Mozart's spaceport was just beyond the city limits of Minuet, a town that supplied the surrounding agricultural community with the basics: a grocery store, a very small medical clinic, a trio of seed stores, a pair of restaurants, some small hotels, and a theater that housed live entertainment four or five days a year.

Just past the spaceport were huge silos where mutated corn and wheat were dried out and stored until they could be shipped, and enormous pens that held genetically-altered cattle that topped four thousand pounds at maturity.

The Kid landed, made arrangements to store the Iceman's ship in a hangar, and then entered the small spaceport, where a slidewalk took him directly to a Customs Booth. He entered it, sat down, and faced a computer with a glowing red sensor.

“Name?” said a mechanical voice.

“Neil Cayman,” he replied, then added, “also known as the Silicon Kid.”

“Display your passport to the sensor, please.”

He held his passport up.

“Are you bringing any foodstuffs or animals from off-planet?”

“No.”

“Please state the nature of your business on Mozart?”

“I am a salesman, specializing in the custom tailoring computer chips for surgical implantation.”

“Do you possess cash or a line of credit totaling at least two thousand credits or its equivalent?”

The Kid held up the money the Iceman had given him, and the sensor scanned the denominations.

“No visa is required for your trip to Mozart. Please enjoy your stay, Neil Cayman.” There was a pause. “I can find no reference to your alias,” continued the computer. “Would you like it appended to your passport?”

“Yes, please.”

“Please hold up your passport again.”

He did so, and a very thin laser beam shot out and burnt a tiny notation onto the titanium card, just beneath his holograph and legal name.

“I have some questions,” said the Kid, putting the passport back into his pocket.

“I am programmed to answer most questions dealing with Mozart,” replied the computer. “Should the nature of your question require a subjective answer, I will direct you to the proper planetary authority who can answer you.”

“That's very accommodating of you,” said the Kid wryly.

“I exist to serve.”

“I'll need a place to stay while I'm here. Can you recommend a hotel in Minuet?”

The computer's screen suddenly came to life. “These five establishments currently have rooms or suites available,” it said, flashing a listing.

“Can you make a reservation for me?”

“Yes.”

“Fine,” said the Kid, studying the list. “I'd like a room at the Manor House.”

“For how many nights will you require your room?”

“I don't know,” answered the Kid. “Can you make it Open?”

“Yes. Ground floor or second floor?”

“Second floor.”

“Room 207 has been reserved in your name.”

“I'll also need a vehicle.”

The screen changed. “Here is a list of those vehicles available for rental at the spaceport, plus their daily charges.”

The Kid selected one.

“One more thing,” said the Kid. “I'd like to know if any business on the planet specializes in implanted biochips.”

“No.”

“Good. Can I place an advertisement in every planetary newspaper or newstape to the effect that I have just arrived and that that is my specialty, and that I can be contacted at the Manor House?”

“Working...” said the computer, buzzing quietly. “There are three planetary newstapes, Mr. Cayman, two weekly and one daily. Each has requested that you supply an exact wording for your advertisement.”

“I see,” said the Kid. He paused for a moment. “I assume there's a personal computer with a planetary tie-in in my room at the Manor House.”

“That is correct.”

“If you can have the electronic addresses of the three newstape advertising departments waiting for me on my computer, I'll create the ads when I get there.”

There was a brief humming. “It has been done.”

“Oh, one more thing,” said the Kid, “I'd like a listing of churches on the planet.”

There was an immediate listing of fourteen churches. All were sects that were known to him; none seemed likely to be connected to the Anointed One or Penelope Bailey.

“Thank you.”

The Kid got up and left the booth, walked to the vehicle rental area, signed for the groundcar he had selected, brought up a map that included the spaceport and Minuet on the instrument panel's viewscreen, and began driving toward the town, passing what seemed like two or three miles of cattle feedlots along the way.

Minuet was a small town, and as he reached the commercial district he realized that the computer had been somewhat optimistic in its use of the word “hotel". The Manor House, like its fellow hostelries, was a refurbished structure that had been built some two centuries earlier and had been a very impressive mansion before it had been remodeled and turned into a rooming house. Now it catered to visiting salesmen, most of whom dealt in mutated seeds and fertilizers that had been created to work on worlds similar to this one.

He left the groundcar in a lot behind the house, checked in at the desk, registered his voiceprint, waited until the lock on the door to Room 207 was coded to it, and allowed the airlift to gently transport him to the second level of the boarding house.

The room itself was a little more spartan than the one he had stayed in on Olympus. It consisted of a bed, two chairs, a computer station in the corner, and a bathroom with a dryshower and a chemical toilet. He pulled the addresses of the newstape offices from the computer, wrote a brief ad, and sent it off to each of them. He then ordered electronic editions of the three newstapes, scanned them as they appeared on his computer, and was not surprised to find no mention of the Prophet in any of them. He left the room after about an hour, descended to the ground level, and walked across the street to a small restaurant, where he ordered lunch.

