Blantyre III was a world of tall towers and stately minarets, of twisting streets and pitch-dark alleyways, of large chimneys and narrow stairways.

In other words, it was a world made to order for the Mouse.

She stood on the makeshift stage at the back of Merlin's wagon now, not quite five feet tall, barely eighty pounds, wearing a sequined tie and tails over her tights, smiling confidently at the assembled crowd as Merlin produced bouquets and rabbits out of thin air. Each of these he handed to her, and each she placed in a special container, since flowers and rabbits were difficult to come by out on the Inner Frontier, and they planned to make use of them a number of times before moving on to the next world.

Then came the cigarette trick. Merlin lit a cigarette, snuffed it out, magically produced four more lit cigarettes, threw them away, pulled yet another out of his ear, and so on, simple sleight of hand, but immensely pleasing to the spectators who had never seen any kind of magic show before.

Then there was the patter, which Merlin kept up incessantly. He told jokes, insulted braggarts, called forth the dark gods to aid him, even read an occasional mind.

And finally, forty minutes into the act, came the piece de resistance.

Merlin had the Mouse climb into a large box, which he then bound with chains and secured with oversized padlocks. The box, he explained carefully, had a twenty-minute supply of oxygen in it, not a second more.

The Mouse was already out of the box and hiding in the back of Merlin's wagon when he had two bystanders help him attach it to a pulley, raise it over a large tank of water, and submerge it, promising his audience that the Mouse had only nineteen minutes left in which to escape or die.

He then pulled out some of his more dazzling tricks, those with fires and explosions, which held the crowd captivated while the Mouse slipped into a black bodysuit, wriggled out the hole in the bottom of the wagon, and slunk off into the shadows.

A moment later she was clambering lithely up the side of an ancient building, hiding in the shadow of a turret until Merlin performed his next trick, and then she was inside a window and scampering lightly down a corridor. There was artwork to be had in this house, lots of it, but she decided it would be too hard to smuggle off the planet. Instead she kept racing from room to room until she finally found a woman's dressing room, quickly scavenged through the drawers until she came to a jewelry chest, and plundered it, placing the contents in a leather pouch tied around her waist.

She checked her watch again. Eleven minutes. Time for at least one more house, possibly two.

She raced back to the window through which she had entered, clambered out and up to the top of a minaret, dove through space to the adjacent building, landed catlike on a ledge, and forced open the window of a darkened room.

She realized immediately that she was not alone, that someone or something was sleeping in a corner. She froze, half-expecting an attack, but then she heard a snore and she was across the room and into a corridor within five seconds.

She could tell by the numerals on the doors that she was in a rooming house rather than a private residence. It could be better; it could be worse. She could plunder four or five different rooms without having to leave the building, but residents of boarding houses rarely had anything worth stealing.

She checked the nearest room. It was empty, not only of people but of anything remotely valuable.

The second room was a little better. A man and a woman were asleep in a large bed, and the air smelled of alcohol and drugs. The Mouse found their clothing in a crumpled pile on the floor and extracted three one-hundred credit notes from the man's wallet. A further search failed to turn up the woman's purse or money, and the Mouse decided that she didn't have enough time to keep looking for them.

She re-entered the corridor with eight minutes remaining on her watch, but just as she did so an elderly woman turned on the light and wandered out to use the only bathroom on the floor. She shot into the stairwell, heard voices coming up from the floor below and realized that at least one of the rooms had a door open, and crouched in the shadows, waiting for the stiff-limbed old woman to make her way down the corridor to the bathroom. It took the old woman almost two minutes, and the Mouse decided that it was time to start heading back. She found an unlit fire exit in the rear of the building, climbed down to the ground, kept to the shadows until she was opposite Merlin's wagon, waited for him to captivate the crowd with one final trick that shot fireworks in every direction, then slithered under the wagon and entered it from beneath.

She placed her pouch carefully inside a production box, so that even if a policeman opened the top of the box he'd have a difficult time finding anything that was hidden in it. Then, with two minutes to go, she donned a black hood and insinuated herself onto the stage.

Merlin was toying with the spectators, half-convincing them that the Mouse was mere seconds from drowning or suffocating if she couldn't escape, and finally he led them in a countdown. When they reached the instant when her oxygen was theoretically used up, Merlin and his black-hooded assistant pulled the box out of the water and hacked away its chains—and revealed not a dead Mouse, but an Antarrean bird of many colors, which spread its wings, hopped out of the box, walked over to the Mouse, and pulled her hood off—its one and only trick.

The crowd applauded wildly, Merlin passed his hat for donations, and finally the audience dispersed, leaving them there in the middle of the now-empty street.

“Well?” asked the magician. “How did you do?”

“Some credits, some jewelry,” replied the Mouse. “Nothing special.”

“That's the problem with this world,” said Merlin. “There is nothing special to it.” He stared contemptuously at the houses. “All these stately facades, and each boudoir with its own facade of costume jewelry. Six nights without a major score. I'm for calling it quits.”

The Mouse shrugged. “Suits me. Where to next?”

“Westerly is the next human world.”

“Westerly is an alien world,” she corrected him.

“It's got about 20,000 humans living in a kind of Free Zone right in the heart of their biggest city,” said Merlin. “We can refuel there.”

“We can refuel right here.”

“We're going to,” explained Merlin patiently. “But Westerly should make a nice one-day stop along the route. Who knows? Maybe we can pick up some fresh fruit. That's something we can't get on this particular dirtball.”

She shrugged again. “All right. Westerly it is.” Merlin began driving the show wagon back to the spaceport. “What do the natives call it?” continued the Mouse.

“Call what?” he asked distractedly.

“Westerly.”

“Well, the human natives call it Westerly.”

“Thanks a heap.”

“You couldn't pronounce what the aliens call it. It's listed on the star maps as Romanus Omega II.” He paused. “It's an oxygen world, of course.”

“Any idea what the natives are like?”

“I imagine they breathe oxygen,” he said. “What difference does it make? We're only going to perform for a human audience.”

“You don't crawl down chimneys or through sewers,” she replied. “If I'm going to run into an alien in tight quarters, I want to know what my options are.”

“Same as always: run like hell.”

They rode in silence until they reached the spaceport, then loaded the wagon into Merlin's brightly-decorated ship. Once they had taken off and laid in a course to Westerly, the Mouse relaxed with a beer while Merlin began running the gemstones she had stolen through the computer's spectrographic sensors. When he finished he cross-checked them against his current jeweler's reference guides, and finally placed tentative values upon them.

“Could have been worse,” he said at last. “I do wish you'd get over your compulsive urge to always grab the biggest stones, though. So many of them really aren't worth the trouble.”

“What about the diamond bracelet and the sapphire necklace?” she asked without looking up.

“They were very nice pieces. But those beads that look like pearls—absolutely worthless.”

“You'll find some pretty little girl to give them to, once we get back to the Frontier,” said the Mouse.

“I shall certainly try my utmost,” agreed Merlin. “But that in no way alters the fact that they won't bring a credit on the black market.”

She sipped her beer thoughtfully. “We don't want credits anyway, not the way the Democracy's going these days. If I were you, I'd sell this stuff for Stalin ruples and Maria Theresa dollars.”

“Then we're going to have to wait a few weeks. As long as we're within the Democracy, people are going to want to pay us with credits.”

“Then you'd better charge more, because credits don't spend very well out where we're heading.”

“I don't tell you how to steal them; don't you tell me how to unload them.”

The Mouse stared at him for a moment as he practiced making the jewels appear and disappear beneath a colorful silken scarf, then went back to concentrating on her beer. It had been a long week, and she was tired, and her left knee was throbbing from where she'd banged it against a turret two nights ago. In fact, her whole body hurt from the chores she kept giving it. It really was time for a vacation, and as she sought out her bed and drifted off to sleep, she found herself hoping that they could make a big enough killing on Westerly so that she could afford to take a few months off.

Westerly, decided the Mouse, was like most alien worlds. At first glance it seemed to make perfect sense; it was only when you looked more closely that it seemed less and less reasonable.

“Well, what do you think?” asked Merlin as he drove the show wagon down the main street of Westerly's human enclave.

“I don't like it,” replied the Mouse.

“What's the problem?”

“Look at the way the streets all twist and turn back into themselves,” she said. “There are some skyscrapers with no windows or doors at all, and some little one-story buildings that are all glass and have fifteen doors. I don't know if I can figure it out in ten minutes.”

“Just stick to the human buildings,” said Merlin. “We don't want any alien objects anyway.”

“It's not that simple,” she said. “Which ones are the human buildings? If I pick the wrong one, I could get lost inside of it for an hour or more. I have a horrible feeling that every corridor ends in a blank wall, and that every staircase forms a continuous loop.”

“You're overreacting,” said Merlin.

“I don't think so,” she said, “and it's my opinion that counts.” She paused. “Your information was wrong. This planet never saw twenty thousand men at one time. I'd be surprised if they've got a thousand in residence.”

“Let's compromise, then,” said Merlin, bringing the wagon to a halt.

“How?”

He jerked his head at a large steel-and-glass building just across the street. “The Royal Arms Hotel,” he said. “Human-owned, human-run. We've got all day to study it. Let's go in, have lunch, and walk around a bit. If you're comfortable with it by nightfall, it's the only place you'll have to hit.”

She nodded her agreement. “Fair enough,” she said.

“I'll join you as soon as I can find a place to leave the wagon.”

While she was waiting for him, she walked entirely around the hotel, and located what would be her means of ingress later that night: a ventilation shaft attached to a basement laundry. There was a grate covering it, and room enough to park the wagon right over it. She had already entered the lobby when Merlin caught up with her.

“Well?” he said. “Learn anything?”

“Two things,” she replied. “First, I know how I'm getting in.”

“Good.”

“And second,” she continued, indicating a Robelian and a trio of Lodinites, “they've got more than just men staying here.”

“They'll have their own floors,” replied Merlin with a shrug. “It just means we have to be selective.”

“What about the locks?”

“They should be standard, keyed into the house computer so they can change combinations on a moment's notice.” He paused. “If you forget half of what I've already taught you, it might take you 30 seconds to crack one of them.”

“You don't mind if we check them out before tonight?”

He shrugged. “Whatever you wish.”

“Has it occurred to you that you could probably loot fifty guest rooms between now and dinnertime?” she suggested.

He shook his head. “We've been through all that before. The only reason we've never been arrested is because we do our looting only during the time we have an alibi.”

She made no reply, but kept looking surreptitiously into corners, down corridors, behind room dividers. From what she could tell—and she couldn't be certain until she examined some of the rooms—it appeared that most or all of the human guests used the airlifts to the right of the registration desk, which put them on levels Four through Nine. Levels Two and Three were reached by gently-ascending ramps to the left of the registration desk, and seemed to be of interest only to Canphorites, Lodinites, and Robelians.

“Well, at least they're all oxygen breathers,” she muttered. “I hate it when they change environments.” She turned to Merlin. “Have you spotted the service lifts yet?”

He frowned. “There don't seem to be any.”

“There must be. They'd never let the maids go up in the same airlift as the paying customers.” She paused. “Maybe you'd better go tell the management that we're here to put on a show for their customers tonight, before they think that we're casing the premises.”

“And what will you be doing while I'm explaining away our presence?” asked Merlin.

“Casing the premises,” she replied with a smile.

Merlin approached the front desk, and the Mouse took an elevator to the seventh level, made sure that the locks were a type she could pick, tried to take the lift down to the basement to inspect the laundry, found that it stopped at the lobby, and finally rejoined the magician just as he was emerging from the day manager's office.

“All set?” she asked.

“They won't give us any problems, and it'll justify our hanging around the hotel for the rest of the afternoon.”

