The Chronicles of Ridd.i.c.k.

by Alan Dean Foster.

I.

No matter how long or how hard they strive, no matter how extensive their education as a species, no matter what they experience of the small heavens and larger h.e.l.ls they create for themselves, it seems that humans are destined to see their technological accomplishments always exceed their ability to understand themselves.

Certainly there was no understanding, no meeting of the minds, on the world called Aquila Major. There was only the devastation of one mind-set by another. Proof of it took the form of a statue fashioned of advanced, reinforced preformata resin. It was an imposing piece of work, for all that it had been reproduced by its originators on many other worlds. Too many other worlds, according to some. Not nearly enough, according to those who had put it in place, its ma.s.sive footing firmly rammed into the resistant soil of Aquila Major.

It was a Conquest Icon of the Necromongers. Over five hundred meters tall, it gaped openmouthed at the utter desolation and wreckage that spread outward from its base. Whether it was seen as wailing in despair at its surroundings or moaning in triumph depended on whether one was a surviving citizen of that world's once-splendid capital city, now reduced to waste and ruin, or a member of that peculiar s.p.a.ce-dwelling group who called themselves followers of the faith known as Necroism.

They had been preparing for such moments for a very long time. They had burst out of the great darkness to impose themselves on the civilized worlds with a forcefulness and cool brutality that was as stunning in its single-mindedness as it was in its efficiency. Aquila Major was not the first of their conquests, nor would it be the last. As long as there were worlds to be freed, as long as humans lived who dwelled in ignorance of their true destiny, the Necromongers would continue with their work.

Unlike so much of the humankind who had spread explosively throughout the galaxy, the Necromongers were driven by genuine purpose beyond the need to merely exist. They believed fervently in their work, and went about it with a determination and competence that was breathtaking to behold. In the majority of cases, literally breathtaking. Furthermore, there was no meanness in them, no suggestion of brutality for its own sake or of sadism. Like all true believers since the beginning of time, they saw only good arising out of the destruction they inflicted. Everything they did was for the benefit of the destroyed, they knew. Nor was their great work devoid of irony.

For it was the dead who triumphed by pa.s.sing on, while only the most dedicated forced themselves to carry on the work by continuing to live-until due time.

The Lord Marshal knew this better than anyone. While longing for his own time of pa.s.sing to arrive, he continued to consecrate his continuing existence on the present plane of existence by seeing to it that as many as possible of his unaware, improperly informed fellow humans preceded him onward toward bliss. During the preceding days, many had done so here on Aquila Major. A great many.

Clad in battle armor that was intended as much to instill fear and intimidate any who cast eyes upon it as it was to protect its wearer, he stood scowling thoughtfully at the scene of desolation and redemption that flamed below him. The fires were beginning to die out. While the capital had been taken, opposition to the balm and comfort his people brought remained strong in other cities and in isolated pockets across the planet. There was still much work to be done on Aquila Major.

As to its final outcome, the Lord Marshal had no doubt. Some worlds resisted the bringing of the message more obstinately than others. A few proved sensible and buckled under at the mere sight of the Necromongers' ships. Such worlds were much more to the Lord Marshal's taste. While they were to be admired for having reached a newer, higher state of being, dead resistance fighters were no use to the great cause. The deceased were to be envied, but could not be recruited.

Nevertheless, by craft or cajoling, by force or by bribery, the faith was advanced. Aquila Major was only the latest, not the last. No time was to be wasted here. As soon as the last pockets of resistance had been eliminated, the armada would move to the next, carrying enlightenment and revelation to the disbelieving. How he longed for his own moment of finality, for his turn to be done with this sordid, unnatural temporal plane!

But he could not simply embrace that of which he knew so much. Having striven to rise to the exalted position of lord marshal, it did not behoove him to surrender it voluntarily. By the edicts of his kind he was compelled to master all that it offered, by offering his talents to the cause. This he would continue to do. That he would not be the one to finish the work he knew well, as had the various lord marshals who had preceded him. That he would be joining them eventually he also knew.

But first, there was much work to be done.

Vaako stood nearby. A fine commander, as dedicated as one could ask for and a superb solo fighter in his own right. While his attention was focused on the Lord Marshal, that of the saintly Purifier, who stood nearby, was directed at the destruction below. Neither man spoke. There was no need. They had done what needed to be done, and saw no reason to comment on it.

Nor did the Lord Marshal have anything to say. The fire and smoke, the ruined buildings and flaming vegetation beneath them were more eloquent than anything those beholding it could have voiced. There were times when it was best to say nothing, he knew. Time enough for discussion later, when the last of Aquila Major's resistance had been eliminated.

