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  “Come out and face us, damn you!” hollered the man.

  The Forever Kid stepped out of the shadows.

  “Whoever paid you for this, I'll pay you more to go away,” said the woman.

  “I'm afraid that's not a viable option,” said the Kid. There was a sudden movement of his right hand, and both miners keeled over.

  The Kid spent the next few moments inspecting each of his victims, making sure they were dead. Then, satisfied, he turned toward the vehicle.

  “You can come out now!” he shouted into the darkness.

  The Mouse, still stunned by the ease with which he had dispatched his opponents, approached the camp gingerly.

  “What the hell did you use on them?” she asked as she reached the first of the corpses.

  “Something very small and very sharp,” replied the Kid. “Eight somethings, actually.”

  “Amazing!” muttered the Mouse, stepping around two more bodies.

  “Go gather your plunder and let's be going,” said the Kid.

  “You're not even breathing hard,” noted the Mouse.

  “Should I be?”

  “Most people would work up a sweat after killing eight innocent miners,” she replied caustically.

  He stared curiously at her. “Innocent of what?”

  “Whatever they did, they didn't deserve to die like this.”

  “Who knows?” said the Forever Kid with a shrug.

  “You mean you don't even know why you killed them?” she demanded.

  “Of course I do,” answered the Kid. “I killed them because I was paid to kill them.”

  “But you don't know what they had done?”

  He shrugged again. “That's none of my business.”

  “Don't you even care?”

  “Not really,” he answered. “Most people deserve killing for one reason or another.”

  “Have you always felt this way?”

  Suddenly the Kid grinned. “Puberty must have made me cynical.” He nodded toward the self-contained protective bubbles. “My business here is done. It's time you went about yours.” He headed off toward the vehicle. “I'll get the landcar,” he said, “while you pick up the spoils of conquest.”

  “You wouldn't be planning on leaving me behind, would you?” she said suspiciously.

  He chuckled. “Not while you're here with all the money.”

  She began going through the bubbles, collecting uncut diamonds and rolls of credits, and a few minutes later she emerged from the last of the bubbles.

  He was waiting there for her with the landcar, and fifteen minutes later she was shaking Penelope awake.

  “Come on,” she whispered. “It's time to go.”

  “Go where?” asked Penelope sleepily.

  “I don't know,” admitted the Mouse. “But away from here, anyway.”

  “Did you buy a ship?”

  “Even better,” said the Mouse. “I bought a man who owns a ship.”

  “What did you pay him with?” asked Penelope, sitting up and rubbing her eyes.

  “Diamonds,” said the Mouse, holding out a small bag filled with dull, uncut stones.

  Penelope peeked into the bag.

  “There's a gun there,” she noted.

  “I picked it up the same place where I got the diamonds,” answered the Mouse.

  “Why?”

  “Just in case you decide that the Forever Kid wants to hurt us.”

  “How long will he stay with us?”

  “Until we put down on a safe planet,” said the Mouse. “Or until we run out of money. Whichever comes first.”

  “Are there any safe planets for us?”

  “There's one,” said the Mouse reluctantly. “I hadn't wanted to go there, but I don't think we have much of a choice. Word of our being here has got to leak out: this place is going to be crawling with killers by tomorrow night, or the next morning at the latest.”

  Penelope began getting dressed.

  “What is the name of this world?” she asked.

  “Last Chance.”

  “Have you ever been there before?”

  The Mouse shook her head. “No, I haven't.”

  “Then why are you so sure that you don't want to go there?” persisted Penelope. “It might be very pleasant, with lakes and streams and green things.”

  “Because I don't like the man who runs it,” replied the Mouse.

  Penelope considered the Mouse's answer for a moment. “If you don't like him, why do you think we'll be safe there?”

  “He owes me an awfully big favor.”

  “Has he agreed to pay you this favor?”

  The Mouse grimaced. “I don't think he even knows I'm alive.”

  “How long has it been since you've seen him?” asked Penelope, picking up Jennifer and walking to the door.

  “A very long time.”

  “He might not even remember you,” suggested Penelope.

  “He'll remember,” said the Mouse grimly.

  Part 2:

  THE ICEMAN'S BOOK

  8.

  They called it Last Chance, and it had been well named.

  It was (currently, at least) the last populated planet on the way to the Galactic Core, the last source of nuclear fuel, the last place to fill up a ship's galleys, the last place (as far as anyone knew) to see another sentient being.

  Last Chance, except for its location, was in all other respects unremarkable. It was small, but the gravity was within the normal range for human beings. It was hot, but not so hot that life couldn't exist. It was dry, but not so dry that water couldn't be coaxed up through the red clay that covered most of the surface. Its year was very long (4623 Galactic Standard days), but its days and nights were within acceptable bounds: fourteen Galactic Standard hours each. Its seasons were mild, but distinguishable. Its native life, primarily avians and marsupials, was unique but not plentiful.