“Good. Let's start by having some lunch.”

He agreed, and a moment later they entered the main-floor restaurant. Only two other tables were occupied, and Merlin nodded toward the farthest one.

“See that alien over there?” he whispered, indicating the lone being at the table.

“The humanoid with the bad complexion?” she asked.

Merlin nodded. “The one who's dressed all in silver. Steer clear of him.”

“Why?”

“Wait'll he reaches for something and you'll see.”

As if on cue, the alien signaled for a waiter, and she could see that he had once possessed four arms, but that one had been amputated.

“What kind of race does he belong to?” she asked.

“I don't know—but unless I miss my guess, that's Three-Fisted Ollie.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Just keep out of his way.”

“Outlaw?”

“Bounty hunter. They say he's killed more than thirty men, and that he never takes contracts on his own race.” The magician paused thoughtfully. “I wish I knew why he was on Westerly; he usually operates on the Inner Frontier.”

“Unless he's hunting for us.”

“Come on,” said Merlin. “There's not a warrant out on us anywhere in the Democracy.”

“That you know of,” she said.

“That anyone knows of,” he replied confidently. “Anyway, if you run into him tonight, just apologize and get the hell out of his way quick.”

The Mouse nodded and punched her order into the small menu computer. A moment later Merlin prodded her with his toe.

“What now?” she asked.

“Don't look turn around or pretend to notice him—but do you see who just joined the alien?”

She turned her head.

“I said don't look directly!” hissed Merlin.

“All right,” said the Mouse, staring directly into Merlin's eyes. “It's a big bearded human with a small arsenal hanging down from his belt. I assume you know him, too?”

“It's Cemetery Smith.”

“Another bounty hunter?”

Merlin shook his head. “A hired killer. One of the best.”

“So why are an alien bounty hunter and a professional assassin sitting fifty feet away from us?” asked the Mouse.

“I don't know,” said the magician nervously. “They should both be on the Frontier, and they sure as hell shouldn't be talking to each other.”

“Are they after us?” asked the Mouse calmly, even as she searched for exits and mentally calculated her chances of reaching them.

“No. These guys don't fool around. If they wanted us, we'd already be dead.”

“What do you want to do about tonight?” she asked. “We can give the hotel a pass, and just take off.”

“Let me think about it,” said Merlin. He lowered his head and stared at his interlocked fingers for a long moment, then looked up. “No, there's no reason to cancel out. They're not after us, and we don't represent any competition to them. We're thieves, they're killers.”

The Mouse shrugged. “Makes no difference to me.”

“I wonder who they're after?” mused Merlin, as the human got to his feet, said something to the alien, and walked out into the hotel lobby. “Whoever it is, he must be damned good if it takes the two of them together to hunt him down.”

They ate in silence, and then, as twilight approached, the Mouse began passing out holographic flyers announcing the magic show that would shortly be performed on the street outside the hotel.

By sundown, when Merlin began producing bouquets and birds and rabbits with professional elan, they had attracted a crowd of about sixty, all but a handful of them humans. Merlin continued to bedazzle the crowd, the Mouse performed her two or three simple illusions to a smattering of applause, and then Merlin put her into the box and began securing the locks, even as she rolled out the false back. By the time he had maneuvered it into the water tank, she was beneath the surface of the street, crawling through the ventilation shaft into the laundry. There were two women on duty, and it took her a minute longer than she had anticipated to reach the enclosed fire stairs. She raced up the stairs to the fourth level, then emerged and began checking for unlocked doors. She found one, quickly looted the room of its few valuable items, and then broke into another room. This one provided even less booty, and she soon emerged into the corridor. According to her watch, she had time for perhaps two more rooms if she was fast enough, one more if she had to hunt for its treasures.

Then, suddenly, she heard a door open, and she shot into the stairwell. There was no reason to wait for the resident to traverse the corridor and reach the airlift, when all she had to do was climb another floor and loot two rooms on the fifth level—but some instinct warned her not to climb any higher. Perhaps it was the press of time, perhaps it was the possibility of running into Cemetary Smith, but whatever the reason, she found herself waiting for the fourth level corridor to become empty rather than ascending to the fifth.

“Goddamn it!” bellowed a voice, and she peeked into the fourth level corridor.

Evidently whoever had opened the door had managed to lock himself out of his room, because now he was cursing at the top of his lungs and pounding on his door. Other doors cracked open as curious residents sought the reason for the disturbance, and the Mouse pulled her head back into the stairwell, convinced that the fourth level wouldn't be safe for her until long after she had to return to the magic show.

She took two steps up the stairwell, then heard still more noise on the fifth level, as the sounds of cursing and pounding rose through the building, and she immediately reversed her course, racing down to the second level, well below the noise.

She stepped cautiously into the corridor, which was a bit wider than the human section, and began checking the doors. The first two were locked, the third had a hideous growling sound emanating from behind it. It was as she approached the fourth door that she heard a sound that had no business being in the alien section of the hotel: the sobbing of a human child.

It took her less than twenty seconds to pick the lock and leap into the darkness of the room before the door could slide shut behind her. She pulled out a tiny flashlight and began inspecting the premises. There was an oddly-shaped couch and chair that no human could ever sit in, a table on which were placed six bronze artifacts that were absolutely meaningless to her, and another table with the remains of an alien meal on it.

Then her light caught a slight movement in the corner of the room. She immediately turned and focused it, and found herself staring at a small blonde girl manacled to the heavy wooden leg of an immense chair.

“Help me!” pleaded the girl.

“Are you alone?” whispered the Mouse.

The girl nodded.

The mouse crossed the room and set to work on the girl's manacles.

“What's your name?” asked the Mouse.

“Penelope,” sniffed the girl.

“Penelope what?”

“Just Penelope.”

The manacles came apart and dropped to the floor, and the Mouse stood up and took her first good look at the girl.

Penelope's blonde hair seemed to have been haphazardly cut with a knife rather than a shears, and it obviously hadn't been washed in weeks, or perhaps months. There was a large bruise on her left cheek, not terribly miscolored, obviously on the mend. She was thin, not wiry and hard like the Mouse, but almost malnourished. She was dressed in what had once been a white play outfit that was now grimy and shredded from being worn for weeks on end. Her feet were bare, and both her heels were raw.

“Don't turn the light on,” said Penelope. “He'll be back soon.”

“What race does he belong to?”

Penelope shrugged. “I don't know.”

The Mouse pulled a dagger out of her left boot. “If he comes back before we leave, I'll have a little surprise for him, that's for sure.”

Penelope shook her head adamantly. “You can't kill him. Please, can't we leave?”

The Mouse reached out a hand and pulled Penelope to her feet. “Where are your parents?”

“I don't know. Dead, I think.”

“Can you walk?”

“Yes.”

“All right,” said the Mouse, heading toward the door. “Let's go.”

“Wait!” said Penelope suddenly. “I can't leave without Jennifer!”

“Jennifer?” demanded the Mouse. “Who's Jennifer?”

Penelope raced to a corner of the room and picked up a filthy rag doll. “This is Jennifer,” she said, holding it up in the beam of light. “Now we can go.”

“Give me your hand,” said the Mouse, ordering the door to slide into the wall.

She stuck her head out into the hall, saw no movement, and quickly walked to the stairwell, practically dragging the weakened little girl behind her. Once there, they walked down to the basement level and made their way to the laundry room.

“Now listen carefully,” whispered the Mouse. “I want you to crawl on your hands and knees, just the way I'm going to do, behind this row of laundry carts, until we reach that vent. Can you see it?”

Penelope peered into the semi-darkness and shook her head.

“I'll let you know when we're there. Once we reach the vent, I'm going to boost you up inside it. It's narrow and it's dark, but you won't get stuck, because that's how I came in and I'm bigger than you are.”

“I'm not afraid,” said Penelope.

“I know you're not,” said the Mouse reassuringly. “But you have to be absolutely silent. If you make any noise, the maids who are running the washing machines on the other side of the room might hear, and if they come over to investigate, I'll have to kill them.”

“It's wrong to kill.”

“Then don't make any noise and I won't have to,” said the Mouse. “Are you ready?”

Penelope nodded her head, and the Mouse began crawling toward the vent. When she reached it she turned to see how far Penelope had gotten, and was surprised to find the little girl almost beside her.

The Mouse made sure that the maids were still busily loading and unloading the washers and dryers, put a finger to her lips, then lifted Penelope into the vent. The little girl writhed and wriggled, and finally made it to the right angle where the vent left the building and went beneath the street.

The Mouse was about to follow her when she heard a plaintive whisper.

“I can't find Jennifer!”

“Keep going!” hissed the Mouse. “I'll find her.”

She waited for a moment until she could hear the child wriggling forward again, then climbed into the vent herself. She came upon the rag doll wedged into a corner as the vent turned out of the building, tucked it into her belt, then continued crawling until she caught up with Penelope, who had reached the grate beneath Merlin's wagon and didn't know what to do next.

The Mouse quickly removed the grate, boosted Penelope into the wagon, and followed her, leaning back down through the false floor to reattach the grate.

“Wait here,” she instructed the child. “And don't make a sound.”

She donned her black hood and made it to the act's finale with no more than ten seconds to spare. When it was over, and most of the crowd had dispersed, she led Merlin back inside the wagon.

“What kept you?” asked the magician. “You cut it awfully close.”

“I hired an assistant,” said the Mouse with a smile.

“An assistant?”

The Mouse pointed at Penelope, who had buried herself under a bag of props.

“Good God!” muttered Merlin, lifting the bag. “Where the hell did you find her?”

“Chained to a bed in an alien's room.”

The magician squatted down next to the little girl and examined the bruise on her cheek. “You've had a hard time of it, haven't you?”

She stared at him without answering.

“Has she got any family on Westerly?” Merlin asked the Mouse.

“I don't think so.”

“What was she doing here?”

“I don't know,” said the Mouse.

“Hiding,” said Penelope.

“He doesn't mean now, Penelope,” said the Mouse. “He meant when I found you.”

“Hiding,” repeated Penelope.

“You mean the alien who stole you was in hiding?”

She shook her head. “He was hiding me.”

The Mouse nodded. “From your parents.”

Penelope shook her head again. “My parents are dead.”

“From the authorities, then,” said the Mouse.

“No.”

“Then from who?” asked the Mouse in mild exasperation.

Penelope pointed a thin, wavering finger out the wagon's only window to the doorway of the hotel, where Cemetery Smith and Three-Fisted Ollie were speaking in loud angry voices to the doorman.

“From them.”

Penelope was sound asleep, clutching her rag doll to her chest, as the ship sped through the void to the dry, dusty world of Cherokee. The Mouse had fed and bathed her, and put a healing ointment on her feet, and had finally gone to the ship's cluttered galley, where she found Merlin sitting at the dining table. He had a small mirror set up opposite his hands, and was studying it intently as he went through his repertoire of card tricks.

“Well?” he asked.

“Well what?”

Merlin put the deck of cards in his pocket. “Did she say anything?”

“Of course she did,” answered the Mouse. “She's not mute, you know.”

“Anything useful?” he persisted. “Like why anyone would hire two such expensive killers to hunt her down?”

“We've gone over this before,” said the Mouse wearily. “She's very young and very confused.” She commanded a cabinet to open, and withdrew a bottle and a glass. “It's far more likely that they were after her abductor. Look at it logically: the alien kidnapped her, the family decided not to pay any ransom, and they hired a pair of killers to get her back.”

“If you're right, we've got to unload her quick,” said Merlin. “If there's a reward, we claim it on Cherokee. If there isn't, we get rid of her before they send Smith and Ollie after us.”

