The End of the Line was crowded.

Lomax arrived after taking a dryshower and dining in his room, and found himself in the midst of the usual miners, traders, explorers, adventurers, bounty hunters, whores and misfits, some dressed in brilliantly-colored silks and satins, some in outfits that would look more at home in the midst of a war. There was a fair-sized alien contingent there, too: a few Canphorites, some Lodinites and Robelians, an enormous Torqual, and even a pair of diminutive, faerie-like Andricans, the first of that species Lomax had ever seen.

The Iceman wasn't in evidence, so Lomax strolled over to the gaming tables. He passed up the roulette wheel and the blackjack games, and spent a few minutes losing a quick seventy credits at a jabob game. The Andrican who beat him look so childishly pleased with itself, strutting and waving its money around with a laugh that sounded like the delicate tinkling of wind chimes, that even Lomax was amused, and finally he wandered back to the tavern.

Most of the tables were full. There were a pair available near the casino, but the last thing he needed to do was make his escape past half a dozen bounty hunters, some of whom might start wondering if they would post a reward for the Iceman's murderer, and so he waited until one opened up by the outside door.

He sat down, ordered a bottle of Cygnian cognac, poured himself a glass, and once again surveyed the room. His path to the door was clear; he was in plain sight of the huge one-way mirror behind the bar, where the Iceman would have a couple of men stationed to protect him. He was partially in shadow, so if he didn't jerk his supposedly-wounded arm just right, no one would see it. The best of the bounty hunters—by reputation, anyway—were some sixty feet away at the gaming tables, and they wouldn't risk hitting any customers as he walked out the door.

He gingerly felt his left arm with the fingers of his right hand. The artificial blood was there, right over his bicep, where the Iceman could slit it open with a knife. Then he checked his weaponry again: the projectile weapon, filled with blanks, sat on his right hip, where he could reach it with his “good” arm. And on his left hip was a laser pistol, just in case the Iceman's protection wasn't quite as promised.

Lomax forced his body to relax, content that he had done everything he could do to help carry off the ruse. Now it was just a matter of waiting for the Iceman, who in turn was undoubtedly waiting long enough to be sure that the Anointed One's informant was on the premises.

One of the whores sidled up to him, and he spoke to her for a few minutes. When she realized that he had no interest in transacting any business with her, she moved off to a likelier target, and something about her body language conveyed to the other whores the fact that the man in black wasn't in a buying mood.

Finally, after another hour had passed, the Iceman emerged from his office. He walked past Lomax's table with no sign of recognition, spent a few minutes glad-handing the customers, checked with his gamesmen and dealers to see how the casino was doing, then stopped by the bar for a beer. He downed it, asked for a refill, and carried his glass over to Lomax's table.

“You all set?” he asked softly.

Lomax nodded. “As ready as I'll ever be.”

“Good. Let's wait a few more minutes, just in case our man is a late sleeper.”

“Even if he is, you'll have a hundred eyewitnesses,” noted Lomax.

“True,” admitted the Iceman. “But I'm sure the Anointed One would rather have a first-hand report. I would.”

“You're the boss,” said Lomax, picking up his glass and taking yet another sip of his cognac.

They passed a few minutes in silence, and finally the Iceman spoke again.

“I'd say it's about time.” He paused. “I almost hate to see you leave Last Chance,” he added wryly. “That's expensive stuff you're drinking.”

“That's okay,” said Lomax with a smile. “It's on my tab, which I have no intention of paying.”

“The hell you're not paying it!” yelled the Iceman in a voice that rang out throughout the tavern. “When you come into my establishment, you're no different than anyone else!”

“You'd be surprised how different I am, old man,” replied Lomax, not quite yelling, but making sure that he, too, could be heard.

“You bleed like anybody else!” snapped the Iceman, drawing a knife and slashing at Lomax's left arm, just below the elbow, and Lomax felt a bolt of pain surge through him, and blood—real blood—began discoloring his shirtsleeve.

“That was supposed to be my upper arm, you asshole!” he grated as the Iceman hurled his aging body at Lomax.

“I decided we couldn't take the chance,” whispered the Iceman. “Now shoot me before someone pulls us apart!”

Lomax managed to withdraw his projectile weapon, and an instant later four loud explosions echoed through the tavern. The Iceman clutched at his chest, managed to slit open the blood bag with his knife, spun around once so that everyone could see that his chest and stomach were drenched in blood, and collapsed to the floor.

While the attention had been focused on the Iceman, Lomax had holstered the projectile weapon, painfully withdrawn his laser pistol, and transferred it to his good hand. Now he began backing out of the tavern very carefully, watchful for any indication that one of the customers might try to stop him. Nothing happened, and a moment later he found himself in the street.

“Let's go!” whispered a voice, and he was instantly surrounded by three men.

“In just a second,” he said, his speech starting to slur. “I just have to get my bearings.”

“What bearings?” whispered the voice. “You're standing right in front of The End of the Line.”

“It must be raining,” mumbled Lomax. “I'm all wet.”

“What's the matter?” demanded another voice. “Just how much did you drink tonight?”

“Not much,” answered Lomax. “What's the matter with me? I'm dizzy.”

“Come on!” whispered the first voice. “Before someone comes after you!”

“Right,” said Lomax. Suddenly he dropped to his knees. “I can't stand up,” he murmured.

“Jesus!” hissed a third voice. “Look at his arm! I think the Iceman hit an artery. He's lost a lot of blood!”

“Then fix a tourniquet, but let's get out of here!”

“Hold him still! He's soaked with the stuff.”

“Very good cognac,” muttered Lomax, and passed out.