  It boasted a single community, a rustic Tradertown known, also appropriately, as End of the Line. End of the Line consisted of two hotels, a rooming house for more permanent visitors, a series of small spaceship hangars, a post office, a whorehouse, three empty buildings whose purposes were long since forgotten, an assayers’ office, a general store, and the End of the Line Bar, which was also a restaurant, a book and tape store, a subspace transmitting station, a gambling parlor, and a weapons shop.

  The End of the Line Bar was the Iceman's, and he ruled it as completely as he ruled the rest of the planet. Not a ship landed without his permission. Not a ship took off without his knowledge. Not a man or woman entered the Tradertown without his consent. If, for reasons of his own, one of those men or women never left, there was no one to call him to task for it, nor would anyone who lacked a serious death wish have wanted to.

  Nobody knew exactly why he was called the Iceman. His true name was Carlos Mendoza, but he hadn't used it in more than a decade, during which time he had had many other names, changing them to suit each new world the way some men changed their clothes. The Iceman wasn't even a name of his own devising, though it suited him well enough, and he elected to keep it.

  He was physically nondescript. He lacked Undertaker McNair's terrifying gaze, or the awesome height and bulk of ManMountain Bates, or even the Forever Kid's shock of thick blond hair. He was an inch or two below normal height, and he had the beginning of a belly, and his brown hair was thinning on top and greying at the sides, but people tended to remember him anyway. Especially people he didn't have much use for.

  The Iceman's past was murky, his future not clearly defined, his present an intensely private matter. He was friendly enough: he'd talk to anyone who cared to pass the time of day, he'd tell an occasional joke, he'd sleep with an occasional woman, he'd play an occasional game of chance, when properly drunk he'd even read an occasional poem of his own creation—but even those people who thought they knew him or understood what motivated him were wrong. Only one person had ever gotten that close to him.

  And now she was orbiting
Last Chance, asking for permission to land.

  9.

  The Mouse entered the End of the Line Tavern, spotted a table in the corner, and turned to the Forever Kid.

  “Would you get a room for Penelope and me, and one for yourself?” she asked. “I'll be along in a little while.”

  The Kid looked around the enormous tavern and over at the gaming tables in the casino. “There's five bounty hunters here that I know of,” he replied in low tones.

  “I'll be all right,” the Mouse assured him.

  “You're paying me to protect you.”

  “I paid you to get me to Last Chance. I'm here now.”

  He shook his head. “You paid me for a week. You've still got four days coming to you.”

  “Just return half the money and we'll call it square.”

  “I don't make refunds.”

  “And you'd love to take on all five of them at once,” said the Mouse with a knowing smile.

  “I wouldn't be adverse to it,” he admitted, trying to keep the eagerness from his boyish face.

  “Nobody's going to bother me here,” said the Mouse.

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “Penelope would have warned me.”

  The Forever Kid stared down at the little girl. “Yeah?”

  The Mouse smiled, reached out a hand, and tousled Penelope's hair. “She's my partner. You're just the hired help.”

  “That's right,” said the little girl. “We're partners.”

  “How do you know who's likely to cause trouble?” the Kid asked her.

  “Just be grateful that she does know,” said the Mouse.

  The Kid continued staring at Penelope. Finally he sighed. “Just my luck,” he muttered.

  “What are you talking about?” asked the Mouse.

  “The last thing I need is an edge. Now it looks like I've got one whether I want it or not.”

  “Just for four more days,” answered the Mouse. “Then you can take on 300 killers all at once if that's what you want.”

  The Kid shrugged, took Penelope by the hand, walked back out into the dusty street, and headed over to the nearer of the two hotels. The Mouse noticed that, despite his obvious death wish, he nonetheless held Penelope with his left hand while his right swung to and fro just inches from his sonic pistol.

  The Mouse walked over to the corner table, and a moment later a redheaded waitress approached her.

  “What'll it be?” asked the girl.

  “A beer,” said the Mouse. It seemed foolish to ask for brand names; for a world this close to the Core to have any beer was accomplishment enough.

  “Right,” said the waitress, starting to turn away.

  “And I want to see Carlos Mendoza.”

  “Who?”

  “He's called the Iceman these days.”

  “You will.”

  “When?”

  “When he's ready,” said the waitress. “He knows you're here. Your drink's on the house. So's your room.”

  Yes, thought the Mouse grimly. He knows I'm here, all right.

  “He'll stop by your table when he's ready,” continued the waitress.

  The waitress walked back to the bar, returned with her beer, then vanished through a doorway. The Mouse stared at her glass for a moment, then lifted it to her lips and took a long swallow. When she put it back down on the table, she found the Iceman sitting opposite her.

  “It's been a long time,” he said.

  “Yes, it has.”

  “I thought you were dead. I'm glad to learn I was wrong.”

  There was a long, uncomfortable silence.

  “How have you been?” he asked.

  “Well. And you?”

  “I'm getting by.”

  “When did you leave the service?” asked the Mouse.

  “Nine years ago,” replied the Iceman. “I figured fifteen years was enough for anyone.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  Another silence.