“There aren't any authorities on Cherokee,” she pointed out while pouring herself a drink. “It's an Inner Frontier world. That's why we chose it.”

“It's got a post office covered with wanted posters, and it's got a powerful subspace radio transmitter,” responded Merlin. “We can at least find out if a reward has been offered.”

“I don't know if there will be a reward in the usual sense,” said the Mouse, “but someone is offering something, or Cemetary Smith and Three-Fisted Ollie wouldn't have been after the kidnapper.” She paused. “If she's valuable enough to interest professional assassins and bounty hunters, the family must be awfully rich. My guess is that they're trying to keep it quiet. Maybe she's got brothers and sisters; there's no sense advertising that their security is flawed.”

“Then how will we find out who she is and who she belongs to?” said Merlin. “We can't just post an advertisement that we've stolen this little blonde girl from an alien kidnapper. Smith and Ollie would be hunting for us five minutes later.” He stared thoughtfully at his lean, white fingers. “I don't know. We may have bitten off more than we can chew.”

“What did you want me to do?” asked the Mouse irritably. “Leave her where she was?”

“No, I suppose not.” Merlin sighed deeply and lit a small cigar. “But I'm starting to get a very bad feeling about this.”

“I don't see why,” said the Mouse, downing her drink.

“Because we're a couple of small-timers. If Cemetary Smith and Three-Fisted Ollie are involved in this, then we're in over our heads. And I have a feeling that there's more to this than meets the eye.”

“For instance?”

“I don't know,” he admitted. “But I can't help remembering the look on her face when she pointed to those two killers—like she'd seen them before.”

“Perhaps she had,” agreed the Mouse. “So what? Maybe they took a shot at her captor and missed, and in her confused state she thought they were shooting at her.”

“That's the problem,” said Merlin.

“What is?”

“Those guys don't miss.” He paused and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “And there's something else, too.”

“What?”

“Bounty hunters aren't much for sharing. Do you know how much money someone had to put up to get them to work together?” He stared at her, a troubled expression on his face. “If she's worth that much, why haven't we heard about her before?”

“When you're really rich, you don't brag about it—you hide it.”

“I don't know,” said Merlin. “You've got an answer for everything ... but I still don't like it.”

“I'll tell you what,” she said. “When we set down on Cherokee, we'll make some very discreet inquiries and see if we can find out who she is and who wants her ... and we'll keep doing it, carefully and discreetly, on every world we hit until we get an answer. In the meantime, she can shill for the act. Will that satisfy you?”

“I suppose so. The question is: will it satisfy her?”

“What do you mean?” asked the Mouse.

“What if she wants to go home right now—wherever home is,” said Merlin. “You told me that the alien kept her chained up. What if she tries to get away from us?”

The Mouse shook her head. “She thinks I saved her—which in fact I did. I can keep her contented.”

“I just don't think of you as the motherly type.”

“Why don't you let me worry about that?”

“As long as someone's worrying about it,” said Merlin.

They sat in silence for half an hour, the Mouse reading a newstape, Merlin practicing his sleight-of-hand with a trio of coins. Then they heard Penelope moan, and the Mouse went to her cabin to check on her.

“What's the matter?” she asked as she approached the girl's bed.

Penelope looked confused. “I thought I was back where you found me.”

“It was just a dream,” said the Mouse soothingly.

“I'm frightened,” whimpered Penelope.

“There's no need to be. You're safe now.”

Penelope shook her head.

“But you are,” continued the Mouse. “Tomorrow we'll be landing on a new world, and we've decided to let you start learning the act so you can help us. Won't that be fun?”

“They won't let me.”

“Who won't let you?”

“Everybody.”

“No one on this world even knows you,” said the Mouse.

“Someone will. Someone always does.”

The Mouse frowned. “How many worlds have you been to?”

Penelope held up both hands, studied them, and then bent two fingers on her right hand.

“Eight worlds?”

Penelope nodded.

“And somebody always knew you on each of these worlds?”

“On most of them.”

“Who knew you?”

“Men.”

“Just men?”

“Bad men,” said Penelope.

“Men with weapons?”

“Some of them.”

“You've had a tough time of it, haven't you?” said the Mouse. “Try to go to sleep now. Things will look better when you wake up.”

She gave the little girl a hug and then left the cabin.

“Well?” asked Merlin, when she had rejoined him.

“Bad dream.”

He shrugged. “I suppose she's entitled to it.”

“She is. Do you know that they've been chasing her kidnapper across eight worlds?”

“She told you that?” asked Merlin.

“Yes.”

He frowned. “That's another thing that doesn't fit.”

“Why not?”

“If this alien was good enough to keep one step ahead of Cemetary Smith for eight worlds, how come you were able to just walk right in and grab her?”

“He didn't know I was there. Nobody did.”

“And he didn't take any precautions against an unknown bounty hunter coming in the back door? I find that just a little bit hard to believe.”

“He obviously didn't have any confederates,” replied the Mouse. “Or else they were killed by bounty hunters. At any rate, he couldn't watch her every minute of every day.”

“I gather he'd been doing just that on eight different worlds.”

She looked annoyed. “Why is it that whenever you find yourself in a new situation, you suddenly become the most paranoid man I've ever known?”

“New I don't mind,” responded Merlin, waving his hand in the air and producing a bouquet of flowers. “I don't even mind strange. But this situation feels more than new and strange: It feels dangerous, and that I don't like.”

“Well,” said the Mouse after a moment's silence, “I don't know what we can do about it. She's here, and until we can return her to whoever's paying Cemetary Smith and Three-Fisted Ollie to find her, she's staying here.”

“We'll see.”

“I mean it, Merlin,” she said firmly. “After what she's been through, I'm not about to abandon her on some Frontier dirtball with no friends or family to look after her.”

“All right,” he said resignedly. “I know that tone of voice. She stays until we find out who will pay to get her back.”

“You needn't look so unhappy about it,” she added.

“Why not?” replied Merlin. “I've got the same questions now I had an hour ago; none of them have gone away just because you've always got a smooth answer for everything.” He paused. “The only thing that's changed since this conversation began is that now we've got another mouth to feed.”

“A very little one.”

“A very well-traveled, very enigmatic little one,” he corrected her.

The ship touched down on a barren strip of ground a mile beyond Cherokee's only Tradertown. Ordinarily Merlin and the Mouse would have taken a room at the local hotel, just to get away from the monotony of their cramped quarters, but they didn't want to advertise the fact that a little blonde girl was traveling with them, so they decided to sleep in the ship.

They touched down in the middle of the night, and when the harsh yellow sun rose over Cherokee's blood-red sand dunes and barren, rocky hills, they left Penelope behind and walked into town.

Like most of the Inner Frontier's Tradertowns, this one had sprung up around the planet's first bar and whorehouse. There were a pair of small hotels, a couple of restaurants, a second whorehouse and three more bars, a hangar for private spaceships, a post office that functioned not only for Cherokee but for every habitable world within five light years, a now-defunct government office for registering mining claims, a safari outfitter, seven import/export companies, a small brewery, two general stores, and perhaps fifty modular domed houses.

Once Cherokee had been a mining world, but after its limited supply of diamonds and fissionable materials had been exhausted, its primary reason for colonization had vanished, and it was now used mainly as a trading post and refueling depot for excursions to Far Hebrides, Oceana III, and other more interesting planets closer to the galactic core. A few thousand people had remained on Cherokee, but it was as close to being deserted as a planet could become while still inhabited by some sentient life forms.

The Mouse stopped at the post office and checked the various posters, hoping to find some mention of a missing blonde girl, but saw nothing but the holographs of wanted criminals. Finally she left and walked into the largest of the taverns, and waited for Merlin, who was trying to get some news concerning Penelope's family from the subspace transmitting station.

The tavern was quite large. There was a long, hardwood bar running down one side of it, a handful of gaming machines in the rear, and a number of large round tables clustered in the middle. A trio of overhead fans spun lazily, recirculating the warm air. A holograph of a buxom nude brunette hung over the bar, punctured by hundreds of darts. The floor was covered with the omnipresent red dust of Cherokee, and traces of it seemed to hang in the still air of the tavern.

The clientele was similar to most of the Tradertowns that the Mouse had visited, a mixture of aliens and humans, some obviously wealthy, others just as obviously poor, all chasing the dream of instant riches that life on the Inner Frontier always promised and rarely delivered.

Two Lodinites, their red fur rippling despite the lack of air circulation, were seated at one table, playing jabob, a card game that was becoming increasingly popular on the Inner Frontier. There was a tall, emaciated Canphorite sitting alone in a corner, obviously waiting for someone to join him. The rest of the customers, clustered together in twos and threes, were Men. Some were garbed in silks and satins, with shining leather boots and sparkling new weapons; others, those who had not yet struck it rich, or, more likely, has squandered what they had earned, wore the dusty working outfits of prospectors. A couple of girls from the whorehouse next door were drinking at the bar, but by some sort of mutual understanding, none of the men approached them or even paid any attention to them while they were on their equivalent of a coffee break.

The Mouse sat down at an empty table, spent a few restless minutes waiting for Merlin, and finally ordered a container of the local beer. It tasted bitter, but it quenched the thirst she had built up walking through the hot dusty street, and she quickly finished it and ordered another.

A moment later Merlin entered and came over to join her.

“Any luck?” he asked, sitting down on a straight-backed chair.

“No. How about you?”

He shook his head. “Not a damned thing. What do we do now?”

“We do our act tonight, and then leave. This world's only good for one day. Hell, I doubt that I'll be able to steal enough to pay for our fuel.”

“And the girl?” continued Merlin.

“She can't stay here,” said the Mouse adamantly. “She'll come along until we can collect a reward or find a safe place to leave her.”

“It had better be soon,” said Merlin. He got up and walked over to the bar to order a drink. As he returned and sat down, a tall, slender man turned away from the bar and approached their table. His coal-black outfit was carefully tailored and remarkably free of dust, his boots were made from the pelts of some exotic white-and-blue arctic animal, and he carried a small hand-axe tucked in his belt.

“Mind if I join you?” he said, pulling up a chair, wiping a trace of red dust from it with a linen handkerchief, and sitting down.

“Do we know you?” asked Merlin suspiciously.

“I sure as hell doubt it,” said the tall man. “But I know you.”

“Oh?”

The man nodded. “You're that magician who hits the Inner Frontier worlds, aren't you?”

“Who wants to know?”

“My name's MacLemore,” said the man. “Hatchet Jack MacLemore. Maybe you've heard of me?”

“I'm afraid not,” said Merlin.

“Well, it's a big galaxy,” said MacLemore with an easy shrug. “No reason why you should have.” He paused. “And you're Merlin the Magician, right?”

“Merlin the Magnificent,” the magician corrected him. “And this is my assistant,” he added, gesturing toward the mouse.

“I'm pleased to meet you,” said the tall man, smiling at her.

“Where was it that you saw me perform?” asked Merlin.

“Oh, I never saw you perform,” said MacLemore. “Magic doesn't interest me much.”

“I must have misunderstood you,” replied Merlin. “I thought you said you had seen me.”

“I said I knew who you were,” said MacLemore. “That's not the same thing at all.” He paused. “Anyway, I'd like to buy you a beer, and maybe do a little business with you.”

“What are you selling?” asked the Mouse, surreptitiously withdrawing her knife from her boot, but keeping her hands beneath the table.

MacLemore smiled. “I'm not selling anything, ma'am. Selling's not my business.”

“All right,” she said coldly. “What are you buying?”

The smile remained in place. “Well, truth to tell, buying's not my business either.”

“Just what is your business?”

“Oh, a little of this and a little of that.” He turned to Merlin. “You were on Westerly a couple of days ago, weren't you?”

