The Kid nursed his next beer for half an hour, then wandered over to the casino.

It was a large room, far larger than the Iceman's on Last Chance. There were half a dozen blackjack tables, four poker tables, a pair of roulette wheels, a craps table, a billiard table, two jabob games, and another alien game that he had never seen before.

The casino was relatively empty when the Kid arrived. There were perhaps fifteen men and women playing the various games, and not a single alien to be seen. The Kid immediately spotted Mboya, the solitary player at one of the roulette wheels, and walked over to him.

“Hello, Neil,” said Mboya with a friendly smile. “Glad you decided to come on over.”

“There was nothing else to do,” said the Kid with a shrug. “By the way, do I call you Mr. Mboya or Mr. Death?”

Mboya laughed. “James will do.”

“But you are The Black Death?” persisted the Kid.

“Some people call me that.” Mboya studied the table, then placed a pair of chips on Odd and another on Red.

“I see you like to play it safe,” noted the Kid.

“The odds are 35-to-1 that you'll lose if you bet on a number,” answered Mboya. “I don't really expect to win when I come here, but I'd like my money to last long enough for me to enjoy myself for a couple of hours.”

“Why are you here at all?” asked the Kid.

“I like to gamble. Where should I be?”

“Talking to me. That was your assignment, wasn't it?”

“I am talking to you,” said Mboya easily. “No reason why I shouldn't enjoy myself while I'm doing it.”

“Does she send you out to talk to every newcomer to Mozart?” asked the Kid.

“No,” said Mboya as the wheel started spinning. “Just the ones she's curious about.”

“Why is she curious about me?”

Mboya shrugged. “Who knows what makes her curious, or why she does anything she does?” He cursed beneath his breath as the number came up Even and Black. “Damn! You wouldn't think anyone could lose this consistently! I bet Black four times in a row and it comes up Red all four times ... so I finally bet Red, and it comes up Black. If I didn't know better, I'd say the wheel was rigged.”

“What makes you think it isn't?” asked the Kid.

“Because if it was, no man having anything to do with this casino would be alive tomorrow morning,” answered Mboya seriously. “And they know it.” He stared at the table again, trying to decide which number to bet, then finally shrugged and straightened up. “I've had enough of this game. It's time to find a slower way to lose my money.” He spotted the empty pool table. “You ever shoot any pool, Neil?”

“Once in a while.”

“Good,” said Mboya, walking to the table and studying its green felt surface. “Care to play for a small stake, just to make it interesting?”

“It wouldn't be fair,” said the Kid.

“I'm not a hustler,” Mboya assured him.

“I know. It wouldn't be fair, because you can't win.”

Mboya grinned. “Well, now, I wouldn't necessarily say that, either.”

“It's the truth,” said the Kid.

“I thought you only played once in a while.”

“That's right.”

“Then why should I believe you?”

“Believe whatever you want.” Suddenly the Kid shrugged and smiled. “One hundred credits a game?”

“Sounds good to me,” said Mboya, selecting a cue and starting to chalk the tip of it.

“Just remember I warned you,” said the Kid, picking his cue and walking back to the table.

“I admire your confidence,” said Mboya. “Rack ’em.”

The Kid's confidence turned out to be well-placed, as he had known it would be. The chips that were tied into his eyes showed him every tiny irregularity in the table's surface; the chips in his shoulders allowed him to make every shot with the same sure stroke; the chip he'd had implanted on Sweetwater allowed him to lean far over the table without any discomfort or loss of balance. He easily beat Mboya three games in a row, and was about the rack the balls for a fourth game when The Black Death called it quits and pulled three hundred-credit notes out of his wallet.

“You ought to quit the chip business and turn pool shark,” he said ruefully, as he laid the money on the table.

“Maybe someday I will,” answered the Kid, picking it up and stuffing it into his wallet.

Mboya signaled to a lone waiter, who was wandering around the casino taking orders.

“A pair of beers, please,” he said when the waiter approached them. He wiped his brow and turned to the Kid. “Let's have a seat. Losing at roulette and pool is thirsty work.”

“You never had a chance,” said the Kid, following him to an unoccupied card table.

“I knew that after about the fifth shot,” Mboya agreed with a wry smile as he sat down opposite the Kid. “I don't know where you learned to play, and your style is unorthodox as all hell—but somebody sure as hell taught you well.”

It was the Kid's turn to smile. “I doubt that I've played half a dozen times in my life.”

“I don't believe it!” said Mboya adamantly.

“I have no reason to lie to you,” said the Kid. “I didn't lie about your chances, either: I told you on the front end that I was going to win.”

“So sue me,” said Mboya. “I didn't know you'd be that good.”

“There's a lot about me you don't know,” replied the Kid. He paused. “That neither you nor your boss knows.”

“I don't suppose you'd care to confide in me,” suggested Mboya with a smile.