Turning, he moved up the steps on which he stood. His commanders and the chief spiritual adviser of their people followed. Once they were within the Basilica, the ma.s.sive portal, through which they had briefly emerged to view in person the horrendous yet beautiful vista below, closed tightly behind them, sealing them in the ship that was their home and their purpose.

Rumbling to itself, the immense Basilica vessel that had been hovering over the once-striking and now thrice-struck capital city lifted skyward. Slowly at first, but with a gathering speed and momentum that were as formidable as the purpose for which it had been built.

There are habitable worlds, and there are uninhabitable worlds. There are also worlds that can be rendered marginally habitable, but never should be. Foremost among the latter was a h.e.l.lish, geologically schizoid, melted and re-formed planetary body of unremarkable size and appearance whose astronomical designation no one bothered to repeat because it had long since been supplanted in the vernacular by the name that had been given to it by its inhabitants. Or rather, its inmates.

Crematoria.

On most worlds, the time just before sunrise is a period of calm and preparation. Of quiet introspection and looking-forward. A time to awaken and gather oneself in readiness for a bright, new day. On Crematoria, pre-sunrise was a time to be denied, avoided, shunned. This was one world where dawn killed.

The two prison guards lugging their burden along the rough path that wound its tortured way through the scarred, twisted lava field knew that. They moved with the urgency of men a.s.signed to an unpleasant duty that they had tried, and failed, to avoid. The fact that their load consisted of one of their own engendered no special feelings of additional sympathy on their part, even though they knew it could just as easily have been one of them. The fact that the dead man was a former colleague and friend did not make his demised corpus any less heavy.

Relieved at having reached their destination, they finally halted near a shallow depression that had been machine gouged from reluctant rock. The small hollow was not empty. It was filled with ash, from which protruded a few angular objects. On closer inspection, one became recognizable as a human femur, another as part of a skull. The rest were well on their way to being reduced to the powder that was slowly engulfing them. No artificial agency had been employed to reduce these remnants of what had once been human beings to their const.i.tuent chemical components. None was needed.

They only had to wait for sunrise.

From the container they had been carrying, the two men extracted the body of a third and dumped him unceremoniously onto the pile, sending up a small cloud of dust. The body was not intact. It was marred by deep bruises and multiple lacerations. One glance was enough to tell that these wounds had not been incurred in a fall or some other accident. The unfortunate had been involved in a fight that, as clear as the sharp-edged horizon, he had lost. Among the few effects that still adorned his corpse was a visual ident that read "V. Pavlov." Some wag back in the prison had ventured to say that the guard had died like a dog. No one had laughed.

The anxious pair who had been charged with conveying the former V. Pavlov to his final resting place looked around uneasily, plainly in a hurry to get away from where they were. There was no thought of digging a grave. It would be a wasted exercise. None would arrive to bear witness over it or view it. Anything they might erect over such an excavation would quickly go the way of the body itself. Crematoria would see to that.

"Should we, uh, say something? I mean, I knew Vladimir pretty well. He wasn't a bad guy." On Crematoria, this might be considered a high compliment: one that could be applied equally to guard or prisoner.

His companion was gazing nervously eastward. The dull maroon glow that had been seeping over the ragged, distant mountains was beginning to pale toward crimson. Very soon now it would fade to pink, then yellow, and then to white. When it turned white, anything organic would do well to be as far underground as possible.

"Sure. Recite a whole sermon, if you want." He indicated the motionless body of their former colleague. "I'm sure Vlad won't interrupt you. Take all the time you want. I'll wait for you-inside." A curt nod indicated the coming dawn.

His friend was already starting to backpedal, physically as well as spiritually. "Maybe I'll say something later. I knew Vladimir. He wouldn't want us to be late for breakfast."

The other man had already started for the nearby access tunnel. "s.h.i.t, if it was you or me, he'd already have gotten the h.e.l.l out of here."

It was as appropriate a description of their situation as it was of their surroundings.

Down Below was business as usual-which is to say, messy, loud, crude, and unpleasant. Used to their surroundings, the three guards muscling the transfer box did not comment on it, did not bemoan their fate. They were being paid good money to endure a routine of daily c.r.a.p, money that was piling up in distant credit accounts even as they toiled to move the box. They often let their thoughts drift toward such accounts. It helped them to get through each day. Sometimes such thoughts were all that helped them to get through each day.

