buildings!” said the Kid excitedly. “I'll bet I've seen half of them on wanted posters!”
“Probably,” said the Iceman. “I suppose I should warn you that that doesn't necessarily make them desirable companions.”
“I've been rubbing shoulders with farmers all my life,” said the Kid. “At least these guys figure to be more interesting.”
“When's the last time a farmer took your wallet, cut your throat, and left you for dead in the street?”
“I'd like to see someone try it, now that I've got my implants,” said the Kid confidently.
“You would?” said the Iceman with an amused smile. “Well, maybe I can accommodate you.”
“What are you talking about?” asked the Kid, suddenly tense.
“When we turn off of this street, just keep twenty yards behind me. I guarantee you'll have a chance to try out the New Improved You.”
“What about you?”
“Me? I gave up showing off half a century ago.”
“No,” said the Kid. “I mean, if this place we're going is so dangerous, why won't they go after you, too?”
“Because they want to live.”
The Kid laughed. “You're a fat old man with a limp.”
“That's right.”
“Then why should they leave you alone?”
“Because I'm the Iceman,” came the reply in such a cold voice that the Kid decided his aging companion was more formidable that he looked.
“So, where are we going?”
“A place even the police don't go,” answered the Iceman. “It's just a couple of more blocks.”
“Has it got a name?”
“Nightmare Alley.”
“Picturesque,” remarked the Kid.
“Accurate,” replied the Iceman.
They walked for another fifty yards, then turned down a narrow sidestreet.
“This is Nightmare Alley?” asked the Kid.
“Soon,” said the Iceman.
They walked past two dilapidated buildings, then came to a winding alleyway—and suddenly the character of the area changed from something that the Kid thought was exotic and Iceman thought was merely rundown, to something that both agreed was deeply weird.
Club after club lined the alley, most with their own barkers. There was a drug den, a betting parlor, a bar, another drug den, a pornographic stage show, a whorehouse for men, a whorehouse for women, a whorehouse for aliens, and a whorehouse for those desiring that most taboo of vices—inter-species sex. Taverns, each darker and more disreputable than the last, catered to all races. Shrill screams and raucous laughter came from the whorehouses, and terrified screams emanated from one of the drug dens. There were a pair of weapon shops, one specializing in laser pistols and rifles, the other in projectile firearms, and the Kid had the feeling that not a single weapon in either shop possessed a serial number.
Every fifteen feet or so they came to a body lying on the pavement. Some appeared drunk, others comatose; the Iceman paid them no attention.
“I think I just saw Lizard Malloy in that bar across the alleyway!” whispered the Kid excitedly.
“Well, this is a good place to stay when there's a price on your head,” replied the Iceman.
A few faces peered out at the Iceman and the Kid from the interiors of the buildings they passed, but no one made any move to hinder them, and even the barkers stepped aside as the Iceman approached them.
“They seem to know you,” said the Kid, impressed.
“They know enough not to bother me, anyway,” answered the Iceman.
“I thought you hadn't left Last Chance in four years.”
“That's right.”
“You must have made quite an impression the last time you were here.”
The Iceman made no reply, but began slowing down. “We're going in there,” he said, gesturing toward a doorway. “Once we're inside, keep your mouth shut and your eyes open. Got it?”
“Right,” said the Kid. He paused uncertainly. “What am I looking for?”
“You'll know it when you see it,” said the Iceman.
He entered the doorway, followed by the Kid.
“Welcome to the House of Usher,” said a tall man dressed in faded formal garb. He stared at the Iceman, and suddenly a look of recognition crossed his face. “It's been a long time, Mr. Mendoza. We heard rumors that you had been killed.”
“I can only be killed with a silver bullet,” replied the Iceman with a wry smile. “I thought everyone knew that.” He pulled out a hundred-credit note and handed it to the man. “I'm renting a table near the bar. It's my office for the next two hours.”
The man grabbed the note and nodded.
“There's another hundred credits for you for every person you bring to my office—if they have anything useful to sell.”
“What are you buying?”
“Information.”
“There's all kinds of information, Mr. Mendoza.”
“Pass the word that the Iceman is interested in information about the Prophet.”
The man rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “That may be more difficult than you imagine, Mr. Mendoza. I've only heard the Prophet mentioned twice in all the time I've been here.”
“This is Nightmare Alley,” said the Iceman. “Someone will know something.” He pulled out two more notes. “Put the word on the street, too. Tell them I'll be here for two hours, and then I'm leaving Confucius.”
“I'll pass the word as soon as I take you to your table.”
“Don't bother,” said the Iceman. “I know the way.”