“What concern is that of yours?” demanded Merlin.

“Where you go makes no difference to me,” said MacLemore. “Westerly's as good a world as any, and probably better than most.” Suddenly he leaned forward, staring intently at the magician. “But while you were there, you took something that didn't belong to you.” He paused briefly. “And that's my business.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” said Merlin.

“Oh, I think you do,” replied MacLemore. “I'm talking about something you took from an alien's room.”

“I'm a magician, not a thief,” said Merlin. He paused and returned MacLemore's stare. “But just out of curiosity, how much is this missing object worth?”

“I think you know, or you wouldn't have taken it.”

“I didn't take anything.”

“I thought we were talking business,” said MacLemore. “And here you go, insulting my intelligence. It's enough to make a man take offense.” He smiled again, a smile that started and ended with his lips. His eyes remained cold and hard.

“I assure you that no offense was intended,” said Merlin. “As for talking business,” he continued carefully, “I haven't heard any offers yet.”

“You're still alive,” said MacLemore. “That's not necessarily a permanent condition.”

Merlin looked more annoyed than frightened. “I've been threatened by experts.” He reached into the air, snapped his fingers, and suddenly he was holding a small laser pistol that was aimed between the tall man's eyes.

“That's very good,” admitted MacLemore. “Maybe I ought to take more of an interest in magic.”

“Maybe you ought to take less of an interest in other people's affairs,” said Merlin.

“You might as well deal with me,” said MacLemore. “You're going to have to deal with someone before you leave the planet.”

“Nobody else knows we're here.”

MacLemore chuckled in amusement. “How do you think I knew it—or do you think I live on this dirtball?” He turned to the Mouse. “You're going to run into a lot of people who aren't as friendly and reasonable as I am, ma'am. Maybe you'd better tell your friend to deal with me while he can.”

“I still haven't heard any offers,” said Merlin. “Either tell me what you're after and how much you're willing to pay for it, or go bother someone else.”

“I've already made you a handsome offer: you get to live.”

“You seem to forget who's holding the gun.”

MacLemore shrugged. “It's not the kind of thing I'm likely to forget,” he replied easily. “Hell, everyone in this tavern knows you're pointing a laser pistol at me.” Suddenly he smiled. “But you don't know which two of them are my partners.”

“Mouse?” said Merlin, never taking his eyes from MacLemore. “Any suggestions?”

“He doesn't have any partners,” said the Mouse coldly. “Men like him always work alone.”

“My feelings precisely,” agreed Merlin.

“If he doesn't get up and walk away, kill him,” said the Mouse.

“There are a lot of witnesses,” said MacLemore, suddenly tense.

“They don't give a damn about any of us,” replied the Mouse.

“Forgive my saying it, but you're a bloodthirsty little lady, ma'am,” said MacLemore, his right hand inching down to the hand-axe he had tucked in his belt.

Suddenly the Mouse stood up and threw her knife at him. It caught him in the right shoulder, and he shrieked in pain.

“Nobody does that to Hatchet Jack!” he bellowed, awkwardly trying to withdraw his hand-axe with his left hand.

There was a brief buzzing sound as Merlin fired his laser pistol, and MacLemore collapsed across the table, his head smoking and sizzling.

“Wonderful,” muttered Merlin, staring at the humans at the bar, who had all turned to see what was happening. “What now?”

“Now we get the hell out of here,” said the Mouse, retrieving her knife with a hard jerk.

“Start walking to the door.”

She nodded and did as he said, while he faced the assembled spectators.

Nobody moved. The silence was almost palpable, broken only by the creaking of the overhead fans as they continued to turn slowly.

“He threatened us,” said Merlin at last, starting to back toward the door. “It was self defense.”

The bartender, who had been totally motionless, picked up a glass and began wiping it absently. “No one's prepared to argue that point while you've got a gun trained on us, Mister,” he said. “And no one's going to weep bitter tears over Hatchet Jack's grave, either.”

“I'm delighted you're being so reasonable about it,” said Merlin, reaching the door.

“You got the gun.”

“Just remember that.”

“Got a bit of advice for you, though,” said the bartender.

“What is it?”

“I wouldn't try using that gun on the next fellow who comes to talk to you. There won't be enough of you left to bury.”

“Who else is looking for me?”

“You'll find out soon enough,” said the bartender. “I don't know what you've got, Mister, but some pretty dangerous people don't want you to keep it.”

“Who?”

“You'll know ‘em when you see ‘em.”

“If you see them first,” said Merlin, “tell them that I'm a peace-loving man, and that anything I've got is for sale.”

“I'll do that,” said the bartender. “Now you can do me a favor and get the hell out of here before they find you. I don't want my tavern all shot up.”

Merlin waved his laser pistol in the air. “If anyone follows me, he's going to wish he hadn't.”

“You made your point,” said the bartender. “Just leave.”

Merlin backed into the street. “Did you hear all that?” he asked the Mouse.

“Yes,” she answered. “We'd better get back to the ship fast—if it's still there.”

“Damn!” muttered Merlin. “I hadn't thought of that. If we didn't have the girl with us, of course they'd go to the ship!”

They began walking rapidly out of the Tradertown, keeping to the shadows cast by the buildings wherever they could, wary of any possible ambush.

“How did word of what we did get here so fast?” demanded Merlin, increasing his pace.

“Her family must be even richer than I thought,” said the Mouse.

“Right at this moment, anyone who wants her can have her, as far as I'm concerned,” said Merlin. “That's the first time I've ever killed a man. I don't care how big the reward is, she's not worth the trouble.”

“The first time?” said the Mouse, surprised.

“Yes.”

“You handled yourself very well.”

“It was like some big game of upmanship until you threw your knife at him,” replied Merlin. “Then I just pulled the trigger without thinking.”

“That's the best way,” said the Mouse. “Start thinking about what you're going to do, and you start thinking about what might happen to you, and then you start hesitating, and before you know it you're dead.”

“You talk about it like it was a daily occurrence. I've just killed a man!”

“He was going to kill us,” said the Mouse with a shrug.

“But—”

“Stop worrying about him. We may have to kill a few more before we get off this planet.”

“Let's just give them the girl.”

“First they have to ask for her. Since they've probably figured out that she's in the ship, they may not bother.”

“Wonderful,” muttered Merlin.

They reached the edge of town. Merlin looked back to make sure no one had emerged from the tavern yet, then peered off in the distance, where the sun was glinting off the ship.

“It's still there,” said the Mouse, half-surprised.

“God!” he said. “It looks a lot farther away than it looked this morning.”

“One of the reasons I teamed up with you is because you're good in a crisis,” said the Mouse. “But you approach one about as badly as any man I've ever known.”

Merlin made no reply, but merely glared at her for a moment and continued walking. When they were within 500 yards, he stopped again.

“I don't like it,” he said. “We're sitting ducks. There's nowhere to hide, and the sand makes it impossible to move quickly if we have to.”

“The sooner we get there, the sooner you won't have to worry about it,” said the Mouse.

“I'm not that anxious to get my head blown off.”

“Has it occurred to you that if someone at the ship was planning to kill us, they would have already done it? This isn't beyond the range of any long-barreled weapon I know of: projectile, laser, sonic, or molecular imploder.”

Merlin frowned. “You're right.”

“Feel better?”

“Less like a target, anyway. Whoever's looking for the girl is at least willing to let us get close enough to talk to him.”

“And if we can get that close...” said the Mouse.

Merlin increased his pace. “Yes, I feel much better.”

“Somehow I knew you would.”

When they got to within 300 yards, the magician slowed down again.

“Now what?” asked the Mouse.

“I don't see anyone.”

“So?”

“If they're inside the ship, they've already got the girl, and they don't need us anymore.”

“Then why haven't they shot us?” she asked.

“Why take a chance of missing at a quarter of a mile, when they can wait for us to reach the ship and blow us away from ten yards?” he retorted.

“What do you propose to do, then—stand out here until you die of heat stroke?”

“I don't know.”

“Well, you can do what you want,” said the Mouse. “I'm going to the ship.”

Merlin, muttering to himself, fell into step beside her. Then, when they were 150 yards away from the ship, the Mouse stopped and, shading her eyes with her hands, she stared straight ahead.

“What now?” asked Merlin.

“I'm not sure. It's so bright ... but I think I see two bodies at the foot of the ship.”

“Are they moving?”

She shook her head. “They look dead.”

“That's crazy,” said Merlin. “We haven't got any guardian angels on this planet. On any planet, for that matter.”

“Maybe they had a falling out,” said the Mouse.

“Well, let's find out.”

They approached the ship cautiously, but the Mouse had been right: two men, both heavily armed, lay dead at the base of the ladder leading to the entry hatch.

“That's very strange,” said the Mouse. “Neither one of them tried to use his weapon.”

“What killed them?” asked Merlin.

“The one on the right looks like he broke his neck. There's not a mark on the other one that I can see.”

“The hatch is unlocked,” said Merlin. “Do you suppose there's another one in there?”

“There's only one way to find out,” said the Mouse, climbing up the stairs and entering the ship.

“Penelope!” she called. “Are you all right?”

Suddenly the little blonde girl, her rag doll clutched in one hand, raced out of her cabin and threw herself into the Mouse's arms.

“Please don't leave me again!” she sobbed. “I was so frightened!”

“It's all right now,” said the Mouse, stroking her hair. “Nobody's going to harm you.”

“Is there anyone else aboard the ship?” asked Merlin, climbing through the hatch.

Penelope shook her head. “Just me.”

The Mouse set her down on the deck, and knelt down next to her. “Tell me what happened,” she said.

“Two very bad men came to the ship after you left,” said Penelope.

“I know.”

“I think they wanted to take me away.”

“I think so too,” said the Mouse.

“I'm glad they died.”

“So am I,” said the Mouse. “But how did they die?”

“After you left, I got lonely, so I took Jennifer outside to play, but there weren't any other little girls around.” She looked as if she were about to burst into tears again. “There wasn't anyone.” She paused. “Do we have to stay on this world?”

“We'll be leaving in just a few minutes,” said the Mouse. “Now, what happened to the two men?”

“I saw them coming out to the ship and I got scared and ran inside, but I left Jennifer on the stairs to the door.”

“You mean the entry hatch?”

“The door,” repeated Penelope, pointing to the open hatch. “One of them started climbing the stairs, but he tripped on Jennifer and fell down and didn't move.”

“And the other man?”

“He knelt down next to the first man to see if he was alive, and something bit him.”

“Something? What kind of thing?”

“I don't know. It lives under the sand. He screamed and grabbed his hand, and then he died too.” She stared out the hatch. “They were very bad men.”

“Merlin,” said the Mouse, “check him out.”

The magician went back outside while the Mouse soothed the little girl, then re-entered the ship a moment later.

“He's got some kind of bite on his hand, all right. It's swollen up and miscolored. He was laying on it or we'd have spotted it right away.” He uttered a low whistle and shook his head in wonderment. “Boy! Talk about dumb luck!”

“I'm not dumb!” said Penelope heatedly.

“No,” said Merlin. “But you sure as hell are lucky.” He turned to the Mouse. “I recognize the one with the broken neck.”

“Bounty hunter?”

“From time to time. A killer, anyway.”

“We've got some serious planning to do,” said the Mouse.

“I agree,” said Merlin. “The next guy to come along isn't going to trip on a doll or get bitten by some alien snake.” He locked the hatch, entered the control room, and activated the ship's engines. “But before we talk, the first order of business is to get the hell off the planet before somebody else comes looking for us.”

“Right,” said the Mouse, strapping Penelope and herself down as the ship began climbing through the atmosphere. Once they were safely in space, Merlin set the controls on automatic and joined the Mouse in the galley.

