Santiago: A Myth of the Far Future Page 19

  "Try it and find out," said Cain, returning his attention to his salad.

  The Swagman made three or four false starts but eventually gained a rudimentary mastery of his utensil and finally managed to get a piece of pseudoshellfish all the way to his mouth without dropping it.

  "Well?" asked Schussler anxiously. "What do you think of it?"

  "It isn't bad," said Cain noncommittally.

  "I'll tell you what it isn't," muttered the Swagman. "It isn't Goldenrod lobster." He took another mouthful. "Still, I suppose it could be worse."

  "Would you do me a favor?" asked Schussler after a moment's silence.

  "It all depends," replied the Swagman. "What did you have in mind?"

  "Tell me what it tastes like."

  "To be perfectly truthful, it tastes like soya byproducts masquerading as shellfish in cream sauce."

  "Please," persisted Schussler anxiously. "I processed it and cooked it and served it—but I can't taste it. Describe it for me."

  "As I said: a rudimentary approximation of fish in cream sauce."

  "You can't be that unimaginative!" said Schussler with a note of desperation in his beautiful lilting voice. "Tell me about the sauce: is it rich? hot? sweet? Can you identify the spices? What type of shellfish does it taste like?"

  "It's nothing to write home about," said the Swagman. "The flavors are all rather bland."

  "Describe them."

  "You're forcing me to insult you. The food is barely worth eating, let alone describing," said the Swagman irritably. "You're ruining what was a totally unmemorable meal to begin with."

  "You owe it to me!" demanded Schussler.

  "Later," said the Swagman. "It's tasting worse by the mouthful, thanks to your nagging."

  Cain sighed, reached over with his implement, and picked up a piece of the artificial shellfish, after first rubbing it thoroughly in the cream sauce. He chewed it thoughtfully, then began describing the nuances of flavor to Schussler while the Swagman picked up his plate and walked back into the command cabin to finish his meal in isolation.

  Cain joined him about twenty minutes later.

  "Is he still sulking?" asked the Swagman.

  "Ask him yourself."

  The Swagman turned to Schussler's panel. "You're not going to spend all night asking me to describe how my bunk feels, are you?"

  There was no answer.

  "There's a first for you—a pouting spaceship."

  "You hurt his feelings," said Cain.

  "Not without reason. Either we nip this behavior in the bud, or he'll be spending every spare minute asking how things taste and feel."

  "It's not that much effort to tell him. He's had a rough time of it."

  The Swagman stared at him. "We're growing a strange crop of killers this season," he remarked at last.

  "You know," said Cain, "he could always ask you how you feel after he reduces the oxygen content in the cabin down to zero."

  "Not if he wants to die on schedule, he can't," said the Swagman confidently. He paused. "Are you really going to kill him if we find Santiago's base?"

  "I said I would."

  "I know what you said."

  "I'll do what I promised."

  "But you won't be happy about it."

  "I'm never happy about killing things," said Cain.

  The Swagman considered that remark, as well as some of the other things Cain had said since leaving Altair III, and spent the next few minutes studying his new partner, comparing him to what he knew of the Angel, and wondering if Virtue MacKenzie had made the correct choice after all.

  14.

  Alas, Poor Yorick, I knew him well:

  He can't climb down from the carousel.

  He began with dreams, with hope and trust;

  Alas, Poor Yorick, they turned to dust.

  * * * *

  His name wasn't really Poor Yorick—not at first, anyway. He was born Herman Ludwig Menke, and he stuck with that name for twenty years. Then he joined a troupe of actors that traveled the Galactic Rim, and became Brewster Moss; word has it that he even performed for the Angel, back before he became the Angel.

  Anyway, by the time he was forty he had yet another new name, Sterling Wilkes, which is the one he made famous when he almost single-handedly brought about the Shakespearean renaissance on Lodin XI. It is also the one he made notorious, due to his various chemical dependencies.

