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  “I suppose so.”

  “Very nice.”

  “I checked for labels or manufacturer's marks,” said the Iceman. “There aren't any.”

  The man in black continued staring at the boots.

  “Do you see something I'm missing?” asked the Iceman, suddenly interested.

  “It's possible,” said the man in black, taking a boot from the corpse's foot and examining it.

  “Looks sort of blue when the light hits it,” commented the Iceman.

  “I know,” said the man in black. He handed the boot to the Iceman. “There aren't a lot of blue reptiles on the Inner Frontier—and I only know of one that's got this circular pattern of scales.”

  “Oh?”

  The man in black nodded. “Big sonuvabitch. It lives on a world called Greycloud, out by the Quinellus Cluster.” He paused. “They call it a Bluefire Dragon. It could swallow you whole and then look around for the main course.”

  “How big a world is Greycloud?”

  “About the size of Last Chance, maybe a little smaller.”

  “Oxygen world?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any sentient life forms?” asked the Iceman.

  “Not since we colonized it a few centuries ago,” answered the man in black.

  “How many Men?”

  “Maybe seven thousand, mostly miners and aquaculturalists. It's mostly freshwater ocean, with a batch of islands and one very small continent.”

  “Does it do much exporting?”

  The man in black shook his head. “Too small. Probably doesn't get a mail or cargo ship more than seven or eight times a year.”

  “So,” continued the Iceman, “if our killer was wearing boots made from the local lizard...”

  “There's a pretty good chance that he bought them there,” concluded the man in black.

  “They look relatively new,” said the Iceman, studying the boots. “I think maybe you'd better pay a little visit to Greycloud. Take a couple of holos of our friend here before we bury him, and see if anyone knows who he was or who he worked for.”

  “I assume you'll be all right while I'm gone?”

  “I'll make do,” replied the Iceman dryly. “By the way, if Greycloud is so far off the beaten track, how come you know about this Bluefire Dragon?”

  “I've been there.”

  “When?”

  The man in black shrugged. “Oh, about eight or ten years ago.”

  “On business?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” said the man in black noncommittally.

  “Good,” said the Iceman. “You'll have some contacts there, some people you can talk to.”

  The man in black shook his head. “Everyone I knew there is dead.”

  “Recently?”

  “About eight or ten years ago.”

  The Iceman smiled in grim amusement. “No wonder they call you the Gravedancer.”

  2.

  His real name was Felix Lomax, and he used it for the first 26 years of his life. But names have a way of changing on the Inner Frontier, metamorphizing to fit the natures of the men and women they're attached to.

  Originally he'd been a Pioneer, one of that group of highly-trained specialists that opened new worlds for the Democracy, terraforming them when necessary, cataloging the various life forms, designing settlements, analyzing soils and minerals and water samples to determine exactly what type of colonists would be the most productive: miners, farmers, aquaculturalists, whatever. His specialty was Pacification, a euphemism for decimating native populations until such time as they were willing to allow colonization—or, in some instances, until there were none left to object.

  During that period of his life he had been known as Double X, an easily-identifiable code name based on the spelling of his given name. (It was best not to use one's true name, just in case there were some survivors of the pacification process that resented the instrument of the policy rather than the formulators who were in their mile-high offices back on Deluros VIII, the capital world of Man, snug and secure in the heart of the Democracy.)

  After four years of pacifying alien populations, something happened on the planet of Innesfree. He never spoke of it, never referred to it in any official document, but right in the middle of the campaign he quit and went off to the Inner Frontier. He bought a large ranch on Backgammon II, and spent the next two years raising mutated cattle, huge, 3,000-pound specimens that he sold to the Navy. During this time he was Felix Longface, for he never smiled, never joked, never seemed to take much of an interest in anything.

  Then he finally put whatever demons were bothering him to rest, and went further into the Inner Frontier, returning to the trade he knew best: killing. For a while he was known as The Man in Black, for it was the only color he ever wore, but there were four other Men in Black on the Frontier, and before long he picked up the sobriquet of the Gravedancer, and that was the name that stuck. Not that he ever danced or visited cemeteries, but when he landed on a planet, it was only a matter of time before someone would be visiting a graveyard, never to return.

  His personality didn't change much. He still didn't smile, and he seemed to take no pride in his craft—which was strange for a man in his occupation—but before long his reputation preceded him, and he didn't lack for customers. He picked and chose those that interested him, which was how he came to work for the Iceman, who was as close to a living legend as a man could become on the Inner Frontier, where most legends died just about the time that they were recognized as legends.

  He didn't know much about the Iceman—no one did—but he knew that he had, in his day, faced both the Soothsayer and the Oracle and had lived to tell about it, which was more than anyone else could claim. He would have thought that the Iceman would be the very last person on the Frontier to require protection, so when the offer came, his interest was sufficiently aroused to accept the commission. He hadn't realized at the time that it would require him to pay a return visit to Greycloud, but it wouldn't have made any difference to him if he had known it.

