Santiago: A Myth of the Far Future (9 page)

“Whittaker Drum.”

“Infinite sorrow, dear friends,”
announced Wixtol. “I prostrate myself to inform you that we have no such
resident.”

“He also uses the name Socrates,”
said Cain.

The alien gave them a delighted
grin. “Joy supreme! Socrates lives in apartment twenty-nine fourteen, praise
be. If you will condescend to follow your humble servant, I will lead you to
the elevator.”

It waddled off to the right, and
Cain and Terwilliger fell into step behind it.

“Is that
him,
or is something wrong with the translator?” whispered the gambler.

“Who knows?” replied Cain. “Maybe
they told him that’s the way a concierge speaks.”

They soon reached the elevators.
Wixtol held the door open for them, pressed the button for the twenty-ninth
floor, thanked them profusely for coming, and wished them a safe and happy ascent.
Then the door slid shut, and a moment later they were walking down a mirrored
corridor leading to apartment 2914.

When they arrived at the front
door, Cain stopped and waited silently.

“I’ve seen you somewhere before,”
said a hoarse, masculine voice. “Who are you?”

“My name is Cain.”

There was a pause. “
Sebastian
Cain?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’ll be damned!” exclaimed
the voice. “What have you been doing with yourself?”

“Hello. Whittaker. It’s been a
long time.”

“What are you doing here?”

“The Sargasso Rose gave me your
new name and told me to hunt you up. I’d like to talk to you, if you can spare
me the time.”

“I’d be delighted. Just move a
step to your left so my security system can scan you.”

Cain did so, and became aware of a
soft humming noise.

“Do you think you’re going to need
two guns and a knife to talk to me?” asked the voice.

“No.”

The door slid open a few inches.

“Toss them inside, Sebastian. I’ll
return them when we’re done.”

Cain withdrew the weapons in
question and tossed them through the small gap.

“Now your friend.”

“My name’s Terwilliger,” said the
gambler, moving to the spot Cain vacated. “And I don’t carry any guns.”

“Okay,” grunted the voice. “You’re
clean.” There was a brief pause and then the door slid open the rest of the
way. “Come on in.”

They stepped into a small
vestibule from which the weapons had already been removed, and walked through
it to a large, opulently furnished living room. The carpeting was thick and
expensive, the chairs and tables were crafted of rare hardwoods from distant
Doradus IV, the lighting was discreet and indirect, a large window overlooked
the city, alien art objects were displayed in abundance, and the walls were
covered by literally scores of icons and gold and silver crucifixes. A pudgy
man with thinning gray hair, clad in a silk lounge suit, stood in the middle of
the room, a huge smile on his face.

“How the hell are you?” said
Socrates, walking over and giving Cain a friendly bear hug. “What have you been
doing with yourself since the old days, Sebastian?”

“Bounty hunting.”

“Well, why not?” said Socrates.
“Killing people was always one of the things you did best.” He smiled. “Damn,
but it’s been a long time! Have a seat. Can I get you something to drink?”

“Later, perhaps,” said Cain,
sitting down on the couch. “How come I don’t see any bodyguards?”

“What for? I’m a respectable
businessman, and I don’t keep any cash up here.”

“There are probably some people on
Sylaria who’d like to see you dead,” suggested Cain.

Socrates laughed. “Even if they
knew how to find me, which they don’t, I very much doubt that any of them even
remember me. They’ve overthrown four or five dictators since I left.” He turned
to Terwilliger. “Are you a bounty hunter, too?”

“Nope,” replied the gambler,
amused. “I’m just a visitor who appreciates your offer of a drink.”

“What’ll it be?”

“Anything that’s wet.”

Socrates walked to a wall and
touched a particular spot on it, and a moment later a panel slid back to reveal
a small but well-stocked bar.

“How about whiskey?”

“Whiskey’s fine,” said
Terwilliger, swinging a small, straight-backed chair around, throwing a leg
over it, and pressing his chest against the back of it. Socrates poured the
drink and handed it to the gambler, then turned to Cain.

“Damn, but it’s good to see you
again, Sebastian!” said Socrates, sitting down opposite him on a beautifully
handcrafted chair. “It must be—what?—maybe twenty years now.”