  Six years later, after he'd had one hallucinogenic trance too many before a paying audience, he was barred from the stage. It was time for a new name—Poor Yorick seemed quite apt this time around—and a new profession. Since he had an artistic bent and all he knew was the theater, he turned up on the Inner Frontier as a prop manufacturer, and in the following decade he turned out a never-ending stream of counterfeit crowns and harmless guns, bogus jewels and bogus thrones, almost real stones in almost valuable settings.

  He also kept a sizable number of drug peddlers in business, and when he graduated from injecting hallucinogens to chewing alphanella seeds, he was forced to supplement his income by turning his fine forger's hand to less legitimate enterprises than the stage. As the quality of his work suffered due to his dependency, he lost his legal job and then most of his illegal commissions as well, and was reduced to selling hasty paintings of actors he had known, which were turned out during his increasingly rare periods of lucidity.

  A few years later Black Orpheus came into possession of four of the paintings and instantly knew that he had stumbled onto an interesting if erratic talent.

  It took him almost a year to find Poor Yorick, who was living in a ramshackle hotel on Hildegarde, still spending every credit he made to feed his habit. Orpheus tried to convince him to travel the spaceways with him and illustrate his saga, but Yorick cared more for his next connection than for posterity, and finally the Bard of the Inner Frontier admitted defeat, bought the remainder of Yorick's paintings, commissioned a painting of his Eurydice which would never be finished, and went away forever. He gave Poor Yorick only a single verse in his song; he wanted to do more, to tell his audience what a unique talent lay hidden beneath that wasted exterior, but he decided that an influx of commissions would only result in more drug purchases and hasten Yorick's death.

  It must be said on Yorick's behalf that he tried to complete the painting of Eurydice, but the money he had received for it was spent within a week, and he had an ever-present hunger to feed. Since Orpheus had left him without any art to sell, he returned to forging, but every now and then, an hour here, a weekend there, he would work again on his embryonic masterpiece.

  In fact, he was working on it when Schussler landed on Roosevelt III.

  "Unpleasant little world," said Cain when he and the Swagman had emerged from the cyborg's interior and stood, shielding themselves from the planet's ever-present rain, on the wet surface of the spaceport.

  "It's only fitting," said the Swagman, heading off for the terminal. "We're looking for an unpleasant little man." He paused. "Whoever would have thought that Poor Yorick would be Altair of Altair's most recent link to Santiago?"

  "I had rather suspected you would," said Cain with a touch of irony. "Especially after that speech about how I needed you."

  "That's why you needed both Schussler and me. He knew Yorick was the man we wanted, and I know where to find him."

  "Isn't it about time you shared that little tidbit of knowledge with me?" suggested Cain.

  The Swagman shrugged. "I can't give you an address. We'll go into the city, hunt up the cheapest hotel in the poorest area, and wait."

  "And if he's not there?"

  "He'll be there, or thereabouts," said the Swagman. "If we have to, we'll just follow the local dream vendor, and he'll lead us straight to him."

  "What does Poor Yorick look like?" asked Cain.

  "I really couldn't say. I've never met him."

  "But you're sure you know where he'll be," said Cain caustically.

  "I've had dealings with him before,"
replied the Swagman. "And I make it a habit to learn everything I can about my business associates. I know he's on Roosevelt Three, and I know that there's only one city on Roosevelt Three; finding his exact location is just a mechanical exercise."

  They reached the terminal, rented a vehicle, and drove into the nearby city, which, like the planet, was named Roosevelt. Someone—an architect, a city planner, a corporate head, someone—had had big plans for Roosevelt once upon a time. The spaceport was built to support ten times the traffic it actually handled, the city was crisscrossed by numerous broad thoroughfares, the central square boasted two skyscrapers that wouldn't have been out of place on Deluros VIII—but some centuries back the Democracy had paused to consolidate its holdings, and when it expanded again it had been in a different direction, leaving Roosevelt III just another unimportant cog in the vast human machine, neither abandoned nor important. The proposed megalopolis became a city of diminished expectations, as modest apartment buildings, nondescript stores, unimpressive offices, and unimaginative public structures gradually encircled the two enormous steel-and-glass buildings like jungle scavengers patiently waiting for some mighty behemoth to conclude its death throes so they could partake of the feast.