As the tall man walked out the door, the Iceman turned to the Kid.
“Follow me, and don't stare.”
“At what?”
“At anything you see. It's in bad taste.”
The Iceman led him through a labyrinthian corridor that passed a number of dimly-lit rooms. In one, a number of men and women, all addicts of the alphanella seed, lay in various states of stupor and catatonia, their pupils dilated, their eyes wide open, their faces contorted in nightmarish smiles. In another three green-skinned aliens, mildly apelike in appearance, sat naked on the floor, surrounded by perhaps two hundred blue-glowing candles, each dissecting a small animal. The kid tried to ignore the little animals’ screams of pain, and wondered if he were observing a religious ritual or an illegal dinner, or both.
They passed three more cubicles, each with humans or aliens doing things that they were never meant to do, and finally they came to the bar. There were a dozen tables evenly spaced throughout the room, all but three of them occupied by a relatively equal number of humans and aliens, and the Iceman picked the one that was farthest from the corridor through which they had entered. The two men who were sitting there took one look at him and left hurriedly as he approached.
“Welcome back, Mr. Mendoza,” said the bartender, a grossly obese bald man with a handlebar mustache that had been dyed a bright blue. “It's been a long time.”
“Not long enough,” said the Iceman distastefully, and the bartender chuckled. “Bring us a pair of beers.”
The bartender nodded, and waddled over with their drinks a moment later.
“Sure I can't interest you in a Dust Devil, or a Blue Giant?” he asked, panting from the effort of walking across the room.
“Just the beers,” said the Iceman, tossing a pair of Maria Theresa dollars on the tray.
“Maybe later,” said the bartender.
“Maybe,” said the Iceman, and the bartender retreated to his station.
“This is some place!” said the Kid, unable to keep the excitement from his voice.
“You like it here?” asked the Iceman.
“Don't you?”
“The scum of the Inner Frontier, if they sink low enough, eventually wind up on Confucius IV—and the worst of them turn up in Nightmare Alley. If I didn't have business to transact, you couldn't pay me to spend two seconds in this place.”
“It's got atmosphere,” said the Kid.
“Yeah,” said the Iceman. “Well, if you scrub hard enough in the shower, most of it'll wash off.”
“You've got no sense of adventure,” said the Kid with a smile.
“This isn't an adventure, Kid. It's a business, and a deadly one at that.”
The Kid lowered his voice. “See that woman at that table over there? The skinny one with the red hair?”
“Yes.”
“I think it's Sally the Knife!”
“So what?”
“She's killed 30 men, maybe 35!” said the Kid excitedly.
“I know.”
“Do you know her personally? I'd like to meet her.”
“Why don't you just walk over and ask for her autograph?” said the Iceman caustically.
“Maybe I will.”
“Don't.”
“Why not?”
“You don't come to the House of Usher to meet starstruck farmboys,” said the Iceman. “You come here to conduct business. That man she's with isn't here just to buy her a drink and talk her into bed—and I don't think he'd appreciate having a stranger come up and start talking.” The Iceman paused. “He might even think you had some notion of blackmailing him once Sally does what he's paying her to do.”
The Kid considered the Iceman's statement. “All right,” he said sullenly. “But you don't have to make fun of me.”
“Just keep your mind on business,” said the Iceman. “We're here to find out about a woman who destroys entire worlds as easily as Sally slits throats.”
They sat in silence for perhaps ten minutes. Then a very small man, his face disfigured by some skin disease that had gone untreated, walked up to them and sat down.
“Word is that you're looking for the Prophet,” he said in a hoarse voice.
“That's right,” said the Iceman.
“What are you paying?”
“Depends what you're selling.”
“For three hundred New Stalin rubles, I can put you next to a guy who works for him.”
“On this planet?”
“No,” said the man. “But he's not far from here. You can reach him in half a day.”
“And when I find out he doesn't exist, or that he's never heard of the Prophet, how long will it take me to find you again?” asked the Iceman.
“Are you calling me a liar?” demanded the man heatedly.
“No, just a lousy salesman,” said the Iceman. “Now go away.”
“I ain't going anywhere til you pay me something for my time,” said the man.
“Kid,” said the Iceman. “Give him something for his time.”
The Kid drew his sonic pistol so fast that even the Iceman, who was expecting it, couldn't follow the motion. A fraction of a second later it was pointed directly at the man's head.
“You want the down payment now or later?” asked the Iceman.
The man glared at him, trying to keep the fear from his face, then muttered a curse under his breath and scuttled off toward the corridor.
“I assume that was what you wanted me to do?” said the Kid.