No noise came from within the box. No trouble. That suited them just fine. Occasionally, one would bend slightly to peer at one of the air vents that riddled the container. Its contents did not look back. Just as well. There were rules. As a guard on Crematoria, you bent the rules at considerable risk to your comparatively elevated status. Bend them far enough and you might find yourself on the other side of the social divide. That would be more than uncomfortable: it would be fatal. So the guard kept his thoughts to himself and concentrated on the work at hand.

As they pa.s.sed one of the kennels, something with eyes bright with murder moved closer to the bars of its cage and began to howl. Its neighbors joined in. No human throat was capable of producing such sounds, though human ears could hear them. One of the guards snapped a curse in the direction of the center cage. Shining eyes swiveled to focus on him. The guard met the luminous, unearthly stare for a brief moment before looking away. He was not concerned. The cages were strong, and the howling things within, insofar as they could be controlled, were allies.

His tone spiced with agitation, the man in the lead looked back at the box. "Oughta know better by now. You act like an animal, gonna slot you up like one. Rules. Shoulda worked it different."

While carrying out his duty, the speaker's nearest companion was also experiencing a moment of unusual thoughtfulness. "Poor f.u.c.kin' Pavlov. Never had a chance, one-on-one like that."

The first speaker was less than sympathetic. "He shoulda watched himself. Always relyin' on his size, underestimatin' the opposition. Never, never do that. Size don't mean nothin' if you ain't got the moves." Glancing back, he directed his words to the inhabitant of the box. "You know all about that, don't you, Big Foe? You get what you give 'round here. But when when you get it-aw, that's the thing. you get it-aw, that's the thing. When. When." It was not a direct threat, but the ugly implication in his voice could not be ignored. However the inhabitant of the box felt about it, the observation was greeted only with more silence.

Still muttering to himself, the other guard in front continued to remember his overconfident dead colleague. "This one's always been trouble. I knew it from the first. I smelled smelled it." it."

Behind him, another guard thought to comment, to make a joke. In the end, he kept his thoughts to himself. Pavlov had always gone looking for trouble. Finally, he'd found it. While helping to move the transfer box, the guard was careful to keep his distance from it.

They reached their destination: an empty kennel. Around them, the howling of the unseen things with the shining eyes intensified. Intent on their work, the guards ignored the inhuman baying. Moving the box was one thing. Safely transferring its single occupant from box to kennel was something else.

Setting the box down in front of the open kennel slot, three of the men positioned themselves at intervals around the container while their remaining two companions warily moved to open it. Safeties were slid simultaneously off box and weapons. Operating together, the pair at the front of the box worked the seals until the doors clicked open. Almost immediately, they stepped back. Fast.

The occupants of the kennels howled louder. Fingers tensed on triggers. Eyes focused with unblinking intensity on the minimally acceptable s.p.a.ce between open kennel and open box.

Nothing happened.

Maulsticks came out and were jammed through the box's air vents. Muttered invective filled the air. Delaying the inevitable meant that less insufferable duties were also being delayed. Already in a bad mood, the recalcitrance of the box's occupant was making the guards' mood worse.

It was not improved when the box's inhabitant managed to grab the end of one maulstick, turn it around, and jab its owner in the hand. The guard howled at the pain, a feeble parody of the h.e.l.lish growling that filled the chamber, and grabbed his injured hand. Blood appeared that was not the prisoner's.

Disgusted, the man in charge of the delivery quintet moved forward. So did a companion. Maulstick still slung at his belt, grim faced, the latter was raising the muzzle of his riot gun.

He did not need to use it. Which was just as well, since he didn't have time to bring it to bear on its presumed target. That individual streaked from the interior of the box into the waiting kennel, a blur that would have been difficult even for the most alert marksman to draw a bead on.

Monitored by automatics, the kennel door slammed shut. Lockseals slipped into place. They were old and well used, but they functioned efficiently enough. Transfer completed, the guards let out sighs of relief. The delivery had gone off more or less as planned. The idiot who'd been jabbed by his own maulstick had only gotten what he'd deserved for his carelessness. A hand that would sting for a few days was a cheap enough lesson.

Relaxed now, ignoring both the safely secured prisoner and the howling of her inhuman kennel-mates, they moved to vacate the area. Behind them, their delivery pressed against the narrow s.p.a.ce between the restraining bars. She was, in her own way, pretty. Just like a finely crafted stiletto. One would want to sleep very, very carefully with either. Maybe she was seventeen. She certainly was not sweet. At the sight of a human abandoned in their company, however unreachable it might be, the things that inhabited the surrounding cages redoubled their alien howling. Eyes glistened, damp with unfulfillable expectation. The girl reacted.