The Kid shook his head. “Anything she wants to know, she can ask me directly.”

“That's not her style, Neil.”

“Then she'll have to change it,” said the Kid firmly.

Mboya seemed amused. “She doesn't change for other people; they change for her.”

“Why?”

“Because she's the Prophet.” He paused. “Why are you so interested in meeting her?”

“I told you.”

“I know what you told me,” said Mboya. “I just thought you might prefer to tell me the truth.”

“Are you calling me a liar?” said the Kid.

“Not at all,” answered Mboya calmly. “If I called you a liar, you'd probably take offense, and then I'd have to kill you—and you seem like a nice enough young man.”

“I might be a lot harder to kill than you think,” said the Kid.

“That's possible,” admitted Mboya. “A lot of men I've killed were harder to kill than I had thought they would be—but they're all dead, just the same.” He paused. “Maybe we ought to change the subject, before I start getting curious about just how hard you'd be to kill.”

“Suits me,” said the Kid. “I've got no quarrel with you. You're just the hired help.” He paused. “Of course, you did lie to me over at the tavern.”

“Why would I lie to you?”

“You said you were in pest control.”

“I am,” answered Mboya easily. “That's why I'm here: to see just how much of a pest you intend to be, and how much controlling you'll need.”

“I told you,” said the Kid. “I sell computer chips.”

“I know what you told me,” said Mboya. “I didn't believe you then, and I don't believe you now.”

“Order a chip from me and you'll see you were wrong.” The Kid smiled. “If nothing else, it'll improve your pool game.”

The waiter finally arrived with their beers, and Mboya tossed a couple of coins on his tray.

“They make a lot of good things on Mozart,” said Mboya, grimacing as he emptied the container into his glass, “but beer, alas, isn't one of them.”

“So order an import.”

“As long as I'm here, I feel I ought to support the local industries.”

The Kid stared at him curiously. “You're a strange kind of killer.”

“Well, if it comes to that, you're a strange kind of traveling salesman,” replied Mboya.

The Kid stared at him. “I was minding my own business,” he said defensively. “You sought me out.”

“That's my job.”

“So you said,” replied the Kid. “I'd just like to know why she's curious about me.”

Mboya grinned. “Mine is not to reason why.”

“Yours is just to protect her with your life, right?”

“Wrong.”

“The bartender at the tavern said you were her bodyguard,” said the Kid.

Mboya shook his head. “She doesn't need a bodyguard. I'm just her eyes and ears when she's occupied with other matters—which is most of the time.”

“What's she like?”

“Different.”

“In what way?”

“I'm supposed to be asking the questions,” said Mboya.

“I don't have to answer them.”

“No,” agreed Mboya. “But you'd make my job much easier if you would.”

The Kid finally took a long swallow of his beer, then stared at Mboya. “Why do I care if your job's easy or hard?”

“Because when I get frustrated in my work, I get ill-tempered,” said Mboya. “Believe me, you wouldn't like me when I'm ill-tempered.”

“I don't think I like you all that much right now,” answered the Kid.

Mboya studied him carefully. “Do you know something else you're not telling me, Neil?”

“Like what?”

“I don't know. But most people don't talk to me like that unless they think they'd got some kind of an edge.”

“What I know is my business,” answered the Kid. “And you can stop calling me Neil.”

“I thought it was your name.”

“It used to be. Nowadays I'm the Silicon Kid.”

“Never heard of you,” said Mboya.

“You will,” said the Kid. “That's a promise.”

“So you think you can make your reputation by taking out the Prophet, is that it?” asked Mboya, obviously amused by the thought. “Take my advice, Kid, and forget about her. Go after the Gravedancer, or maybe Lizard Malloy. Who knows? If you get lucky, or you catch them on a bad day, you just might live through it.”

“I'm didn't come to Mozart to kill anyone,” replied the Kid. “I'm just here to sell computer chips.”

“Ah, I understand now!” said Mboya with an amused grin. “We're all going to hear about you because you're going to become the galaxy's most famous traveling salesman.”

“You're going to hear of me because there's always going to be someone like you who doesn't take me seriously,” said the Kid. “And that's a mistake.”

“Well, I'll certainly take that under advisement,” said Mboya. He paused and stared at the Kid. “By the way, where's all the silicon that makes you the Silicon Kid?”

“It's in place,” said the Kid.

“That's right,” said Mboya. “You specialize in implants, don't you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you'll have to pardon me if I don't faint dead away with terror,” said Mboya.

“I pardon you,” said the Kid seriously.

Myoba placed his glass on the table. “You're an interesting young man,” he continued. “I bear you no ill will, and I wish you a long and happy life.”

“Thanks. I plan to enjoy it.”

“Then take my advice and don't go looking for—” Suddenly Mboya froze, his eyes on the doorway.

“Is something wrong?” asked the Kid, turning to see what Mboya was staring at.