“Twenty-one,” said Cain.

“I hope you’re doing well.”

“I’ve got no complaints.”

“Neither have I, when you get
right down to it. In point of fact, I’ve embarked on a whole new life—new name,
new world, new money.”

“I see you still have the same
taste for life’s little luxuries,” remarked Cain, indicating the expensive
furnishings.

“True,” was the answer. “But then,
what’s life without a few luxuries?” He paused. “So tell me, Sebastian, why
have you paid a visit to me after all this time?”

“Information.”

Suddenly Socrates was all
business.

“Buying or selling?”

“Buying.”

“I’ve got someone coming by in a
few minutes, so we’ll have to make this briefer than I’d like, though perhaps
we can have dinner later and talk about old times. In the meantime, what kind
of information are you after?”

“I’m looking for someone. You can
help me find him.”

“If it’s within my power. Who is
he?”

“Santiago.”

Socrates frowned. “I’m sorry,
Sebastian. Ask me about anyone else, and there won’t be any charge for the
answer.”

“I’m not looking for anyone else,”
said Cain.

“Then you should be. Leave him
alone.”

“A friendly warning?” asked Cain.

“A serious one. He’s out of your
league.” Socrates paused. “Hell, he’s out of
everyone’s
league.”

“Then what does he want with a
loan shark?”

“I’m a
financier
,”
replied Socrates.

“I know exactly what you are,”
said Cain. “What I don’t know is why he has to deal with you. He can’t be short
of money.”

“I have, from time to time,
arranged meetings between the various parties in a business transaction.”
Socrates smiled. “My calling, as I see it, is to match opportunists with
opportunities.”

“From what I can see, I would have
thought your calling lay along different lines,” said Cain, indicating the
crucifixes and icons.

Socrates shrugged. “One does what
one must. The good Lord is very understanding—especially when He sees the size
of my weekly donations.”

“I’ll make a healthy donation
myself if you can tell me what I need to know about Santiago.”

“Out of the question.”

“Name your price.”

“There isn’t any price,” replied
Socrates. “It’s not for sale.”

“Not to put too fine a point on
it, Whittaker, everything you’ve ever owned was for sale.”

Socrates sighed deeply. “You’re
referring to Sylaria, no doubt.”

“As a matter of fact, I was,” said
Cain.

“That was an entirely different
situation. I took over a corrupt and stagnant government—”

“And made it so much worse that
the Democracy finally bought you off.”

“That is an unfair and unjustified
comment, Sebastian.”

“Come on, Whittaker. I was there
when your firing squads slaughtered ten thousand men and women.”

“We all make mistakes,” said
Socrates easily. “I’ll be the first to admit that was one of mine.”

“I’m sure it’s a comfort to them
to know you feel that way.”

“I should have killed thirty
thousand,” said Socrates seriously.

Terwilliger chuckled, while Cain
merely stared at him.

“After a revolution,” continued
Socrates, “you either assimilate your enemies or you dispose of them. The one
thing you don’t do is leave them free to plot against you. There were too many
to assimilate, so I should have gotten rid of them. As it turned out, I was too
soft-hearted; I
believed
all that guff I used to
spout. So I spent ninety percent of my time protecting my ass and ten percent
trying to put Sylaria back on its feet. Is it any wonder that I failed?”

“You did more than fail,
Whittaker,” said Cain. “You left it a hell of a lot worse than you found it.”

“I very much doubt that,” replied
Socrates. “I may have raised taxes and kept martial law in effect, but I got
rid of the illegal searches and allowed some local elections.”

“And assassinated the winners.”

“Only some of them. Just the ones
who were trying to sabotage my regime.” He smiled. “Besides, in the long run
they won, didn’t they? I mean, hell, they’re in control of the damned planet,
and here I am, hiding out under an alias.”

“After plundering the treasury,”
noted Cain.

“Travel expenses and incidentals,”
said Socrates with a shrug. “The Democracy didn’t pay me all that much to
vacate my position—certainly not as much as it should have.” He leaned back
comfortably on his chair. “You’ve got to learn to be a realist, Sebastian.”