The Iceman nodded. “But don't shoot anyone unless I tell you to,” he said. “We won't be able to do any business if word gets out that we're killing the customers.”
“We don't need customers like him.”
“We're passing the word to the dregs of humanity,” replied the Iceman. “Five out of six customers are going to be exactly like him. Offer them enough for a drink and a fix, and they'll swear to anything, sell you any information you're looking for—and be long gone, or dead, by the time you find out they were lying.”
“So how will you know who's telling the truth?”
“There are ways,” said the Iceman.
He got to his feet, returned their empty glasses to the bar, and ordered two more beers. Before he could take his first swallow, a well-dressed man with long, flowing golden hair sat down next to him.
“You're the Iceman?” he asked.
“That's right.”
“I know a little something about the Prophet.”
“What about him?” asked the Iceman.
“First of all, it's a her.”
The Iceman pulled out a roll of banknotes, peeled one off, and laid it on the table in front of the blond man.
“Keep going,” he said.
“She's on the Inner Frontier,” said the man.
“Where?”
“I'm not sure what world. At various times I've heard she was on Oceana, Port Raven, and Primrose.”
The Iceman laid another note on top of the first.
“What's her game?”
“Word is that she's raising an army, that she wants to take over some of the Frontier worlds.”
The Iceman didn't pull out a note this time.
“Word is wrong. She doesn't need an army.”
“Hey, I'm just telling you what I've heard.”
“What else do you know, or think you know, about her?”
“She must have access to some awfully powerful weapons,” said the man. “They say she blew up some alien world.”
“Old news,” replied the Iceman, refusing to peel off another note. “You got anything else?”
“That's it,” said the man, picking up the two banknotes.
“Just a minute,” said the Iceman as the man started to get up.
“Yeah?”
“I'll double what you've got if you can give me a name.”
“A name?” The man looked puzzled.
“The name of the person who told you the Prophet is a woman.”
“Won't do you much good. He's dead.”
“I'll pay a hundred credits for the name, anyway.”
The man paused and stared at him curiously. “Zanzibar Brooks,” he said at last.
“Who was he?”
“He did a little of everything, you know what I mean?”
“I know what you mean,” said the Iceman. “Was there paper on him?”
“Yeah. 50,000 credits, dead or alive.” He paused. “He died in some bar brawl on Port Raven a couple of months ago.” Suddenly he smiled. “If I'd have known it was going to happen, I'd have shot him myself and cashed the reward.”
“He actually saw the Prophet?”
“He said he did.”
The Iceman gave him a final banknote. “Thanks.”
“My pleasure,” said the man. “If you have anything else to ask me, I'll be in one of those rooms down the hall.”
He got up and left the table.
“Did you believe him?” asked the Kid.
“He answered the first question right,” said the Iceman. “As for the rest, it's just hearsay—and if there's one thing Penelope Bailey doesn't need, it's an army.” He took a long swallow of his beer. “But if we don't find out anything more, we'll send a message to Port Raven and see if we can learn where this Zanzibar Brooks spent the last year of his life.”
Two more men and a woman approached them in the next hour, none of them with anything to sell except sob stories about how they needed the money. The Iceman was about to leave when a tall, lean man entered the room, looked around, and approached his table.
“You're Mendoza?” he asked.
“Right.”
“My name's Quinn. Mind if I sit down?”
“Be my guest.”
The man named Quinn seated himself. “Who's he?” he asked, gesturing toward the Kid with his head.
“A friend. Anything you have to say, you can say in front of him.”
Quinn smiled. “For what you're paying me, I'll say it in front of everyone.”
“You don't know what I'm paying you.”
“If it's less than five thousand credits, we've got nothing to talk about.”
The Iceman stared at him appraising him carefully. “What do you think you know that's worth five thousand credits?”
Quinn leaned back on his chair and smiled confidently. “I know where you can find the Prophet.” He paused. “Are we in business, or do I walk?”
“We're in business,” said the Iceman.
“I haven't seen any money yet.”
The Iceman pulled out his roll and counted out five thousand credits, then laid it on the table in front of him.
“Start talking,” he said.
“She's on Mozart.”
“Mozart? I never heard of it.”
“There's a star in the Terrazane sector called Symphony,” said Quinn. “They named all the planets after composers, even the ones that weren't habitable. Beethoven and Sondheim are gas giants. Mozart is the third planet out from the star.”
“What makes you think she's on Mozart?” asked the Iceman.
“Because I've seen her,” said Quinn.
“What does she look like?”
“Blonde, medium height, late twenties, rather pretty actually.”
The Iceman shoved the pile of notes over to Quinn.
“What else can you tell me about her?”
“She's one very strange lady, I can tell you that.”