  The Swagman drove once around the city, then homed in on the most dilapidated area with an unerring instinct and brought the vehicle to a stop.

  "I'd say we're within four hundred yards of him right now," he said, handing a rainshield to Cain and activating one himself.

  "It can't get much more rundown than this," agreed Cain, dispassionately eyeing a number of drunks and derelicts who peered through the driving rain at them from their safe havens inside seedy bars and seamy hotels.

  "I have a feeling that I'm not properly dressed for the occasion," remarked the Swagman, looking down at his satin tunic, carefully tailored pants, and hand-crafted boots.

  "You're not the only one who thinks so," commented Cain, staring at an exceptionally large, barrel-chested man who was scrutinizing them from a distance of fifty feet, oblivious of the rain that was pouring down upon his unprotected head.

  "Well, we certainly don't want the riffraff rising above their stations," said the Swagman, unperturbed. "I think we'll make them your responsibility."

  "What do you do when you find yourself in a situation like this and there isn't a bounty hunter around?" inquired Cain dryly.

  "I'm not totally without my own resources," replied the Swagman, withdrawing a device the size of a golf ball. He tossed it casually in the air, caught it, and replaced it in his pocket.

  "A fire bomb?"

  The Swagman nodded. "It's more powerful than it looks. It can take out a city block, and spreads like crazy on detonation, even in weather like this." He smiled. "Still, I'd much prefer not to use it. It wouldn't do to fry Yorick to a crisp before we have a chance to talk to him."

  "According to you, we're within four hundred yards of him," said Cain, looking up and down the street. "That narrows it down to fifteen or twenty beat-up hotels and boarding houses. How do you choose which one?"

  "Why, we ask, of course," said the Swagman, walking into a tavern. He spent a moment exchanging low whispers with the bartender, then returned to Cain, who had been waiting just inside the door.

  "Any luck?"

  "Not yet," admitted the Swagman. "Not to worry. The day's still young, if a little moist."

  He sloshed through the rain to two more taverns, also without success.

  "Ah!" he said with a smile as they approached yet another barroom, which had a watercolor of a large-breasted nude in the window. "We're getting close! I recognize the style."

  "You collect Yorick's paintings?"

  "The better ones."

  The Swagman entered the building, spoke to the bartender, passed a five-hundred-credit note across the scarred wooden bar, said something else, and stepped out onto the sidewalk a moment later.

  "He lives at the San Juan Hill Hotel, just up the street," announced the Swagman. "When he hasn't got enough cash for alphanella seeds, he trades paintings for drinks."

  "He's not bad," commented Cain, staring at the nude.

  "He's damned good, considering that he probably didn't even know his own name when he painted it. I offered to buy it, but the proprietor wouldn't sell. I got the distinct impression that it's a pretty fair representation of his girlfriend."

  "Or his business partner."

  "The two are not mutually exclusive," said the Swagman, heading off toward the San Juan Hill. "Especially around here."

  Only one man seemed intent on stopping them, but something in Cain's face convinced him to reconsider, and they made it to the hotel without incident.

  It had been a long time since the lobby of the San Juan Hill had been cleaned, and even longer since it had been painted. The floor, especially around the entrance, was filthy, and the whole place smelled of mildew. There was a small, inexpensive rug in front of the registration desk, surrounded by a light area from which a slightly larger rug had been removed at some time in the past. Miscolored rectangles on the walls marked the spots that had formerly been covered by paintings and holographs. The few chairs and couches were in dire need of repair, and the camera in the sole vidphone booth was missing.

  The Swagman took one look around, seemed satisfied that this was precisely the type of place where Poor Yorick was likely to reside, and walked up to the registration desk.

  The unshaven clerk, his left elbow peeking out through a hole in his tunic, looked up at his visitor with a bored expression.

  "Good afternoon," said the Swagman with a friendly smile. "Terrible weather out there."

  "You tracked all the way across my lobby to tell me that?" replied the clerk caustically.

  "Actually, I'm looking for a friend."