"Can we SHUT UP THE G.o.dd.a.m.n NOISE?"

Delivered with the force and sharpness of an ascending razor, the unexpected demand was fulfilled- for about two seconds. Then the howling resumed, wilder and more crazed than ever. Within the narrow cage, the girl sat down on the hard, smooth floor, a surface as unyielding and uncomfortable as that of Crematoria itself. Putting her hands over her ears, she closed her eyes and began to rock back and forth, slowly, reciting something silently to herself even though there was no one else to overhear.

"Big Foe," indeed.

The snow came in waves, like breaking foam absent the surf. It swirled around the disgruntled mercenary like wet sand. On high alert, his thoughts occupied elsewhere, he hardly noticed the squall. He was wary but not afraid. While the storm cut his personal visibility down to next to nothing, his instruments cut through the white-out as if the day had dawned clear and sunny.

He was was cold, however. Despite his high-tech arctic gear, the wind and damp found ways through to his skin, burrowing beneath layers of clothing to sting like ants. His hands were steady, however. It would not have mattered had they been shaking, because the gun he carried was designed not for accuracy but for spread. It would stop anything that materialized in front of it within a 140-degree range of spray. Telltales on its top and side indicated that it was powered up and ready to kill. cold, however. Despite his high-tech arctic gear, the wind and damp found ways through to his skin, burrowing beneath layers of clothing to sting like ants. His hands were steady, however. It would not have mattered had they been shaking, because the gun he carried was designed not for accuracy but for spread. It would stop anything that materialized in front of it within a 140-degree range of spray. Telltales on its top and side indicated that it was powered up and ready to kill.

It was a good thing all his instruments were working. Never bright, the light of this world's sun shaded all the way over into the ultraviolet, much as its fauna tended to the ultra violent. Right now there wasn't much to see by, or to see. For the latter he was grateful. With one exception. Despite his advanced gear and a wealth of personal experience in the trade, Codd's quarry continued to elude him. That it continued to do so was beginning to grate. His was a business in which personal as well as professional pride was taken in delivering the goods. This was one delivery that was particularly overdue.

Something stained the low snowdrift in front of him. Moving closer, he flashed his orga.n.a.lyzer at it. Blood. But whose? Or in the case of this particular planet, what's?

His communicator sputtered something unintelligible. Preoccupied with the stain, he moved closer and waited for the orga.n.a.lzyer to deliver a more detailed verdict. The discoloration in the snow was dark purple, but in the light of this world's sun, that was no sure indicator of origin. A second time, the communicator in his ear buzzed for attention. He tapped it with one finger, as if by so doing he could simultaneously clear the static and deliver a smack to the caller at the other end. Dammit, he was busy busy . .

"Hang on, hang on. I'm on something here."

The screen on the orga.n.a.lyzer cleared, uninformative statistics and DNA details giving way to a schematic extracted from a series of exploration scans. The result was a diagram of something big, alien, and white as the snow sifting steadily down around him ought to be. It was bipedal and equipped with serious dent.i.tion. One did not have to be an experienced xen.o.biologist to deduce that the latter were designed for something more than masticating vegetables.

There was also a name-provisional, as was usually the case with examples of alien life-forms that were rarely encountered, aggressive, and disagreeably homicidal: Urzo giganticus. Urzo giganticus.

Unwilling to go away and let him concentrate, the voice in his ear finally cleared enough to demand, "Whatcha got, Codd?"

"Sit on it a minute, w.i.l.l.ya, Doc-T?" Holding his weapon a little tighter, Codd checked to make double sure there was a high-explosive sh.e.l.l in the launching chamber before moving past the stain. Beyond, in a slightly protected hollow, he found something more impressive than blood. A footprint, clean and made too recently to have been filled in by following snow. Its appearance was formidable.

"Christ, all we need . . . Like this job hasn't already been trouble enough." Remembering the querying voice in his ear, he raised his voice above the wind as he spoke toward the communicator's pickup. "Hey, Johns, you know that big extinct thing? The one Preliminary kept talking about? Well, it ain't. Watch your spine, and I don't mean when it's held up in front of you. Between this and our other problem-"

He broke off. Was that a shape, moving within the storm? Quickly, he checked his scanner. Nothing. s.h.i.t, a man could get twitchy out here. Even someone as experienced as him. He took a step forward. Good thing he knew how to- His scanner wailed at the same instant he did. Before the feeble lavender light of this world's sun went out permanently, he had a brief glimpse of something behind him. It was ma.s.sive, and white, and perfectly horrible. Its mouth flashed lethal ivory.