Three men, all dressed in nondescript outfits, their pockets bulging with weapons, had entered the casino, but instead of walking to the tables they fanned out across the front of the room, staring at Mboya.

“Time for me to go to work,” said Mboya wryly.

He got up and walked halfway across the room, stopping about twenty feet from the newcomers.

“I thought I told you you weren't welcome here,” he said, facing the man in the center.

“I know what you told me,” replied the man.

“Nothing's changed since last week. You're still not welcome on Mozart.”

“Oh, something's changed all right,” said the man. He grinned. “This time I'm not alone.”

“Nothing's changed,” repeated Mboya. “I think the three of you had better turn around and go right back to the spaceport.”

“Not a chance,” said the man.

“Well, I can't make you behave sensibly,” said Mboya with a shrug. “I can only suggest it.”

“You know what we're here for,” continued the man. “Where is she?”

“Where is who?”

“No games now,” said the man. “We've come for the Prophet.”

“The Prophet?” repeated Mboya. “Never heard of her.”

“If we have to kill you to get to her, we will.”

“What's all this talk of killing?” asked Mboya pleasantly. “This is a peaceful little world.”

The man laughed. “If it's such a peaceful world, what are you doing here?”

“Keeping the peace,” said Mboya.

“I'm going to ask you just once,” said the man. “Where is she?”

“None of your business,” said Mboya. “Now I've got a question for you.”

“Yeah?”

“Can you count to five? Because that's how many seconds you've got to get out of here.”

The man glared at him for the briefest of instants, then he and his two cohorts all reached for their weapons. Mboya's own sonic pistol appeared in his hand as if by magic, and two of the men were dead before they could draw their weapons. Mboya crouched as he pivoted toward the third man, only to find that he was already wounded, his left arm smoldering from the blast of a laser beam. The man got off a quick, inaccurate shot at Mboya, who killed him a second later.

“Somebody go for the police!” ordered Mboya as the patrons, most of whom had hit the floor, began getting to their feet. Two men immediately left the building.

“I suppose I should thank you,” continued Mboya as he turned to the Kid, whose laser pistol was still in his hand, “but it was stupid to get involved. Why the hell did you do it?”

“I wanted to see if I was faster than you,” said the Kid. “I am.”

“You shot a man you never saw before just to see if you were faster than me?” repeated Mboya incredulously.

“That's right.”

“Some people might call that attempted murder.”

“If they arrest me, they'll certainly have to arrest you too,” said the Kid. “Do you think they're going to?”

Mboya stared at him for a long moment. “You're a dangerous young man, you know that?”

“I know that.”

“How many men have you killed?”

“None yet,” admitted the Kid. “But I have a feeling I'm going to enjoy it when I finally get around to it.”

“I'll just bet you are,” said Mboya. He paused. “You'd better get your ass back to the hotel. I'll take care of the authorities.”

The Kid nodded and walked around the bodies. When he got to the doorway, he turned back to Mboya.

“I was faster than you,” he said.

“But you didn't kill him,” Mboya pointed out. “You missed.”

“I'm still adjusting to the chips. I'll aim better next time.”

“If it had been me instead of him, you wouldn't have lived to have a next time,” said Mboya. “You took him by surprise. He was looking at me when you shot him.” He paused. “Now that I know what you can do, you'll never take me by surprise.”

“I don't want to. If I ever take you, it'll be in a fair fight.”

“Well, that's comforting to know,” said Mboya wryly.

The Kid remained in the doorway. “Do you think she'll meet with me now?” he asked at last.

“I don't know.”

“Remind her that they were out to kill her.”

“I don't have to remind her,” answered Mboya. “That's why I left the restaurant and came here. She knew they were going to show up.”

“Remind her anyway,” said the Kid. “I still want some investment advice.”

“Sure you do,” said Mboya.

The Kid heard a commotion about a block away. The police were accompanying the two gamblers, and he decided that he might as well follow Mboya's instructions and return to his hotel. Remaining here wouldn't get him any closer to the Prophet, and the resultant publicity might cost him enough customers so that he would no longer have an excuse for spending two or three weeks on the planet.

“I'm staying at the Manor House,” he said to Mboya.

“I know.”

“I'll be waiting to hear from you.”

“Don't hold your breath,” said Mboya.

The Kid stepped outside, waited until the policemen and gamblers had passed him and entered the casino, and then walked back to his hotel.

It had been an interesting night. He had made contact with a man who worked for the Prophet, and he seen a shootout. In fact, he had participated in it, and the adrenaline his body had produced wasn't totally dissipated yet. It was a hell of feeling, that sense of excitement, and he knew that he had found his future vocation, once this business with Penelope Bailey was over. As he took the airlift to his room and sprawled, fully dressed, on his bed, he promised himself that those minstrels who wandered from world to world, singing songs of Santiago and Billybuck Dancer and the Iceman, would someday sing songs about the Silicon Kid as well.