The Iceman laid his roll of notes on the table. “Keep talking.”
“I work on a cargo ship,” said Quinn. “Two weeks ago we developed engine trouble near the Symphony system and went into orbit around Mozart while we made repairs. Some of us got to spend a day on the planet.”
“And?”
“It's not much of a world, just an agricultural colony that supplies food to half a dozen nearby mining worlds. But she rules it as if she were some kind of goddess. I mean, her word is law, and God help anyone who disobeys her, who even thinks of disobeying her.” He paused. “She must be some kind of mutant or something, because she seems to know what they're thinking even before they do. They've tried to kill her a couple of times, and even though she doesn't have any bodyguards, they've never gotten close to her. I mean, hell, I saw her myself, plain as day, walking through town like she didn't have a care in the world. She never even asked what we were doing there; it was like she already knew.”
“How long has she been there?” asked the Iceman.
Quinn shrugged. “Maybe four or five months.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why is she on Mozart? What's her purpose there?”
“That'll be another five thousand.”
The Iceman counted off the amount, and Quinn grabbed the money greedily.
“She plans to set up her own empire in the Inner Frontier,” said Quinn.
“She told you that?”
“No, but she told someone on Mozart that I spoke to.”
“You're sure?”
“I got no reason to lie to you.”
“How does she plan to go about it?”
“They say she's pretty tight with a bunch of mercenaries,” replied Quinn. “Maybe she plans to use them and pick up one colony world after another.”
“Do you know anything else about her?” asked the Iceman.
“That's it.”
“Well, you've been most helpful, Mr. Quinn. Let me buy you a drink before you leave.”
“You've done enough for me already,” said Quinn, smiling and holding up the wad of money.
“It's no problem.”
“I really have to be going.”
“But I insist,” said the Iceman.
“I told you, I have to—”
Suddenly Quinn was looking into the barrel of the Kid's sonic pistol.
“Try to be a little more gracious, Mr. Quinn,” said the Iceman, getting to his feet. “I'll be right back with your drink.”
He walked over to the bar, whispered something to the obese bartender, then returned a moment later with a drink.
“Here you are, Mr. Quinn,” he said pleasantly, placing the drink down on the table in front of Quinn.
“If you think you can poison me right here in front of everyone, you should know that I have friends,” said Quinn.
“How very comforting,” said the Iceman. “Now, drink up.”
Quinn looked at the Kid's pistol once more, and then, very slowly, he lifted the glass up to his lips.
“Now swallow it,” said the Iceman sternly.
Quinn closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and downed the drink in a single gulp. Then he leaned back, half-expecting to die in hideous agony. When nothing happened, he blinked once, then leaned forward, seemed about to say something, and then became almost rigid.
“It's all right, Mr. Quinn,” said the Iceman. “You can hear and understand every word I'm saying. Let me assure you that you have not been poisoned, nor do I intend to rob you. I just want to repeat a couple of my questions.” He paused. “What is the Prophet's purpose on Mozart?”
“I don't know,” murmured Quinn, his words slurred slightly.
“And no one on Mozart told you that she planned to set up her own empire, did they?”
“No.”
“But you did see her there?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Quinn,” said the Iceman. He leaned over and took half of his money back. “You earned the first five thousand credits ... but you really shouldn't be so greedy. I didn't get to be a rich man by paying people to lie to me.” He got to his feet and motioned the Kid to do the same.
“We're going to leave now, Mr. Quinn,” he continued. “Your muscles will respond to your commands in about ten minutes, and you'll suffer no side effects from the drug I had placed in your drink. It's a powder that encourages you to tell the truth, with just enough of a narcotic added so that you should enjoy the next couple of minutes immensely.” He gave the motionless man a friendly pat on the shoulder, and suddenly his voice became low and ominous. “I would strongly suggest that you enjoy your five thousand credits, and that you make no attempt to follow us when you are once more capable of movement.”
Then he and the Kid walked back through the labyrinthian corridor and out the main entrance of the House of Usher.
“What do we do now?” asked the Kid, as they began walking down Nightmare Alley.
“Now?” repeated the Iceman. “Now we follow our lead as far as we can. We try to learn a little more about Mozart, and we try to find some more people who have been there and seen the Prophet. Then we try to find out what she's done that has alerted the Anointed One to her presence and made him decide that she presents a greater threat to him than the Democracy does.”
“If she does,” the Kid corrected him.
“Oh, she does, all right,” said the Iceman with absolute conviction. “I'm just surprised that he's figured it out.”
“And once we do all that,” said the Kid, “then we go to Mozart?”
“One of us does,” answered the Iceman.