“If they know we landed on Cherokee, they must know the ship's registry number,” he said. “And if they know that, they'll be able to find us wherever we go.”

“We can't afford a new ship, and I don't think trying to steal one would be the brightest thing we ever did.”

“I agree.”

“Then what did you have in mind?” asked the Mouse.

“Let's go deeper into the Inner Frontier. I'll touch down on five or six worlds and drop the two of you off on one of them.”

“And what about you?”

“I'll lead them a merry chase while you try to find out who she belongs to.” The Mouse opened her mouth to protest, but Merlin held up his hand. “Look,” he said. “I'm happier running away from trouble and you're happier confronting it. This makes sense all the way around.”

“How will we keep in touch?”

“We won't,” said Merlin. “If they've got our registry number, they can monitor every message the ship sends and receives. We'll chose a place to meet, say, thirty Galactic Standard days from now.”

“What if they catch you first?”

“Well, it's not my favorite scenario,” he admitted, “but if they don't blow the ship to hell and gone, they're going to find out that I haven't got the girl.”

“They'll make you tell them where we are,” said the Mouse. “You're not very good about pain, and even if you were, there are drugs that'll make you tell them everything you know.”

“I know,” he said. “That's why you're going to catch the first ship off the planet I leave you on. What I don't know, I can't tell them.”

“You can tell them where we plan to meet thirty days from now,” the Mouse pointed out.

Merlin frowned. “I hadn't thought of that.” He shrugged. “Well, I suppose I just can't let them catch me.”

“Not good enough,” said the Mouse. She was silent for a moment. “I have it.”

“Yes?”

“I won't meet you in thirty days—but if you'll tell me where you're going to be, I'll see to it that someone you've never seen before, someone you don't know, will find you and tell you where to meet us. But he'll only approach you once he's made sure you're alone, and not being observed. If he's not satisfied, he won't make contact, and we'll wait another thirty days before trying again.”

“I like to think of myself as ruggedly masculine and quite distinctive,” said Merlin wryly, “but the fact of the matter is that I look just like anyone else. How will you be sure he'll be able to spot me?”

“You're a magician. Put on a show.”

He grinned. “You know, it's been so long since I did a legitimate performance, I never thought of that.”

“Well, it's time we started thinking,” said the Mouse grimly. “Someone is sure as hell putting a lot of thought into hunting us down.”

Merlin touched down on Binder X, one of the more populous worlds of the Inner Frontier, just long enough to drop off the Mouse and Penelope, then headed toward the galactic Core.

Within three hours, the Mouse and Penelope were on their way to Evergreen, a lush jungle world which had been opened up only two decades earlier. They spent one night there, then boarded the next ship to Solomon, a mining planet that had yielded the three largest diamonds ever discovered. The spaceport was in the small but bustling city of Haggard, and by nightfall the Mouse had obtained a room in a nondescript hotel.

“How much longer do we have to keep running?” asked Penelope wearily, as the Mouse began unpacking their single piece of luggage.

“Until I'm sure no one is following us.”

“I'm hungry.”

“Wash your hands and face, and I'll take you downstairs for dinner.”

The girl walked into the bathroom, did as she had been instructed, and then emerged, holding up her hands for the Mouse's inspection.

“Very good,” said the Mouse.

“Good,” said Penelope. “I want you to like me.”

“I'd like you just as much if your hands were dirty,” said the Mouse. “After all, you're a very likable little girl. I just wouldn't shake hands with you.”

“Do you really like me?”

“Yes, I really do.”

“I like you, too.” The little girl paused. “Will you always be my friend?”

“Of course,” said the Mouse. “Why shouldn't I be?”

“I don't know,” said Penelope. “But lots of people pretend to be my friend, and then they aren't.”

“Oh?” said the Mouse. “Who?”

“Lots of people.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Penelope shook her head. “I'm hungry. So is Jennifer.”

“Me, too,” said the Mouse. “Bring Jennifer along, and let's go get some dinner.”

They left the room, took the airlift down to the lobby, and entered the restaurant. The Mouse scanned the faces of the diners, not quite knowing what she was looking for, but hoping she would be able to spot someone who was after Penelope, either by the telltale bulge of a weapon, or by some surreptitious look. But everyone carried weapons on the Inner Frontier, and nobody paid her or the girl the any attention.

They punched out their orders on a computer—the Mouse had to help Penelope read some of the dishes—and then settled back to await their meal.

“If we're going to be friends forever,” said the Mouse, “I should know a lot more about you. We've been so busy running for the past few days that we've hardly had a chance to get to know each other.”

“And I should get to know more about you, too,” agreed Penelope.

“That seems fair enough.”

“Why are you called the Mouse?”

“Because I'm so small,” answered the Mouse. “And because I can go places where most people don't fit.”

“Like the laundry vent?”

The Mouse nodded. “Exactly.”

“Why where you there?” asked Penelope.

“Because that's where Merlin put on his magic show.”

“I like his tricks,” said Penelope. “They're fun.” She paused. “Is he your husband?”

The Mouse chuckled. “No, thank God. He's just my business partner.”

“Do you love him?”

“No.”

“Do you like him?”

“Yes.”

“More than you like me?”

“I hardly know you yet, Penelope,” said the Mouse. “But I'm sure that after we get acquainted, I won't like anyone better than I like you.”

“I hope so,” said Penelope.

“Now it's my turn to ask you some questions.”

“All right.”

“What's your home world?”

“I don't know.”

“I don't mean the world you were born on. I mean the one you live on.”

“Oh. Solomon.”

“That's the world we're on now,” the Mouse pointed out.

“Then it's my home world now.”

“Let me try it a different way. Where did you grow up?”

“All over.”

The Mouse frowned. “Where did your parents live?”

“With me.”

A waiter arrived with their dinners, and the Mouse put off further questions until they had finished eating. Then, while they were waiting for dessert, she tried again.

“Do you know why the alien kidnapped you?”

“What is kidnapped?” asked Penelope.

“Why he stole you from your family?”

“He didn't. He stole me from Jimmy Sunday.” She paused, considering her answer. “He saved me from Jimmy Sunday,” she amended, “but he was very mean to me.”

“Jimmy Sunday?” repeated the Mouse. “He was a bounty hunter. I remember hearing that they found his body on Glennaris V.”

“Glennaris IV,” Penelope corrected her. “No one lives on Glennaris V.”

“And you say the alien stole you from him and killed him?”

“He saved me from him,” repeated Penelope. “Jimmy Sunday was going to hurt me.” She paused thoughtfully. “I don't know who killed him.”

The Mouse looked puzzled. “Why would he want to hurt you?”

Penelope shrugged. “I don't know.”

“Maybe you just thought he was going to hurt you. He was probably a gruff man.”

“He was going to kill me,” said Penelope adamantly.

“That doesn't make any sense.”

“Those two men on Cherokee were going to kill me, too.”

“No, they weren't,” said the Mouse. “They were going to take you away from us and return you to your family.”

“I don't have any family.”

“You must have someone—a cousin, an uncle, something.”

Penelope shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Anyway, they weren't going to kill you. Someone has offered a lot of money for anyone who finds you and returns you to them. Nobody can collect it if you're dead.”

“You're not going to return me, are you?” asked Penelope fearfully.

“Of course not,” lied the Mouse. “But I have to find out who wants you back, so I can tell them that you're safe and that you'd rather stay with me.” She paused. “Who do you think wants you back?”

“Everybody,” said Penelope. “Especially the Number Man.”

“The Number Man?” repeated the Mouse. “Who's that?”

“I don't know.”

“Why do you call him the Number Man?”

“Because his name is a number.”

“It is?”

Penelope nodded. “32,” she said.

“Maybe it's a code.”

“Everyone called him that.”

“Who is everyone?”

“Everyone in the building.”

“What building?”

“I don't know.”

“Where was this building?” asked the Mouse.

“Far away,” said Penelope. “On a big planet with lots of buildings.”

“If I named the planet, would you know it?”

“Yes.”

“Earth?”

“No.”

“Sirius V?”

“No.”

“Deluros VIII?”

“That's it,” said Penelope.

“You've been to Deluros?”

Penelope nodded. “It's a big world.”

“The biggest,” agreed the Mouse. “Did you live there?”

Penelope shook her head. “The Number Man took me there.”

“Why would someone take you to the capital world of the Democracy?”

“I don't know.”

“How long were you there?”

“A long time.”

“A week? A month? A year?”

Penelope shrugged. “A long time.”

“Did you like it there?” asked the Mouse.

“No. Everybody wore uniforms and they weren't nice to me. They wouldn't play with me.”

“How did you leave?”

“Somebody stole me.”

“Jimmy Sunday?”

Penelope shook his head. “No. Before him.”

The Mouse was silent for a moment, trying to understand what she had been told, and to determine how much of it was true.

“It's my turn,” said Penelope.

“Your turn?”

“To ask you more questions.”

“All right,” said the Mouse.

“Were you always called the Mouse?”

“No. I had a real name once.”

“What was it?”

The Mouse smiled a bittersweet smile. “That was a long time ago, and I never think about it any more.”

“How long ago?”

“Very.”

“How old are you?” asked Penelope.

“Thirty-seven Standard years.”

“You're much older than Merlin,” observed Penelope.

“Not that much,” said the Mouse defensively. “Six or seven years, that's all.”

“What did you do before you met him?”

“All kinds of things,” said the Mouse.

“Were you ever married?”

“No.”

“Did you ever want to be?”

The Mouse shrugged. “I thought I did once. I was wrong.”

“Is that when you became the Mouse?”

The Mouse smiled. “Not quite.”

“How does Merlin do his tricks? Are they really magic?”

“No, not really; they're just illusions. And he never tells me how they work.”

“But he's your friend, isn't he?”

“Yes.”

“Then he should tell you.”

“But because I'm his friend, I never ask.”

“I don't understand,” said Penelope.

“When you get a little bigger, you will.” Suddenly the Mouse became aware of a large man staring at them through the doorway that faced the lobby. When she met his gaze he looked away.

“Penelope,” said the Mouse softly, “I want you to turn your head very slowly and tell me if you recognize the man standing by the pillar just beyond the door. Not quickly, now; just casually, as if you're bored and are looking around.”

Penelope did as she was instructed, then turned back to the Mouse.

“Have you ever seen him before?” asked the Mouse.

Penelope shook her head. “No.”

“You're sure?”

“Yes.”

“I may be wrong, but I've got a feeling that he's staring right at us.” She reached out and took Penelope's hand in her own. “There's no reason to be afraid. He won't make a move while there are so many witnesses. We're safe for the moment.”

“I knew it wouldn't stop,” said Penelope unhappily.

The Mouse let go of Penelope's hand and began checking her weaponry beneath the table: the knife in her boot, the acid spray in her pocket pouch, the tiny sonic pistol tucked beneath her belt. When she was sure everything was in order, she instructed the computer to bill her room, and then got to her feet.

“Well, we might as well find out if I'm right or wrong,” she announced. “Stay near me, but always keep me between you and that man, do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“And don't be afraid. No one's going to hurt you.”

“I won't be afraid,” promised Penelope.

The Mouse took Penelope by the hand and walked out of the restaurant toward the airlift. The large man fell into step about forty feet behind them.

“Damn!” muttered the Mouse under her breath.

She pulled Penelope onto the invisible cushion of air and let it propel them to the eighth floor. The large man took the airlift just to the left, about ten seconds behind them.

They stepped off at the eighth floor and began walking toward their room. The large man remained some forty feet behind them.

The Mouse reached her door and began entering the computer lock combination, then felt a small hand on her wrist.

“Don't,” whispered Penelope.

The Mouse turned to her.

“There's someone inside.”