The communicator's earpiece crackled in the snow. There was no one to hear or respond to the increasingly fretful queries it emitted, even though it was still attached to an ear. Unfortunately, the ear was no longer attached to anything except the earpiece.

II.

Johns spat snowflakes out of his mouth, took a sip from his hotflow, and adjusted his communicator. It didn't matter how much he fiddled with the controls. Codd had gone cold, a deafening silence most likely caused by something other than the enchanting local climate.

"Say again? Codd, say again. Talk to me, buddy."

The communicator was nonresponsive. Or rather, it crackled and hissed, popped and hummed. It was the absent Codd who had nothing to say.

Equipment trouble, Johns told himself. He kept telling himself that as he plowed on through the snow, in the hope that sheer force of repet.i.tion would render hope into reality.

Snow gave way to ice. The fall was a shattered jumble of nearly transparent blocks and boulders, the water from which it had formed as pure as the women Johns could only dream of. Turning slightly, he followed the icefall eastward, searching patiently for an easier way over or through the new barrier. Snow continued to swirl around him. He fought to keep focused on the task at hand as his thoughts drifted toward memories of warm surroundings and solid food instead of the nutrient soup the hotflow provided.

The face behind the ice startled him badly. Though blurred, there was no mistaking it for a trick of the purplish light. Almost as of their own volition, his hands raised the rifle and his finger contracted on the trigger. The double shot blew a jagged hole in the icefall in the vicinity of the unexpected visage, sending stinging fragments of ice in all directions.

When the frozen equivalent of the dust had settled, he squinted into the cavity his weapon had so violently excavated. A few lingering shards broke free and fell from the roof, clinking against the uneven floor. He ignored them as he activated a light and eased tentatively forward. The gap in front of him was bigger than anything his weapon, destructive as it was, could have created. He'd blown a hole into a larger void.

At first glance he couldn't tell if the hollow was natural or had been melted by artificial means. Regardless of origin, it had clearly been turned into temporary living quarters. Better, he told himself, to think of it as a lair. He had a bad moment when his light revealed an Urzo giganticus Urzo giganticus . The air he'd sucked in went out of him in tandem with the tension when he saw that the monster was not moving. Nor would it move again. For one thing, it was missing its feet. For another, it had been neatly and efficiently quartered before being hung from the roof of the ice cave by its ma.s.sive right arm. . The air he'd sucked in went out of him in tandem with the tension when he saw that the monster was not moving. Nor would it move again. For one thing, it was missing its feet. For another, it had been neatly and efficiently quartered before being hung from the roof of the ice cave by its ma.s.sive right arm.

Urzo blood dripped softly into a collection pail. Neither the pail nor the smartly butchered condition of the ma.s.sive corpse suggested that the b.l.o.o.d.y work had been carried out with scientific research in mind. Additional artifacts scattered around the cave hinted that someone hereabouts had exerted knowledgeable efforts with the aim of personal survival.

A slight movement made him turn sharply and raise the rifle, but this time he didn't shoot. As he shifted the light, its beam touched on a second strung-up figure. He recognized it immediately: Codd. John's sphincter tightened. It was Codd's face he had glimpsed through the ice, Codd's face that had caused him to fire. He knew this because the hole in his partner was about the right size to have been made by one of his own explosive sh.e.l.ls, notwithstanding that its shattering effect had been somewhat muted by the ice barrier.

He had fired an instant too soon.

But while he might be blamable for Codd's death, he was not responsible for the mercenary's position- bound and secured with his own cuffs. And Codd was not quite dead. Not yet. Not that a wound such as he had suffered due to the too-quick trigger finger of his own partner was in any way repairable.

Johns leaned forward. As he was wondering what to say, or if he should say anything-Codd's lips moved slightly. Johns slipped closer. Should he try to apologize? In his and Codd's business, there was little time or inclination for apologies. h.e.l.l, everybody made mistakes. Though the dying mercenary's voice was little more than a whisper, Johns thought he could just make out what the other man was saying.

"Behind you . . ."

Behind . . . Johns whipped around. In perfect condition and as fast as he was, the blur that slashed at his head still grazed him. Ice, wind, and bad light conspired to impair his vision, leading him to fire blindly, repeatedly. Already unbalanced on the slight slope inside the cave, the powerful recoil sent his twisting form stumbling backward. Landing on his b.u.t.t, he continued to fire in the general direction of whatever had taken the big swipe at him. Obedient to Newton, each shot sent him sliding a little farther backward.