“I’ve become one,” said Cain.
“Thanks in no small part to yourself.”

“You see? There’s no need for this
residual bitterness. We’ve each gone on to become better people. I have found
God, as well as modest fortune, and you have become a successful bounty hunter
and a realist. Obviously Sylaria did us both a lot of good.”

“Did you
find
God, or did you buy Him off?”

“It’s all a matter of viewpoint,”
answered Socrates. “I contribute thousands of credits to His churches and sing
His praises every morning, and He pretty much protects me and helps take care
of business. It’s a mutually nourishing relationship.”

“I’m sure,” said Cain wryly. “But
we’re getting away from the subject.”

“Sylaria?”

“Santiago.”

Socrates shook his head. “I
already told you: that subject is closed.”

“What’ll it cost to open it?”

“More money than you’ll ever
have,” said Socrates. “All the Democracy could do was depose me. I assure you
Santiago can do a lot worse.”

“Santiago’s not the only one,”
said Cain, reaching into one of his many pockets and withdrawing a small
ceramic weapon, which he pointed at Socrates.

“How did you get that past my
security system?” asked Socrates with no show of fear or alarm.

Cain smiled. “Do you think you’re
the only person in the galaxy with a security system? Bounty hunters see them
every day. The molecular structure of this gun has been altered so that it
won’t show up on any detection device.”

“Very ingenious,” commented
Socrates. “But it still won’t do you any good. After all, if you kill me, how
can I tell you what I know?” He slowly reached into a pocket, withdrew a cigar,
and lit it.

“And if you refuse to tell me,”
responded Cain, “why should I let you live?”

“You’re a bounty hunter,” said
Socrates confidently. “You kill for money. There’s no price on my head.”

“Don’t push your luck,” said Cain.
“You’re one man I wouldn’t mind killing for free.”

Socrates chuckled in amusement.
“We turned out a strange crop of humanitarians back on Sylaria, didn’t we?”

“I’d be a little more worried if I
were you, friend,” said Terwilliger. “That’s the Songbird pointing that pistol
in your direction.”

“Is that supposed to mean
something?” asked Socrates, puffing on his cigar and displaying a total lack of
concern.

“It means he’ll do what he says
he’ll do,” said Terwilliger. “This is just business to him. He does it all the
time.”

“I’m counting on his being just a
little bit brighter than you,” replied Socrates calmly. “Killing me won’t get
him the information he wants, and you already know that I’m expecting company
momentarily.”

“There’s no reason to let you live
unless
you tell me what I want to know,” said Cain.
“As for your visitor, you’ve been known to lie before.”

“Not this time, Sebastian,” said
Socrates, checking his timepiece. “She’s already a few minutes late.” He
smiled, “She’s a reporter. You kill me now and you’ll make every newscast from
here to Deluros.”

Cain stared at him for a long
moment. Then he glanced quickly around the room.

“That’s a very pretty bowl,” he
said, indicating a delicate fluted structure. “Made by Canphorites?”

“Robelians,” replied Socrates.
“Why?”

“What’s it worth—about twenty
thousand credits?”

“Give or take.”

Cain fired off a quick shot, and
the object shattered into a thousand tiny pieces as Terwilliger emitted a
startled yell.

“What the hell are you doing?”
demanded Socrates furiously. He jumped to his feet, then sat back down just as
quickly when Cain pointed the weapon at him again.

“Negotiating,” answered Cain. “How
much did you pay for the gold crucifix with the jeweled Christ?”

“Damn it, Sebastian! That’s a priceless
work of art!”

“You’ve got ten seconds to put a
price on it,” replied Cain. “And if you haven’t told me what I want to know,
you’ve got one more second to kiss it good-bye.”

Socrates slumped back in his
chair. “Destroy them all,” he said resignedly. “I can replace them easier than
I can replace
me
.”

“You mean it, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“Maybe I’ve been approaching this
all wrong.” Cain lowered his aim a few inches. “What’s the going price on a
kneecap?”

“Not high enough.” said Socrates
defiantly.

“Courage from Whittaker Drum? Now
that
is
surprising.”

“I’m no hero,” said Socrates. “But
there’s nothing you can do to me that’ll compare to what
he
can do.”