“How do you know?” asked the Mouse.

“I just know,” said Penelope with total conviction.

The Mouse took her at her word, grabbed her hand again, and began walking down the corridor, away from the large man.

“There'd better be a stairway!” she muttered.

They turned a corner and saw an exit sign above one of the doors.

“Faster!” said Penelope, breaking into a run, and the Mouse followed suit.

They entered the stairwell and the door slammed shut behind them, just as the large man reached the corner. The Mouse pulled her knife out and crouched in the shadows, waiting.

“That won't work!” whispered Penelope.

“It'd damn well better work!” said the Mouse.

“It won't,” she repeated. “Follow me.”

She darted down the stairs, and the Mouse raced after her. When she reached the fifth floor, they could hear the large man coming down the stairs behind them.

On the fifth floor, Penelope stopped and looked into the darkness behind the door for an instant, then reached into the shadows and grabbed a broom.

“You go first,” she said.

“Not a chance!” whispered the Mouse, tightening her grip on her knife.

“You can't hurt him with a knife!” hissed Penelope. She held up the broom. “This will stop him.”

The Mouse stared at her as the little girl placed the broom on the stairs, then ran down to the next landing.

“Hurry!” urged Penelope, as the large man came into view.

The Mouse raced down to the landing, then turned and prepared to do battle.

The man had a sonic pistol in his hand, and as he surged down the stairs he was so intent upon his quarry that he didn't see the broom until he tripped over it. He careened off a wall, grunted in surprise, then fell heavily down the stairs, bellowing in pain. As he rolled onto to the landing, the Mouse crouched down and expertly slit his throat.

Suddenly Penelope began crying, and wrapped her arms around the Mouse.

“Won't they ever stop?” she whimpered.

The Mouse, breathing heavily, stroked Penelope's blonde hair for a moment, then stepped back and held the little girl's face between her hands.

“Don't ever disobey my orders again,” she said. “I told you to keep me between you and him.”

“Now you're mad at me, too!” wept Penelope. “I thought we were friends.”

“We are friends,” said the Mouse. “That's why I'm mad at you. You might have been killed because you didn't obey me.”

“But your knife wouldn't have hurt him,” protested the little girl.

“Hurt him? It killed him.”

“But you wouldn't have cut his neck. You would have stabbed his chest or his belly.”

“It would have killed him just as dead.”

Penelope shook her head. “It wouldn't have hurt him,” she repeated stubbornly.

“Why do you keep saying that?” demanded the Mouse.

“Look,” said Penelope, pointing to the dead man.

The Mouse knelt down and examined him, then looked up, surprised.

“He was wearing body armor!” she exclaimed.

“That's what I was trying to tell you.”

“But it was hidden under his tunic,” continued the Mouse. “How did you know it was there?”

“I didn't.”

“But you said you did.”

Penelope shook her head again. “I said I knew your knife wouldn't hurt him.”

The Mouse frowned. “But you didn't know why?”

“No.”

“And how did you know there was a broom behind that door?”

Penelope shrugged.

“I thought we were friends,” said the Mouse. “Friends don't keep secrets from each other.”

“I saw it,” said Penelope.

“You've never been in this stairwell.”

“I know.”

“Then how could you have seen it?” persisted the Mouse.

“I saw it"—Penelope pointed to her head—"in here.”

“Let me get this straight,” said the Mouse. “Are you telling me that you can see the future?”

“There are lots of futures,” said Penelope. “I don't see all of them.”

“What do you see?”

“I see what's going to happen next ... sometimes.”

“But you were wrong,” said the Mouse. “You saw me stabbing the armored vest, and I didn't.”

“I try to make the best future happen,” said Penelope. She frowned. “But it doesn't always work. People still try to hurt me.”

“You mean you could see what would happen if I tried to stab him, and also what would happen if I didn't?”

“It's not like reading a book,” explained the girl. “I could see that if you stabbed him, he'd kill us. So I ran, and when we came to the fifth floor, I saw that if I picked up the broom and placed it a certain way on the staircase, he'd trip over it.”

“And what about our room?” continued the Mouse. “Did you see someone inside it?”

Penelope nodded. “There was a man there. If we had gone in, he'd have shot us.”

“How did you ever get captured by Jimmy Sunday or the alien or this man you call 32?”

Penelope shrugged. “Sometimes I can't get away in any of the futures I can see.”

“How long have you been able to do this?”

“Do what?”

“See into the future.”

“Always, I guess.”

“How far ahead can you see?”

“It changes.”

“A minute? An hour? A week?”

“Not a week,” answered Penelope. “Usually just a few seconds. Sometimes maybe a minute.” She paused. “And I can't always do it. Usually just when I have to.”

“Like when someone's going to do something bad to you?”

“Yes.”

“How does it work?” asked the Mouse. “Do you read their minds?”

“No. I just see what's going to happen, and then if I don't like it, I try to change it.”

“That's quite a gift,” said the Mouse. “Now I know why they want you back so badly.”

“I don't want to go back,” whined Penelope. “I want to stay with you.”

“Nobody's sending you back,” said the Mouse. She suddenly became acutely aware of the dead man at their feet. “We've got to get out of here.” She began walking down the stairs.

“What about our clothes?” asked Penelope.

“Is the man still in our room?”

“I don't know.”

“It's not worth the risk. We'll buy some new clothes on the next world. Come on.”

They descended to the lobby, walked out the front door, and hailed a landcab.

As it approached the spaceport, Penelope tugged at the Mouse's sleeve.

“We shouldn't get out here,” she said. “It's not safe.”

“You're sure?”

Penelope nodded.

“But we have to get off the planet. Can you see how they plan to attack us?”

“No. I just know it's not safe.”

“Then you don't know if we can elude them?”

“What does elude mean?”

“It means to keep away from them.”

“I don't know,” answered Penelope.

“All right,” said the Mouse. “We'll play it safe.” She leaned forward and instructed the driver to take them to the vehicle rental section. Once there, she paid off the driver and rented a landcar.

They drove through the streets of Haggard, found an all-night grocery store, bought a dozen sandwiches and a few drink containers, and then headed out of town.

“Where are we going?” asked Penelope, hugging Jennifer protectively.

“Away from anyone who wants to hurt you,” answered the Mouse.

“Good,” said Penelope. “You're my only friend.” She leaned against the Mouse, and was sound asleep a moment later.

The Mouse drove through the night. The vegetation became increasingly sparse, and by sunrise she found herself on the outskirts of a vast desert. She pulled off the road, brought the vehicle to a stop, and began sorting through maps on the viewscreen.

“Where are we?” asked Penelope, waking up and rubbing her eyes.

“I'm not sure,” said the Mouse, still going through maps. “Ah, here we are.”

“Where?”

“The Devil's Anvil.”

“What's that?”

“That's the name of the desert.” She pointed to a tiny dot in the middle of it. “And this is a village called Ophir.” She hit two buttons on the vehicle's computer, and the map was replaced by a readout. “One bar, one store, one hotel.”

“Why would anyone build a city in the middle of a desert?” asked Penelope.

“Good question,” said the Mouse. “Let's find out.” She issued another command to the computer. “Hmm. We may be in luck.”

“Why?”

“Because there's a diamond pipe about five miles from Ophir.”

“What's a diamond pipe?”

“A mine,” replied the Mouse. “They're still pulling diamonds out of it, or Ophir would be a ghost town.”

“Why does that make us lucky?” persisted Penelope.

“Because where there's that kind of money, there's usually a ship or two. No mine owner is going to drive 300 miles into the Devil's Anvil to check on business.”

“He'd take a plane, not a spaceship.”

“Maybe,” said the Mouse. “But if he's from off-planet, he'll have a ship—and between you and me, I don't know why anyone would choose to live on this ugly little dirtball if he could afford to live somewhere else.”

“And if he owns a diamond mine, he can afford to live somewhere else,” concluded Penelope, inordinately proud of herself for following the Mouse's train of thought to its logical conclusion.

“Right,” said the Mouse. She sighed. “Well, there's no sense wasting any more time. Let's go.”

She pulled back onto the road and headed off across the Devil's Anvil.

After about 65 kilometers the road vanished, and the Mouse immediately slowed down.

“You can keep going fast,” said Penelope. “The ground is hard here.”

“I know,” said the Mouse. “But if I don't slow down, we're going to leave a cloud of dust and sand, and that will make us easier to spot if anyone's following us.” She turned to the girl. “Are they?”

Penelope shrugged. “I don't know.”

“Well, since we don't know that they aren't, we'll do it the safe way.”

“But it's hot.”

“The air conditioner can only do so much,” answered the Mouse. “The ground temperature must be close to 60 degrees Celsius. Just try not to think about it.”

Penelope was silent for a moment. Then she turned to the Mouse. “The more I try not to think about it, the more I do,” she complained.

“Then take a nap.”

“But I just woke up.”

“Then let's talk,” said the Mouse. “Maybe that will take your mind off the heat.”

“All right,” agreed Penelope.

“Tell me about this man called 32.”

Penelope shook her head. “I don't want to talk about people who were mean to me,” she said adamantly.

“Suits me,” said the Mouse. “Who hasn't been mean to you?”

“You and Merlin.”

“There must have been someone else in your whole life.”

The little girl was silent for a moment, lost in thought. “Maybe my mother,” she said.

“Only maybe?”

“She let them take me away.”

“She may not have had a choice.”

“You had a choice,” Penelope pointed out. “You didn't have to save me, but you did.”

“You're not saved yet,” said the Mouse. “First we've got to get off this world, and then connect with Merlin again.”

“And then what?”

The Mouse shrugged. “I don't know.”

“You won't make me go back?”

“No, I won't make you go back,” said the Mouse. “I already told you that.”

“Lots of people tell me things.” Penelope paused. “Most of them lied.”

“You're too young to be that cynical.”

“What does that mean?” asked Penelope.

The Mouse sighed. “It means too many people have lied to you.”

“We're talking about me again,” complained Penelope. “I thought we were going to talk about you.”

“I have a better idea,” said the Mouse. “Let's talk about us.”

“Us?”

“You and me.”

“What about us?” asked the girl.

“Well, we're a team now.”

“We are?” said Penelope, her face brightening.

The Mouse nodded. “We're together, aren't we?”

“Yes.”

“And the same men who want you are after me, right?”

“Right.”

“And if we get away, you're going to work with Merlin and me, aren't you?”

“I guess so.”

“That makes us a team.”

Penelope considered the statement for a moment, then smiled. “I like being a team with you.”

“I like it too,” said the Mouse. “And the first rule of being on a team is that you never keep secrets from your teammates.”

“I don't know any secrets.”

“Everyone knows some secrets.”

“Not me.”

“Even you,” said the Mouse. “For example, you never told me where Jennifer came from.”

Penelope looked at the battered doll, which was propped up next to her.

“My mother gave her to me.”

“Where?”

“In the living room, I think.”

“I mean, on what world?”

Penelope shrugged. “I don't remember.”

“How did she die?”

“Jennifer's not dead. She's right here with us.”

“I meant your mother.”

“I don't know if she's dead,” answered the girl.

“But you think she is.”

Penelope nodded.

“Why?”

“Because she would have saved me if she was alive.”

“Not if she didn't know where you were.”

“You found me.”

“I wasn't even looking for you,” said the Mouse. “It was just a lucky accident.” She paused. “If that's the only reason you have, then your mother might very well be alive. How about your father?”

“They took him away.”

“They?” repeated the Mouse. “Who?”

“The men who came with 32. He didn't want them to take me, so they took both of us.”

“And you haven't seen him since?”

“No.”

“If your mother is alive, she must be looking for you.”

“I don't think so.”

“Why not?”

