“Ol‘ Bill always says stuff like that,” confided Buck Short. He grabbed the bottle and sloshed some of the contents into the two glasses, then picked one up. “Wai, here’s mud in yer eye!”
“Right-o,” said Phule, and took a sip. He nearly spit it out-the “red-eye” seemed to be predominantly fusel oil with other less palatable congeners. He sputtered a moment, then managed to ask, “This is the good stuff?”
“Best we got,” said Short, setting down his empty glass. “Hey, this is Cut ‘N’ Shoot, pardner. You warn’t ex-pectin‘ one of those fizzy drinks with little um-brel-lies, was you?”
“I guess not,” said Phule, shaking his head to clear it. “By the way, did you say you had a plan for finding my man Beeker?”
Short nodded. “Well, we rents you a hoss, and then I saddles up ol‘ Dale-8…”
“Day late?” asked Phule, puzzled.
“Dale-8-that’s my trusty steed,” said Short. “Always liked the name ‘Dale’-that’s what I calls all my trusty steeds. First seven of ‘em done gone plumb busted, but this one’s a real peach. Jes’ keeps on runnin’-can’t hardly wear ‘im out.”
“I see,” said Phule. “But what do we need him for?”
“Why, we gotta go find yer man-and the lady,” said Short. “I reckon they’s run off to Injun territory…”
“Injun territory?”
“Hey, watch it,” said the bartender. “Them’s folks, too-don’t go slurrin‘ on ’em.”
Short gave a derisive snort. “Folks? Hell, Bill, don’t go givin‘ ’em airs-they’s lots of ‘em robots, same as you.”
“Robots? I don’t get it,” said Phule.
“Well, didn’t nobody else much want the job,” confided Short. “Ain’t too many folks wants to give up a spot in a nice civilized world to live out in a drafty tent without no runnin‘ water or ’lectricity or even tri-vee, and everybody’s hand set against you. Oh, we got some real Injuns, all right-had to have a few jes’ to set the right tone. But we couldn’t get too many, and had to get robots for the rest, which was hard enough, seein‘ what prices is nowadays. But I reckon it jes’ wouldn’t be Cut ’N‘ Shoot without Injuns.”
“If you say so,” said Phule, shaking his head. “I guess you’re the local expert. So when do you think we can start?”
“Let me have another toot, and we’ll hop right to it,” said Buck Short. He poured another glass and offered the bottle to Phule, who declined, with a shudder. Short shrugged and drank it down, then put his fingers to his lips and gave a shrill whistle. “Hi-yoh Dale!” he shouted.
A clattering noise came from the front of the building, and Phule turned in time to see a large metallic shape barge through the swinging doors. “Here I am, boss,” said the ro-bosteed, in a voice that carried just a hint of a whinny.
“Hey, I thought I told you not to bring that hoss in here,” shouted Bill, the bartender. “You gonna mess up my place!”
“Hell, no,” said Short. “He’s a robot, remember? He ain’t gonna crap on yer floor, which is more than you can say for half the reg’lar customers.” He leapt into the saddle, then reached a hand down for Phule. “C’mon, Cap’n, we gonna go huntin‘!”
Phule took the proffered hand, leapt up behind the cowboy, and in a moment they were out the door and on their way.
The spaceport stagecoach dropped Sushi and Do-Wop off in the middle of a small town, not much more than a crossroads in the dusty landscape. The sun had set beyond the western hills, and a few lights-dim ones, by the standards of most advanced worlds-provided the only illumination on the rustic scene.
Luckily, one of the lights was outside a building that bore a sign with the word hotel, and the two legionnaires made a beeline for it. There, on a bench on the plank sidewalk, lounged an old codger smoking an imitation corncob pipe. “Hi, there,” said Sushi. “Can you tell me the name of this town?”
“Damfino,” said the man, not bothering to remove the pipe from his mouth.
“What, are you stupid?” snapped Do-Wop, who had not enjoyed the stagecoach ride at all. “Don’t you even know the name of this dump?”
This time the codger took his pipe out of his mouth. “I said, ‘Damfino,’ pilgrim,” he said.
“Yo, turkey-face,” Do-Wop growled. He brushed past Sushi, who was pointing upward and rolling his eyes meaningfully. “Are you tryin‘ to get smart with me?”
“No, ye gol-durn idjit,” said the codger, glaring at Do-Wop. “I’ve lived here all my life-ask anybody. And Damfino’s the name of the town.” He pointed to the sign above him, which on closer inspection Do-Wop could read in its entirety: damfino hotel.
“I tried to tell you,” Sushi said to a sullen Do-Wop, as he opened the door to their hotel room. He plopped down on one of the beds, and said, “Anyhow, now that we’re here, we’ve got to figure out where Beeker’s staying, get word to the captain so he can go find him, and then our job will be done.“
“Why don’t you just hack the Net to find out where he’s staying?” asked Do-Wop. “I bet it’s there, if you went lookin‘.”
“Not enough computer power,” said Sushi, patiently. “If I had the captain’s Port-a-Brain, or the mil-spec equipment I have back on Zenobia, no sweat-I’d probably have it before bedtime. With what I’ve got here, we might not find out anything useful until the captain and Beeker leave the planet, and their computer registers as it goes out through customs.”
Do-Wop nodded. “So you could find the captain if you had the captain’s computer, but we don’t know where he is, so we can’t get it, so we can’t find him. Ain’t that just the way it always works? Stinker.”
‘That’s about the size of it,“ said Sushi. ”If either the captain or Beeker would disable their computer’s security, we might be able to figure out where they are. But that’s about as likely as one of them learning to breathe methane.“
Do-Wop considered. “Hows about we spread a rumor that the security is really a bug, so they turn it off?”
Sushi shook his head. “Won’t work,” he said at last. “Even if the captain and Beeker fell for it, they’d get too frustrated trying to get around the safeguards. A Port-a-Brain’s security is set so a casual user can’t just override it. That’s part of what you’re paying for.”
“Well, I ain’t payin‘ for it, and if I could, there’d be a bunch of other things I could use the money for,” said Do-Wop. “But I get your point. These rich guys don’t get their hands dirty-they think there’s somethin’ wrong, they call some rent-a-geek to fix it.”
“Which would be fine if I’m the guy they’d call,” said Sushi. “But Port-a-Brain probably has a repair shop on any world big enough to have electricity. Which even includes this faux-rustic would-be paradise.“
“They hide it pretty good,” said Do-Wop, looking around the hotel room. In fact, the designers had made every effort to give the room the appearance of something from before the electronic age. Electrical outlets were concealed behind wooden panels, as was the tri-vee set. The lighting fixture gave off a flickering yellowish illumination that was a fair simulation of a kerosene lantern-although they hadn’t taken realism to the point of simulating the smell of kerosene (which few of the guests would have recognized, in any case).
The locals had plenty of modern machinery, although most of it was well hidden in kitchens, back rooms, and other areas where tourists rarely intruded. Robots were configured to resemble mules, oxen, and other “authentic frontier creatures.” Cut ‘N’ Shoot’s founders were sensible businessmen, not members of some cult of perverse self-denial. Even the most authenticity-hungry tourists weren’t usually ready to leave behind basic conveniences. You might as well have asked them to do without their personal entertainment and communications devices.