  As his ship braked to sublight speeds and the water world came up on his viewscreen, he checked out his arsenal, selected those weapons that he thought would be most effective in this environment, and requested permission to land on the single continent's tiny spaceport.

  “Please identify yourself,” said a metallic voice, crackling with static.

  “This is the Peacekeeper, Felix Lomax commanding, five days out of Last Chance.”

  “Permission denied.”

  “Why?”

  “You are the Felix Lomax who is also known as the Gravedancer, are you not?”

  “I've been called that, yes.”

  “There are nine outstanding arrests warrants in your name, each for the crime of murder.”

  “All the more reason why you should want to get your hands on me,” replied Lomax.

  “We have no one here capable of taking you into custody against your will, Gravedancer,” said the voice. “I assume you have not come to give yourself up to the authorities.”

  “A fair assumption.”

  “Then permission to land is denied. If you attempt to land on Greycloud, we will fire on your ship and destroy it before it can touch down.”

  “One moment,” said Lomax, breaking the connection.

  He had his computer scan the spaceport and surrounding vicinity, searching for weaponry. It found none, nor had he expected so thinly-populated a world to have any defensive capabilities.

  “Nice try, Greycloud,” he said, reactivating his radio. “Now please give me landing coordinates.”

  “Denied.”

  “I'm landing whether you like it or not. If you won't give me coordinates, you'd better clear the sky or risk a collision over the landing field. This is the Peacekeeper, over and out.”

  He broke out of orbit and entered an elliptical path toward the spaceport, touching down about twenty minutes later. Once on the ground, he had the ship's sensors scan the area f
or armed personnel, found none, activated a number of security devices, and finally emerged through the hatch, the boots and a holograph of the dead man secured in a leather holdall that he slung over his left shoulder.

  He walked about half a mile, past two small hangars, to the main traffic control and reception building, and entered warily. There were four clerks going about their business, one man and three women; none of them looked up at him or gave any indication that they were aware of his presence until he cleared his throat and three of them fidgeted nervously. He walked up the fourth, a grey-haired woman, and stood before her.

  “Yes?” she said coldly.

  “I need transportation into town,” he said.

  “Do I look like a chauffeur?” she demanded.

  “If I can't find one, you'll do.”

  “Go away and leave me alone, Mr. Lomax,” she said. “I want nothing to do with you.”

  “Do I know you?” he asked.

  “No, but I know you,” she said, her eyes reflecting her hatred.

  “Then tell me where I can find a ride into town, and you won't have to keep looking at me.”

  “I wouldn't help you if you were bleeding to death on the street,” she said.

  He stared at her for a long moment.

  “Have it your way,” he said at last. “Before I leave, though,” he added, “I should point out that if anyone touches my ship, the ensuing explosion will flatten the spaceport and everything else within a radius of two miles.”

  Then he turned on his heel and walked out the main entrance. The parking lot was almost empty—the planet had a tiny population and relatively little commerce with the rest of the galaxy—but as he stood, hands on hips, wondering what to do next, a small groundcar pulled up. He walked over to it before the driver could get out and opened the passenger's door.

  “What's going on here?” demanded the driver, a young man in his early twenties.

  “I'm paying you fifty credits to take me into town,” said Lomax.

  “The hell you are!” snapped the young man. “I've got a shipment of computer parts to pick up.”

  “They can wait.”

  Lomax opened the door, sat down next to the driver, pulled out a sonic pistol, and pointed it at him.

  “That wasn't a request,” he said calmly.

  “Who are you?” demanded the driver. “What the hell is this all about?”

  “I'm just a guy who needs a ride to town,” said Lomax. “Now drive.”

  “Why don't you take an aircab?” said the young man, turning the car around.

  “I wasn't aware you had any.”

  “We do. I can drive you to their hangar.”

  “I wouldn't want to put you to the trouble,” said Lomax. “Just get going.”

  The young man stared at him, and suddenly his expression changed.

  “You're him, aren't you?” he said.

  “I'm whom?”

  “The Gravedancer.”

  “Some people call me that.”

  “Damn!” said the young man, grinning and slamming his hand against the dashboard. “The Gravedancer himself, in my groundcar!” He turned to Lomax. “What are you here for?”

  “Business.”

  “Who are you going to kill?” asked the young man eagerly.

  “No one.”

  “You can tell me,” persisted the young man. “I'm on your side.”

  “I'm just here to talk to the local bootmaker.”

  The young man snorted contemptuously. “Come on, Gravedancer—do you expect me to believe you flew all the way to Greycloud for a pair of boots?”

  “What you believe makes no difference to me,” said Lomax. “Just take me where I want to go.” He paused. “You can start by driving into town.”

  The young man put the vehicle in motion, and a moment later they were traveling on a road that paralleled an ocean shoreline.

  “I've been wondering if you'd ever come back.”

  “You're too young to remember me,” said Lomax.

  “I was twelve when you were here the last time,” replied the young man. “I saw you take on nine men at once.” He paused, then extended his hand. “My name's Neil. Neil Cayman.”

  Lomax looked at his hand for a moment, then took it briefly.

  “I'm Felix Lomax.”