“She's afraid of me.”

“Of you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” asked the Mouse.

“Because I'm different.”

“You mean because you can see the future?”

Penelope nodded. “I used to think everyone could do it, so I talked about it. My mother didn't believe me, so I showed her that I was telling the truth. Then she was afraid.”

“And your father,” said the Mouse. “Was he afraid of you, too?”

“No.”

“What did he do for a living?”

“I don't know.”

“Was he rich?”

“I don't know.” Penelope frowned. “We're talking about me again.”

“We're talking about secrets,” said the Mouse. “And now I'm going to tell you one.”

“What is it?” asked Penelope eagerly.

“Someone very rich is trying to find you.”

“You told me that already ... but you didn't tell me why.”

“Because you can see the future.”

“What good does seeing the future do?” asked Penelope. “Everybody keeps chasing me, and no matter how hard I try to get away, sooner or later they catch me.”

“Did you ever make a bet on anything?” asked the Mouse.

“No. My parents didn't like betting.”

“But you know how it works?” continued the Mouse. “I say something is going to happen one way, you say it's going to happen another, and whoever turns out to be right wins the bet.”

“I know.”

“A person who could see the future would know in advance which side to bet on.”

“It doesn't work that way,” said Penelope.

“Oh?”

“When 32's people were making me do all those things, they tried to make me say how a coin would land or what numbers would be on some dice after they rolled them.”

“And you couldn't do it?”

“Sometimes I could.”

“Even if you just guessed like everyone else, you'd be right half the time on a coin flip,” said the Mouse.

“I mean, sometimes I could see in my mind how the coins or the dice would land.”

“But only sometimes?”

“Only sometimes.”

“Were you ever wrong?” asked the Mouse. “I mean, on those times when you could see the coins in your mind?”

Penelope shook her head.

“That's why this rich person wants you,” said the Mouse. “You don't have to know the right answer every time you tell him how to bet or invest. You just have to be right on those occasions that you do see the future.”

“I wish I couldn't do it,” said Penelope, frowning. “Then maybe everyone would leave me alone.”

“But you saved my life by doing it,” noted the Mouse.

“They wouldn't have been trying to kill you if I couldn't do it,” said Penelope. “I wish I were just a normal little girl.”

“But then we'd never have met,” said the Mouse, offering her a reassuring smile.

Penelope sighed deeply. “I forgot about that,” she admitted. “But I wish everyone would leave us alone.”

The Mouse shrugged. “We'll just have to find a place where they will.”

“Maybe we'll be safe at Ophir,” suggested the girl.

“Nobody's safe in a mining town,” answered the Mouse. “Everyone thinks everyone else is after their goods, and nobody ever trusts anybody. I'll be happy if we just live long enough to borrow or steal a ship.” She paused. “God, it's getting hot in here!” She slammed her hand against the vehicle's air conditioner. “I wonder if this thing is still working.”

Penelope reached a small white hand toward one of the vents. “It is.” She paused. “Kind of,” she added.

“They must be pulling some damned big diamonds out of the ground to be worth living out here in this heat,” said the Mouse. She paused. “Well, we've each told the other a secret. Now I think we'd better invent one.”

“Invent a secret?” repeated Penelope uncomprehendingly.

The Mouse nodded. “We need a secret signal so I'll know if someone wants to harm us.”

“Like a secret code!” said Penelope excitedly. “Like the stories I saw on the video!”

“Just like them.”

“How about if I do this?” suggested Penelope, screwing up her face in such a grotesque expression that the Mouse laughed out loud.

“It wouldn't be secret for very long.”

“I could pretend to sneeze.”

“No,” said the Mouse. “We need something that doesn't draw attention to you. Try scratching your chin.”

Penelope made a claw of her left hand and scratched her chin vigorously.

The Mouse shook her head. “Use one finger, and do it very gingerly.”

The little girl did as she was instructed.

“That's it. If anyone is going to try to hurt us, that's what I want you to do.”

“But what if I'm in another room, or you can't see me?” asked Penelope. “Maybe I should whistle a song.”

“It will attract too much attention.”

“But if someone wants to kill us, shouldn't we want to attract attention?”

The Mouse grimaced. “I'm not big enough to fight off an attacker; I just want a little warning so we can sneak out before they pounce.” She paused. “Besides, someone has offered an awful lot of money for you. Attract enough attention in a town like Ophir, and four out of every five men who figure out who you are will be more likely to kidnap you than save you.”

Penelope fell silent and practiced gently scratching her chin, and the Mouse increased their speed and tried to ignore the constantly increasing heat within the vehicle.

Two hours later they arrived at the tiny outpost of Ophir.

The Mouse walked into the bar, Penelope at her side, and breathed a sigh of gratitude as a wave of cold air swept over her. There were twelve large, well-worn tables made from a local hardwood, all of them empty at midday, and she collapsed into a chair at the closest one. The walls were covered with holographs of military heroes, sports heroes, and plump nude women, none of which particularly impressed her.

The bartender, a short, burly man with a noticeable limp and a sparse mustache that made his upper lip appear dirty rather than hairy, nodded a greeting to them.

“I don't know how anyone lives out here,” said the Mouse. “I've felt cooler ovens.”

The bartender grinned. “We don't reach the heat of the day for another couple of hours. You'll get used to it.”

“Why would anyone want to?” replied the Mouse. She peered at his stock behind the bar. “What have you got to drink?”

“You name it, we've got it.”

“We'll need a room, too.”

“It's yours, gratis.”

“You don't charge for your rooms?” said the Mouse, puzzled.

“The next room I charge for will be the first,” said the bartender.

“How do you make a living?”

“Oh, I manage,” said the bartender. “By the way, my name's Ryan—Bannister Ryan.”

“Bannister?” repeated the Mouse. “That's an unusual name.”

Ryan chuckled. “Oh, it's not my real one. They gave it to me the first year I was here.”

“Why?”

He leaned forward, resting his large hands on the polished surface of the bar. “Some drunk was causing a disturbance, so I asked him politely to desist. He didn't"—Ryan smiled at the memory—"so I ripped a bannister off the staircase and cracked him over the head with it. I've been Bannister Ryan ever since.”

“How long have you been out here?” asked the Mouse.

Ryan paused long enough to do a quick mental computation. “Eighteen years. Bought the place seven years ago.”

“The bar?”

“The whole damned town—all three buildings’ worth.”

“Well, Bannister, that's an interesting story, but we're still thirsty.”

“What'll you have?”

“I'll have a tall, cold beer,” said the Mouse.

“The first one's on the house,” said Ryan.

“You're kidding!”

He shook his head. “One thing I never kid about is money.”

“Someday you must tell me how you stay in business.”

“Someday I will,” Ryan assured her.

“How about you?” said the Mouse to Penelope. “What'll you have?”

“A glass of water, please,” said the girl.

“Right,” said Ryan. “That'll be 300 credits.”

“What?” demanded the Mouse.

“300 credits,” repeated Ryan.

“For a glass of water?” said the Mouse incredulously.

“Nobody's holding a gun to your head,” said Ryan cheerfully. “If you think you can get it cheaper somewhere else, go right ahead.”

“Now I see how you make a living,” said the Mouse irritably.

“Out here, water's worth a hell of a lot more than a bed,” replied Ryan. “There's none on the surface for 200 miles in any direction, and the miners use what little exists below the ground to extract their diamonds.”

“Can't you recycle it?”

He shook his head. “Radioactive. Two glasses of it and you won't need a flashlight when you go out at night.”

The Mouse pulled out a wad of credits and slapped them down on the table, and a moment later Ryan came out from behind the bar carrying a beer and a glass of water.

“I've sold water for a lot more than this from time to time,” he explained pleasantly. “You wouldn't believe what a man with a pocketful of diamonds will pay to fill his canteen before he sets out for Haggard—especially if he hasn't told his partners that he's leaving.”

The Mouse looked out a dusty window at the vast expanse of sand and rock. “Yes, I think I would.”

“By the way, how long are you and the child going to be staying?”

“At 300 credits for a glass of water, not as long as I thought.”

“If you're short of money, there's work to be had,” said Ryan.

“I don't know the first thing about mining.”

Ryan shook his head. “I didn't mean that.” He paused. “I've got a little enterprise going on the top floor. I can always use a healthy woman ... and the little girl could earn a bundle.”

“Not interested,” said the Mouse.

“You'd be surprised how generous some of these miners can be.”

“Forget it.”

Ryan shrugged. “Well, if you change your mind, let me know.”

The Mouse simply glared at him, and he walked back to his position behind the bar.

“Mind if I ask you a question?” he said as he watched her drain her beer.

“As long as it's not on the same subject.”

“What are you and your daughter doing out here, anyway?”

“Maybe I'm married to one of the miners.”

“Maybe I'm the Sultan of Sirius V,” he shot back with a smile. “If you belonged to one of the miners, you'd have asked after him.”

“I don't belong to anyone,” said the Mouse, objecting to his choice of words.

“That's just what I meant,” agreed Ryan. “So why are you here?”

“I like the desert.”

“The police are after you, huh?” continued Ryan. “What'd you do back in Haggard?”

“Nothing.”

“No one comes to Ophir for the climate and the view. If you tell me who's after you, maybe I can keep an eye out for them.”

“We're looking for the man who robbed us,” piped up Penelope. “Someone said he was in Ophir.”

“I notice he left you enough money to rent a landcar and pay for your water,” said Ryan, highly amused. “Nice try, kid.”

“It's true,” chimed in the Mouse. “My parents rented the car and loaned me the money.”

“And they live in Haggard?”

“That's right.”

“What's on the corner of 4th and Quatermaine?” asked Ryan.

“The Mayor's office.”

“The Ophir Ballroom,” said Ryan. “That's where we got the name for this place.”

“Not any more,” said the Mouse without missing a beat. “They tore it down three years ago.”

“I don't believe you.”

The Mouse shrugged. “Believe anything you want.”

He stared at her for a minute, then matched her shrug with one of his own. “What the hell. It's none of my business.”

“Right.”

“I'm just making conversation, lady. It gets lonely around here until dark.”

“Then the miners come?”

“That's right.”

“How many of them?”

“It depends. Most of them have bubble modules out there, but you can't really relax or socialize in one. We might get two dozen or so.”

“That many?”

“You look surprised.”

“I didn't see any ships or landcars.”

“They wouldn't leave ‘em here and then walk six miles to the mines,” replied Ryan. “Use your head, lady.” He paused. “If you really are looking for some guy, you could be in for a long wait if you expect him to show up here. There are more than eighty miners out there. You'd be better off taking your landcar to the mines and looking for him when they knock off at sunset.”

“Maybe I will,” said the Mouse. “What direction are the mines from here?”

“Northwest. Just follow the tracks.”

“Thanks,” said the Mouse. “I'm too tired, and it's too damned hot to go out today. But if he doesn't show up, we'll head out there before sunrise and see if we can spot him.”

“And then what?” asked Ryan.

“I'll go back to Haggard and get the police.”

Ryan laughed.

“What's so funny?” asked the Mouse.

“They won't come to this hellhole for a thief. It'd probably take a mass murderer to get them out here.”

“Then what will I do if I find him?” asked the Mouse, playing out her part and wishing that Penelope had kept her mouth shut.

“There's a guy upstairs right now who might be able to help you,” said Ryan confidentially.

“I take it he's not a miner?” answered the Mouse sardonically.

“Ever hear of Three-Fisted Ollie?”

“Everyone has,” said the Mouse uneasily. “Is he here?”

“Nope. This is the man who killed him a few months back.”

“He's not dead,” blurted Penelope.

“Isn't he now?” said Ryan with a triumphant grin. “And how'd you come to know that, little lady?”