When he returned to his room there was already one response to his advertisement, from a silo manager who had breathed in one preservative too many and wanted a chip to warn him when the chemical content in the air reached a certain level. He asked the man to send him the formulas for those preservatives that were being used and promised to get back to him within three days. Then, with nothing further to do, and not wishing to spend the afternoon actually creating the chip, he decided to lay down and take a nap until dinnertime.

When he awoke he ate a dinner of mutated soya products in the same restaurant where he had had lunch, then walked out onto the street just as the sun was going down. It was cool and dry, with a very mild breeze coming from the west, and he found it very refreshing.

He looked up and down the street, unwilling to go back to his room right away. Most of the town was already closed down for the night, and he found that if he wished to remain away from his hotel, his choice was limited to a holo theater, a tavern, and a casino. He didn't like holos, and he knew just enough about gambling to know he wasn't much good at it, so he wandered over to the tavern.

It was rather small, especially for the only tavern in the town. As soon as he entered it he encountered a purple-and-gold avian that was chained to its perch atop a metal stand. It stared at him, screeched once, and then concentrated on preening itself, paying him no further attention. The Kid gave it a wide berth—it was relatively small, no more than three pounds, but it had a wicked-looking beak—and walked up to the bar, where he ordered a beer. The bartender nodded, filled a glass, and slid it over to him. The Kid picked it up and carried it over to an empty table near the back of the room.

A few moments later a tall man, dark of skin and sporting two gold teeth that gleamed whenever he spoke or smiled, walked over to him, a beer in his hand.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked. “All the other tables seem to be full.”

“Be my guest,” said the Kid.

“Thanks,” said the man. He extended his hand. “My name's James Mboya.”

“Neil Cayman,” said the Kid, taking his hand.

“You're new here, aren't you?”

The Kid nodded. “Just got in today.”

“What are you selling?”

“What makes you think I'm selling anything?”

Mboya laughed. “Because nobody comes to a farming world for pleasure.”

“Doesn't anyone ever come here to buy instead of sell?”

Mboya shook his head. “All our beef and produce are contracted for the next decade. We supply a hell of a lot of worlds.” He paused. “I could sell you some gold, if you want.” He grinned, displaying his two gold teeth. “They're removable. I hock them whenever I need some money, then buy ’em back when I'm flush.”

The Kid sipped his beer. “Chips,” he said at last.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Computer chips. That's what I sell.”

“What kind?”

“Whatever kind you want me to create for you.”

“Something that would make me feel ten years younger when I wake up in the morning might be nice,” said Mboya with a smile.

“It could be done,” said the Kid.

“Really?”

“You wouldn't be any younger, but I could create a chip that would mask any aches and pains you had.”

Mboya snapped his fingers. “Just like that?” he asked, still smiling.

“No,” said the Kid. “I'd have to speak to your doctor, find out what's ailing you, which muscles are degenerating, learn your whole medical history. Then I could make it.” The Kid paused. “He'd have to implant it, though; I'm just a technician, not a surgeon.”

“How long do you plan to be on Mozart?” asked Mboya. “If I can put the money together, you just might have yourself a client.”

The Kid shrugged. “It depends on how much business I can do here,” he said, taking another sip of his beer. “I've placed some ads. Now it's just a matter of waiting.”

“Maybe I can show you around while you're here,” offered Mboya. “Not that there's all that much to see.”

“Well, there's one thing I'd like to see,” answered the Kid after some thought.

“Oh? What is that?”

“While I was on a nearby world, I heard that you've got someone here called the Prophet, someone who can see the future.” He paused. “I'd like to meet her.”

“Why?”

The Kid smiled. “I'd sure like some investment advice. Maybe I could trade a couple of custom-made chips for them.”

“Well, I see her from time to time,” answered Mboya. “I can pass the word and see if she's interested.” He paused. “No reason why she shouldn't be,” he added thoughtfully. “I mean, just knowing you're going to wake up with a hangover doesn't make the hangover go away.”

“I'd appreciate that,” said the Kid. He noticed that Mboya had finished his beer. “Let me buy the next round.”

“Thanks,” said Mboya. “Much appreciated.”

The Kid signaled the bartender to bring two beers over to the table. “Other than frequenting the casino down the block, what do people do for fun around here?”

“This is an agricultural world,” replied Mboya with a laugh. “They talk about planting, fertilizer, and the weather. Mostly the weather. Once in a long while they might have a cattle show. That's about it.”

“Not exactly thrilling,” said the Kid wryly.