  "Good luck to you," said the clerk.

  "His name's Yorick," said the Swagman.

  "Big deal."

  The Swagman reached out and grabbed the clerk by the front of his soiled tunic, pulling him halfway across the counter.

  "Poor Yorick," he said with a pleasant smile. "I hate to rush you, but we are in a hurry." He twisted the tunic until the seams started to give way.

  "Room three seventeen," muttered the clerk.

  "Thank you very much," said the Swagman, releasing him. "You've been most helpful." He looked around. "I don't suppose any of the elevators are in working order?"

  "The one in the middle," replied the clerk sullenly, pointing toward a bank of three ancient elevators.

  "Excellent," said the Swagman. He nodded toward Cain, who walked across the lobby and joined him in front of the elevator. "If there's one thing I hate," he said, "it's a surly menial. You are protecting my back, aren't you?"

  "He's not going to do anything," replied Cain.

  "How do you know he hasn't got a weapon hidden behind the counter?"

  "If there ever was a weapon back there, it's long since been stolen or pawned," said Cain as the doors slid shut and the elevator began ascending. "Still, I think we'll take the stairs down, just to be on the safe side."

  The elevator lurched to a stop and swayed somewhat unsteadily as Cain and the Swagman emerged onto the third floor, which was in even worse repair than the lobby. Some of the rooms had no doors at all, scribbled graffiti covered the others, and the dominant smell had changed from mildew to urine.

  "Three seventeen," announced the Swagman, gesturing to the last door on the floor. "Things are obviously looking up for friend Yorick; he has a corner view."

  He knocked once, and when there was no answer he punched the number 317 on the computer lock.

  "I always admire a complex security system, don't you?" he commented with a grin as the door slid back into a wall.

  A frail, wasted man, his teeth rotted, his complexion sallow, sat totally naked on a rickety chair by a broken window, oblivious to the rain that sprayed him after bouncing off the pane. He was working on a painting with short, incredibly swift brush strokes, muttering to h
imself as he continually retraced the outline of a beautiful woman's face, never quite getting the proportions correct. Scattered around the floor were cheap containers filled with artificial diamonds, rubies, sapphires, and emeralds, a complex machine for covering base metals with gold plating, and a number of jeweler's tools.

  The man looked up at his two visitors, flashed them a brief, nervous smile, put a few more dabs of color onto his canvas, then casually tossed his palate onto the floor and turned to face Cain and the Swagman.

  "Good afternoon, Yorick," said the Swagman. "I wonder if we might have a few minutes of your time?"

  Yorick stared at him for a moment, frowned, looked back at his canvas, and then turned to him once more, a puzzled expression on his face.

  "You're not in my painting," he said at last.

  "No," said the Swagman. "I'm in your room."

  "My room?" repeated Yorick.

  "That's right."

  "Well," he said with a shrug, "it had to be one or the other." He stared intently at the Swagman. "Do I know you?"

  "You know of me: I'm the Jolly Swagman."

  Yorick lowered his head, still frowning. "Jolly, jolly, jolly, jolly, jolly," he murmured. Suddenly he looked up. "I don't know you, but I know of you," he said with a satisfied smile. He turned to Cain. "I know you, though."

  "You do?" said Cain.

  "You're the Songbird," he said emphatically, suddenly rational. "I know all about you. I was on Bellefontaine when you killed the Jack of Diamonds. That was some Shootout." Suddenly his face went blank again. "Shootout," he said as if the word had lost its meaning. "Shootout, Shootout, shootout." And just as quickly as it had come, the emptiness left his wasted face. "What are you doing here, Songbird?"

  "I need a little information," said Cain, sitting down on the edge of Yorick's unmade bed.

  "I need a little something, too," said Yorick with a wink and a cackle. "A lot of little somethings. Chewy little somethings, sweet little somethings."

  "Maybe we can work out a trade," said Cain.

  "Maybe maybe maybe," said Yorick, spitting out the words in staccato fashion. "Maybe we can." He paused, then suddenly looked alert. "How about a trade?" he suggested.