Penelope, flustered, looked helplessly toward the Mouse.

“What's this man's name?” said the Mouse cooly, ignoring the girl's gaffe.

“He claims his name is Bundy,” said Ryan, “but I recognize him from his posters: he's the Forever Kid.”

“The Forever Kid?” repeated the Mouse. “That's an odd name, even for the Frontier.”

Ryan nodded. “It fits, though. He's some kind of sport or mutant. Grew up normal til he was 18 or 19, and hasn't aged a day in the last couple of centuries.”

“What is he—a bounty hunter?”

“Wouldn't do you much good if he was,” answered Ryan. “Unless there's a price on your man's head. No, the Forever Kid's a killer. He hires out to anyone who can afford him.”

“What's he doing here?”

“Some questions it just ain't politic to ask.”

“But you brought him up.”

“I don't mean you asking me,” said Ryan with a grin. “I mean me asking him.”

“When is he due downstairs?” asked the Mouse.

“Depends on how much fun he's having,” answered Ryan. “But he's rooming at the hotel, so he'll be taking his meals here.”

“And he's definitely a killer and not a bounty hunter?”

“Yep—not that it makes any difference to you. The child as much as said that you weren't robbed.”

“Don't believe everything you hear,” said the Mouse.

Ryan laughed again. “If I believed half of what I heard, I'd be dead and buried already.”

“We're going to need a room,” said the Mouse, getting up from the table and signaling Penelope to do the same.

Ryan looked at his computer, which was behind the bar. “Room 203,” he said. “Two beds, with a view of the pool.”

“You've got a swimming pool out here?” said the Mouse disbelievingly.

“Yep. Ain't got no water in it, but the pool's there. Breaks up the landscape, anyway.” He paused. “You got a name?”

“You choose one,” responded the Mouse.

Ryan nodded, as if this was a daily request, then typed a code into his computer. “Okay, Miz Mother and Miss Daughter. The stairway's off there to the left, behind the curtains, and the door's unlocked. Once you're inside, it'll flash the lock and unlock codes on a panel over one of the beds. Dinner's half an hour after sunset.”

“Thanks,” said the Mouse, leading Penelope to the curtain. “By the way, when did he get here?”

“The Kid? He showed up this morning.” Ryan pointed out the window. “That's his vehicle a few yards to the left of yours.” He paused. “Probably he's here on a job. Didn't seem my place to ask.”

“It wasn't,” said the Mouse, starting to climb the stairs.

They reached Room 203 a moment later. It was small and relatively clean, although even the sealed window couldn't keep all of the dust out of the room. There were two airbeds, a holographic video and a computer (neither of which could be operated without inserting a personal credit cube into them), a desk, two rather stark wooden chairs, and a bathroom containing a chemical toilet and a dryshower.

The Mouse sat on the edge of her bed, and Penelope, after propping Jennifer up against a pillow, seated herself on her own bed.

“I'm sorry,” said the girl. “About Three-Fisted Ollie, I mean. I just blurted it out.”

“No matter. He knew we were lying anyway.”

“Will he report us, do you think?”

“To whom?” asked the Mouse with no show of concern. “He's as close to being the law as you can get out here. Besides, he doesn't know who we are.”

“He'll find out.”

“You can see that in the future?”

Penelope shook her head. “No ... but sooner or later they always find out.”

“Maybe not this time,” said the Mouse. “I want to have a little chat with the Forever Kid.”

“But he's a killer!”

“But not a bounty hunter.”

“What's the difference?” asked Penelope.

“There's a difference between capturing you and killing you,” explained the Mouse. “Most of the men and women who are after you want you alive. This isn't the kind of man they'd hire to find you. His specialty is death.”

“Maybe he was hired to kill whoever I'm with.”

“It's a possibility,” admitted the Mouse. “That's why I want to talk to him alone. If he's available, I want to hire him to protect us until we can hook up with Merlin again.”

“What about me?”

“You're going to stay in the room. I'll bring your dinner back to you.”

“But I can help you,” protested Penelope. “If he wants to kill you, I'll know.”

“Even if he wants to kill me, he won't do it until he knows where you are.”

“The bartender will tell him.”

“Not unless he tells the bartender who he's looking for, and why ... and killers tend to be pretty close-mouthed, especially when there's a reward for their victims.” The Mouse paused. “It's a gamble, but we've got to take it.”

“Why?”

“Because he's got to have a ship,” she explained patiently. “If I can hire him to protect us until we can connect up again with Merlin, it means we won't have to drive out into the desert and try to steal a ship from one of the miners—and I've got a feeling they protect their ships as devoutly as they protect their diamonds.”

Penelope frowned unhappily. “I thought we were supposed to be a team,” she said.

“We are,” the Mouse assured her. “But different members of a team have different duties. I don't perform Merlin's magic tricks, you know.”

“What's my duty?” asked the girl.

“For the next few days, it's to warn me of danger,” said the Mouse. “But only if showing yourself doesn't put us in even more danger.”

“All right,” said Penelope thoughtfully. “That seems fair.”

“Good.” The Mouse lay back on the bed. “I'm exhausted. That heat seems to have drained me. I'm going to take a nap.” She reached into her pocket, withdrew a credit cube that she had appropriated on Westerly, and tossed it to Penelope. “Why don't you watch the video, and wake me at twilight?”

“All right,” said the girl.

Penelope shook the Mouse awake a moment later.

“What is it?”

“The cube doesn't work,” said the girl.

“Hmm. I guess the owner reported that it was missing.” The Mouse dug into her pocket and withdrew three more cubes. “Throw that one away and try these. One of them ought to work.”

She lay back again, and a moment later heard Penelope giggling at something she saw on the holographic screen. Then she fell into a deep, exhausted sleep, and didn't move a muscle until Penelope tapped her gently on the shoulder.

“Didn't any of the cubes work?” asked the Mouse, momentarily disoriented.

“It's almost dark out,” responded the girl. “You've been asleep all afternoon.”

The Mouse sat up, scratched her close-cropped hair vigorously, and then stretched her arms and looked out the window.

“I've got time for a dryshower,” she announced, and went off to the bathroom to cleanse the dirt and dried sweat from her small, wiry body. She wished that she had some fresh clothes, but she settled for tossing her outfit into the dryshower for a few minutes. It came out wrinkled but clean, and a few minutes later she walked out into the hall and down the stairs, after warning Penelope not to let anyone else into the room.

A handful of miners were seated at the table nearest the door. They were hard, grizzled men who quaffed their beer as if it meant the difference between life and death, and complained long and loud to each other about everything from the weather to the price of industrial and investment-grade diamonds.

Then the Mouse looked toward the far end of the room, and there, sitting in the shadows, his back to the wall, an expression of boredom on his handsome face, sat a young man with a shock of unruly blond hair who seemed scarcely old enough to shave. His clothes were sporty without being ostentatious, and bulky enough to hide half a dozen weapons. There was a container of water on the table in front of him.

The Mouse walked around the miners’ table, grateful that they were too absorbed in their conversation and their beer to offer any catcalls or whistles, and approached the young man.

“Good evening,” she said pleasantly.

“Is it?” he replied, looking up at her, and she was suddenly struck by how bored and ancient his blue eyes seemed.

“It might be, if you'd invite me to sit down.”

He nodded toward a chair opposite him. “Be my guest.”

“What'll it be, Miz Mother?” Ryan called out from behind the bar. “Another glass of water?”

The Mouse shook her head. “Make it a beer.”

“Coming right up.”

“And a dinner menu,” she added.

Ryan chuckled. “You make it sound like there's a choice.”

“Isn't there?”

“Out here? We're lucky to have any food to serve at all. I'll bring you a plate when it's ready. Be another five minutes or so.”

“Thanks.”

“How about the little girl?”

“She's sleeping,” replied the Mouse, studying the young man to see if he reacted to the news that she was traveling with a child. His face remained expressionless. “I'll bring a plate up to her when I'm done.”

Ryan approached the table, handed a glass of beer to the Mouse, and retreated to his station.

“Well, that's over with,” said the young man with the ancient eyes. “Now what can I do for you?”

“That all depends,” answered the Mouse.

“On what?”

“On who you are.”

“My name's Bundy.”

“I don't care what your name is.”

The young man shrugged. “I don't much care what yours is, either. Why don't you just say what's on your mind?”

“I need protection,” said the Mouse. “I think you can provide it.”

“So you can live another 50 years?” he asked. “Take my word for it—it's not worth it.”

“I want your protection anyway.”

“Do I look like the protective type?” asked the young man. “Hell, lady, I'm just a kid.”

“A 200-year-old kid,” said the Mouse, staring into his clear blue eyes.

“223 years, to be exact,” replied the Forever Kid, displaying neither surprise nor anger that she knew who he was.

“That's a long time to stay alive out here on the Frontier,” said the Mouse. “Especially for a man in your line of work.”

“Longevity is a greatly overrated virtue,” replied the Kid.

“I'm 37,” said the Mouse bluntly. “I stand a good chance of not reaching 38 if I can't find someone to help me get away from here.”

“You have my sympathy,” said the Kid, his voice as bored as his eyes.

“I need more than your sympathy.”

“My sympathy is freely given,” said the Kid. “Everything else costs money.”

“How much?”

“How far away do you want to go?”

“Very far.”

“Then it'll cost very much.”

“You haven't named a price,” noted the Mouse.

The Forever Kid smiled for the first time. “You haven't named the opposition.”

“I don't know who it is.”

“Then I hardly see how I can help you.”

“But I'm traveling with someone who will know.”

“The little girl?”

“You know about her?”

The Kid nodded. “The bartender isn't exactly close-mouthed. Who are they after, you or her?”

“Right now, both of us.”

“And you want my protection.”

“And your ship,” added the Mouse.

“That's going to cost more.”

“I don't know how much you cost to begin with.”

“I don't come cheap,” said the Kid.

“I couldn't use someone who did.”

He stared at her for a long moment. “100,000 credits a week.”

The Mouse took a deep breath. “That's awfully high.”

“How highly do you value your life?”

“You'll go wherever I tell you to?”

The Kid nodded.

“I might have to pay in some other currency.”

“New Stalin ruples or Maria Theresa dollars are acceptable. I won't take Far London pounds.”

“Deal,” said the Mouse, wondering where she could get the money and what the Forever Kid might do to her if she didn't come up with it.

“I'll want a week's pay in advance.”

“That's out of the question.”

“How do I know you can pay me?”

“You'll have to trust me.”

“I trusted someone two centuries ago,” said the Forever Kid, and suddenly his eyes briefly blazed to life. “She lied to me. I haven't trusted anyone since.”

“But I haven't got the money now,” protested the Mouse.

“Then you'll have to get it before I leave.”

“When is that?”

“I have a little business to transact later tonight. I plan to leave in the morning.”

“You're here on a contract?”

The Kid almost looked amused. “Nobody comes to Ophir for his health.”

“A miner?”

“Why do you care?”

“Because you've been hired to kill someone, not rob him,” said the Mouse. “Let me come along with you. If he's got 100,000 credits worth of diamonds, we can still make a deal.”

“What makes you think I won't appropriate his diamonds myself?” asked the Kid.

“You're a killer, not a thief,” she said adamantly.

The Kid actually smiled at her. “What makes you think the two are mutually exclusive?”

“Because I am a thief, and if I was a killer too, I wouldn't need you.”

He stared at her for a long moment, and she shifted uncomfortably on her chair. “You amuse me,” he said at last.

“I assume that means it's no deal?” said the Mouse dejectedly.

“I haven't met an amusing woman since before you were born,” continued the Forever Kid. He paused and stared at her again, then nodded his head. “Okay, we've got a deal.”