Toward the precipice that fronted the cave.

He nearly went over. Nearly. Reflexes born of necessity saw him throw out one arm. It slid off the rock it clutched, but his strong fingers locked into a crack just wide enough to offer a grip. His other hand clung to the rifle. Carefully, very carefully, he eased off the weapon's trigger. Given the downslope on which he now found himself, one more shot would break his grip on the rock and send him over the edge.

It was all right. He was okay. All he had to do was work his way upward, using his knees and his hand, until he was safely back up on the more level portion of the ice. It was then that a pair of feet stepped into his view. They were white, thick with fur, and not human. Automatically his eyes followed them upward. What he saw surprised him, insofar as he was still capable of being surprised.

The feet no longer belonged to their original owner. He remembered the condition of the quartered, dripping alien corpse he had seen in the cave. Its feet had been removed. At the time, he had been left to wonder at the reason. Now it was self-evident.

They had been turned into boots for a thick hulk of a man whose hair, while not white, had grown out to the point where it was now a suitable match for that of any urzo. Johns could sense, if not see, the musculature rippling beneath the apparition's cobbled-together cold-weather attire. The man's eyes were hidden behind reflective goggles that were at once minimal in size and of clearly advanced design. Johns didn't recognize the style. They did not look like any of the extensive variety of snow goggles with which he was familiar. It was even possible they were intended to serve some purpose other than protecting the wearer from snow blindness.

Ambling unconcernedly forward, as if Johns no longer held the powerful rifle, the man crouched down to stare at the mercenary. His posture, as much as his indifferent att.i.tude, suggested either lingering brain damage, supreme stupidity, or ultimate confidence. Johns did not have to debate long over which was the most likely. He found that he could see his own snow-scarred, wind-battered face reflected back at him in those shiny lenses that were as inscrutable as their owner.

The man brought one hand forward. Johns flinched slightly. Opening his fingers, the man revealed the contents of his hand. It was a human ear, raw and bleeding at the base.

"Yours?" the man murmured quietly. Though deceptively soft, his voice pierced cleanly through the wind.

There was a pause. Then Johns clamped a hand to one side of his head. His gloved fingers came away b.l.o.o.d.y. Biting cold and surging adrenaline had combined to numb him to a point where he hadn't felt the appendage being torn away. Unfortunately, in the shocked realization of the moment, he'd grabbed for his missing ear with the hand that had been anchoring him to the protruding rock. Grip lost, he scrambled briefly for a second handhold. The smooth ice was not compliant. He went over the edge of the deep drop silent except for his gun, from which he managed to coax a few final shots before hitting the ground far below. The multiple rounds were as thunderous as they were wild.

Rising, the hirsute stranger in the deviant footwear walked fearlessly to the edge of the precipice and peered over. Thanks to the swirling snow, there was not much to see. His expression unchanging, he backed away from the brink and turned. Though he did not reveal it through expression or emotion, he was surprised at what he encountered.

The double barrels of a particularly nasty weapon were aimed directly at his midsection. They suited the individual who held them. Toombs's name had always been good for a running gag among his colleagues in the business. None of them had ever used it to his face, of course. At least, none could be found alive who had done so.

Whereas his partners, Codd and Johns, had been quiet and businesslike, Toombs liked to talk. He possessed a certain vicious charm that const.i.tuted something of an attractant to the ladies and allowed him to get into places and away with things that defeated less animated types like Codd and Johns. He was not feeling particularly charming right now. But he was far too experienced to let the anger boiling within him a.s.sume control. Having a good idea who he was facing, he kept his distance and his cool. But neither could keep him from talking.

Using the muzzles of the gun, he gestured slightly in the direction of the ragged, windswept cliff that had recently been depopulated by one. "Two of my best boys. Both gone. You got no idea how careful I brought 'em both along. Had real bright futures in the trade." Self-control or no, his voice rose perceptibly. "And now cuzza you, CUZZA YOU, you subhuman piece of s.h.i.t, they won't be around to split the reward, will they?" He jabbed the double barrels forward threateningly. "Will they?" "Will they?"

He began to laugh. More nasty whoop than chuckle, it was anything but appealing. Not everyone cackled when they laughed, nor made it sound like the final gasps of a dying man. Toombs chortled like a dyspeptic vulture.