“If you want thrills, you should go to a world like Calliope, or maybe Confucius—not a farm world.”

“Have you ever been to them?”

“Once or twice,” said Mboya.

“What the hell kind of business can a farmer possibly have on Confucius?” asked the Kid, as the bartender arrived with their beers.

Mboya paused and studied the Kid. “I didn't say I was a farmer.”

“No, I suppose you didn't,” said the Kid. “What do you do?”

Mboya shrugged expansively. “Oh, a little of this, a little of that. A few deals here, a few there.”

“How long have you been on Mozart?”

“A few months. It's a pleasant enough world. A little on the dull side, as you've already noticed, but the climate's nice, the people are friendly, and your money goes a long way here.” He paused. “It's no worse than most worlds, and probably better than a lot of them.”

“Where are you from originally?” asked the Kid, picking up his new beer and taking a swallow.

“Back in the Democracy,” said Mboya with an expression of contempt. “A little world named Far London.” He paused. “I decided that a man with my talents could go a lot farther on the Inner Frontier.”

“What are your talents?”

“You'll laugh.”

“No, I won't,” said the Kid.

Mboya shrugged. “Right at the moment, I'm in pest control.”

“Pest control?” repeated the Kid, surprised.

“You have a pest problem, you send for me and I cure it.”

“Well, at least I understand why you're on an agricultural world,” said the Kid. “They must have a lot of work for you here.”

“I keep busy,” answered Mboya, finishing off his beer and putting the empty glass back on the table.

“Sounds like dull work, if you don't mind my saying so,” said the Kid.

“I rather enjoy it,” replied Mboya.

“To each his own.”

“True,” agreed Mboya. “As for myself, I'd go crazy spending all my time creating computer chips.”

“So would I,” answered the Kid. “That's why I was looking for a little action.”

“If you don't like gambling, you're out of luck in Minuet,” said Mboya.

“It occurs to me that the Prophet could break the bank if she's all she's supposed up to be,” said the Kid.

“I doubt they'd allow her to play,” responded Mboya.

“She's that good?”

“If you owned the casino, would you take the chance that she might be?” asked Mboya.

“I wonder what the hell someone like her is doing out here on a world like this in the first place,” said the Kid.

“You seem very interested in her,” observed Mboya.

“She sounds like a very interesting person,” answered the Kid. “And I really could use some investment advice.”

“What, exactly, have you heard about her?”

“Just that she's supposed to be able to foresee the future,” answered the Kid.

“Nothing more?”

“Well, I heard some rumors that she used to be the Oracle, but I don't believe it.” The Kid watched Mboya to see if there was any reaction. There wasn't. “Hell, everyone knows that the Iceman killed the Oracle a few years back.”

“The Iceman!” said Mboya. “Now there's a name to conjure with!”

“You've heard of him?”

“Who hasn't?” replied Mboya. “He's a legend out here.” He paused. “I'd like to meet him someday—if he's still alive, that is.”

The Kid looked at the empty glasses. “Care for another round?” he asked.

“No,” said Mboya. “I think I'm going to go try my luck at the roulette table down the street.”

“I never much liked roulette,” said the Kid. “Too big a percentage for the house.”

“I don't like it all that much myself,” said Mboya. Suddenly he grinned. “But as the old saying goes, it's the only game in town. In this case, literally.”

“Good luck,” said the Kid.

“Perhaps you'd care to come along?” suggested Mboya, getting to his feet. “They've also got blackjack, poker, and jabob.”

“I'll probably be along later,” said the Kid. “I think I'll have another beer first. I had a long nap this afternoon; I'm good for hours yet.”

“Well, thank you for the beer, Mr. Cayman,” said Mboya. “I hope you'll let me return the favor if you show up at the casino before I leave.”

“It's a deal,” said the Kid.

Mboya grinned. “That's always assuming I haven't gone broke in the interim.”

“One of those gold teeth ought to buy the best bottle in the house,” said the Kid.

Mboya laughed and walked out into the night, and the Kid picked up his glass and walked over to the bar.

“I'll have another,” he said.

“Coming right up,” said the bartender, bringing him a fresh glass.

“Interesting guy, that Mboya,” said the Kid. “Does he come here often?”

“Oh, he comes by every now and then, when his boss sends him,” answered the bartender. “But I've never heard him called Mboya before.”

“That's not his real name?” asked the Kid.

The bartender shrugged. “For all I know it is—but out here on the Frontier they call him The Black Death.”

“The Black Death?” repeated the Kid.

“The way you two were getting on, I thought you knew him.”

The Kid shook his head. “He just walked up and introduced himself. Told me he was in pest control.”

The bartender chuckled. “Well, in a way, I suppose he is.”

“In what way?”

“He's the Prophet's bodyguard.”