  “I wouldn't have thought you'd want to see me,” he said at last. “I thought you'd be too bitter.”

  “I am bitter, Carlos. But I need a favor.”

  “Oh?”

  She nodded. “I'm in a little bit of trouble.”

  “Judging from the way some people in here are staring at you,” he said, indicating the bounty hunters, “I'd say you were in a lot of trouble.”

  “They say you run this world,” she continued, ignoring his comment, “that nothing happens here without your permission. Is that true?”

  “Essentially.”

  “I need a safe place to stay for a few weeks.”

  “Just a few weeks?”

  “Within a month there'll be so many bounty hunters here you couldn't call them off even if you wanted to.”

  He smiled a humorless smile. “You'd be surprised what I can do on my world.”

  “Just the same, we'll be gone within a month, probably sooner. But I need some time to plan my next move without ducking at every shadow I see.”

  “What makes you think all these bounty hunters won't follow you?”

  “If you can arrange for us to have a ten-hour head start when we leave, that's all we'll need.”

  “That can be arranged.”

  “Then we have your protection?”

  “One of you doesn't need it,” said the Iceman. “And from what I hear, he probably doesn't want it.”

  “So you know the Forever Kid?”

  “I know of him.” He paused. “Why is he traveling with you?”

  “I hired him ... but I can only afford him for a few more days.”

  “Who are you paying him to kill?”

  “I don't know,” said the Mouse. “Anyone who tries to kill me.”

  The Iceman paused thoughtfully, then spoke: “If that little girl is who I think she is, the job's too big for him.”

  “Who do you think she is?”

  “Penelope Bailey.”

  The Mouse nodded.

  “How did you ... ah ... acquire her?” asked the Iceman.

  “I freed her from an alien who had her back on Westerly.”

  “You should have stolen a negatron bomb from the Navy,” said the Iceman wryly. “You'd be in less trouble.”

  “I didn't know who she was,” said the Mouse. “I just saw this little girl chained in an alien's room and decided I couldn't leave her there.” She paused. “We've been on the run ever since. I think there may be as many as thirty or forty men out after us.”

  “Thirty or forty?” repeated the Iceman, amused.

  “It's possible.”

  “You still don't know what you've done, do you?”

  She frowned. “What do you mean.”

  “There are three governments trying to find that little girl, and close to two hundred very motivated men and women are out to claim the reward.”

  The Mouse looked her surprise. “Three governments?” she repeated.

  “At least.”

  She considered what he had said. “I didn't think there were two hundred bounty hunters on the whole Inner Frontier.”

  “There are now.”

  The Mouse shook her head in bewilderment. “All because of Penelope?”

  “That's right,” said the Iceman.

  “And what about you?” she asked sharply.

  “What about me?”

  “Are you interested in the reward, too?”

  He shook his head. “I've got enough money—and I've done enough favors for the Democracy, too.”

  She stared at him. “You're the last man I want to ask for a favor, but we need your protection.”

  “We?”

  “Penelope and me.”

  “She doesn't need protection,” said the Iceman. “You do, but not her.”

  “I'm not going to let anyone take her away and stick her in some laboratory somewhere.”

  “Most of them don't want to.”

  “A man called 32 does.”

  He stared at her intently. “What
do you know about 32?”

  “Just that he had her once and probably wants her back,” replied the Mouse. “What do you know about him?”

  “More than you,” said the Iceman. He frowned. “How did he ever let her get away? He's the most careful, thorough man I know.”

  “How do you know him?”

  “I've dealt with him in the past.”

  “During your master spy period?” she asked sardonically.

  “A master spy is nothing but an employer of spy labor,” replied the Iceman.

  “I know. Like you hired me.”

  “Precisely.”

  “Did you hire him, too?”

  The Iceman shook his head. “We worked for different agencies. Now and then our paths would cross.” He paused. “He's the best I ever knew. I can't imagine that he could be so careless as to let the girl escape. She must be everything they say she is.”

  “What she mostly is is a lonely, frightened little girl who doesn't even know what world she was born on.”

  “She's also the most potentially powerful weapon in the galaxy,” said the Iceman.

  “She's just a little girl.”

  “Little girls grow up.”

  “And her abilities are very limited.”

  “Abilities can mature, too.”

  The Mouse shook her head. “All she can do is tell when someone is about to hurt her.”

  “And you don't think someone with precognition, whose abilities may very well be embryonic at the moment, poses a danger?”

  “To who?” demanded the Mouse. “To bounty hunters who want to harm her?”

  “To anyone or any world she decides she doesn't like.”

  “That's ridiculous!”

  “Is it? From what I hear, you're traveling with a little child who can cause grown men to drop over dead.”

  “It doesn't work like that,” said the Mouse.

  “Are you saying she can't make people die?”

  “It isn't that simple.”

  “It sounds precisely that simple to me.”

  The Mouse shook her head. “She possesses a form of precognition.”

  “So I've heard.”