  Neil shook his head. “You're the Gravedancer.” He paused. “Where are you going from here?”

  Lomax shrugged. “It all depends on what I learn while I'm here.”

  Neil seemed lost in thought for a moment, then spoke up. “Do you want some company?”

  “Where?”

  “Out there,” he said, waving his hand toward the sky. “I've spent my whole life on this world. I'd like to see something different.”

  “I work alone.”

  “I could be useful to you.”

  “Every damned world I touch down on, there's always some kid who wants to go out and make a name for himself on the Inner Frontier,” answered Lomax. “Most of them die before the undertaker knows what name to put on their headstones.”

  “I'm different,” said Neil.

  “Yeah, I know,” said Lomax. “You're all different.”

  “I've spent my whole life on Greycloud,” continued Neil. “I want to see what's out there.”

  “Book passage with a tour group,” answered Lomax. “You'll live longer.”

  “I don't want to see what tourists see,” persisted Neil. “I want to see the way the worlds really are, the way the people really live.” He paused. “I've got some money saved. I could be ready to go by this afternoon.”

  “Not with me,” said Lomax.

  “I'd do any kind of work you asked me to do, anything at all.”

  “Not interested.”

  The road turned inland, and was now lined by thick tropical foliage, which began thinning out as they moved farther away from the ocean.

  “There have to be places where your face is known, where people run when they see you coming. I could go to those places and get information for you.”

  “Today is an exception,” said Lomax. “Usually I'm after men, not information.”

  “I could spot them for you, let you know what their habits are, where they're likely to be. I wouldn't ask for any pay or anything like that,” continued the young man. “Just a chance to get off this boring little world and travel with someone like you.”

  “I admire your persistence,” said Lomax. “But the answer is the same. I work alone.”

  “You're making a mistake, Gravedancer.”

  Lomax shrugged. “It's possible. I've made them before.”

  “Then let me come with you.”

  “I've also learned to live with the consequences of my mistakes,” said Lomax. “The subject is closed.”

  They came to a tiny town, composed of a broad single street lined with some four dozen stores and shops, an old hotel, and a pair of restaurants, one of which was serving its customers in a shaded outdoor patio area. Neil drove more than halfway down the street and pulled up to a storefront.

  “I'll wait here for you,” he announced.

  Lomax left the groundcar without a word, and entered the store, a warm, dusty, single-story building that displayed a number of leather goods in the windows: coats, jackets, belts, hats, boots. Toward the back were sheets of various leathers, and hanging carefully from the walls were a number of pelts.

  “Yes?” said a thin, balding man, walking out from a back room. “Can I help you?”

  “Possibly,” said Lomax, reaching into his leather holdall and withdrawing one of the dead man's boots. “Do you recognize this?”

  The old man held it up to the light for a moment.

  “Made from a Bluefire Dragon,” he said.

  “You made it?”

  “If anyone else on the Frontier makes ’em, I sure as hell haven't heard about it.” He examined it further. “This was a custom job, too. My label's not in it.”

  “How many custom boots do yo
u make in a year's time?”

  “Oh, maybe fifty.”

  “From Bluefire Dragons?”

  “Maybe two or three.”

  “Good,” said Lomax, pulling out the holograph and handing it over to the old man. “Do you recognize him?”

  “Looks dead,” noted the old man.

  “He is. Do you know him?”

  The old man nodded. “Yeah, I made some boots for him maybe seven, eight months ago.”

  “What can you tell me about him?”

  “He wasn't real talkative,” said the old man. “Seems to me he spent most of the day waiting in the bar across the street, then picked up his boots, paid for ’em, and left.”

  “Did he have a name?”

  “Let me check my records,” said the old man, activating his computer. “Yeah. His name is ... was ... Cole. Jason Cole.”

  “Did he pay cash?” asked Lomax.

  “Yes.”

  “So you don't know what world he banked on?”

  “Probably Olympus,” answered the old man. “That's ... let me think, now ... Alpha Hayakawa IV.”

  “Why makes you think he did his banking on Olympus?”

  “He liked the boots so much he ordered a second pair. Had me ship them to an address on Olympus.”

  “What address?”

  “Well, now, that's privileged information, isn't it?” said the old man, staring at Lomax.

  “I'd call it expensive information,” said Lomax, placing a pair of 200-credit notes on the counter.

  “Well, considering that the poor man has passed on, I suppose there's no harm in it,” said the old man, greedily snatching up the money and stuffing it into a leather pouch that he wore around his neck. “Computer, print out Jason Cole's address.”

  The address emerged an instant later, and the old man handed it to Lomax.

  “I'd say good hunting,” said the old man. “But it appears to me that your hunting is already done.”

  “I have a feeling it's just starting.”

  “Well, in that case, good luck, Gravedancer.”

  “You know me?” said Lomax sharply.

  “It'd be hard to forget you,” said the old man. “You were the only exciting thing to happen to Greycloud in half a century.” He paused. “Don't worry about me alerting the authorities or nothing. First, they probably couldn't stop you from whatever you're doing; and second, most of them you killed deserved what they got.”