"You don't want to gamble," said Bailey.
"I don't?"
Bailey shook his head. "No, you don't. What you want is to get my Stelargan bar girl into the sack while I'm paying attention to your friend."
"What a thing to suggest!" said Virgil with mock outrage.
"Virgil, the last time you were here, two of my human girls and one of my Tilarbians had to seek psychiatric help to get over the experience. Next time it happens, you pay the bill."
"It was worth it."
"That's it!" snapped Tyrannosaur. "You sit here or you wait outside. There's no third way."
"I thought we were friends."
"We are—but we're not close friends. Now make your choice."
"I think I'll get a breath of air," said Virgil with all the dignity he could muster. He turned and slowly walked out into the street.
"Have a seat, poet," said Tyrannosaur after Virgil had left the casino.
"Thank you," said Dante, sitting down opposite the huge man.
"I approve of what you're doing," continued Bailey. "That poem is all the history we've got—and there's tens of millions of us out here. It's time someone added to it. I'm just as loyal to the Frontier as all those people we left behind are to the Democracy."
Dante didn't quite know what to say except to thank him again, so he remained silent.
"Interesting friend you've picked up," continued Bailey. "They're going to have to write two or three books just to cover the new perversions he's invented." He paused. "How many verses did you give him?"
"One."
Bailey nodded thoughtfully. "Who else have you written up?"
"Not too many," said Dante noncommittally. "I'm still getting my feet wet, so to speak."
"Well, assuming you live past tomorrow, you should find it a pretty easy job."
"Being the only historian for a third of the galaxy isn't all that easy. I suspect it can be quite a burden from time to time."
"I'm sure it was a burden for Orpheus," agreed Tyrannosaur. "But that's because someone had to be first. He paved the way. It should be a cakewalk for you."
"It'll be harder for me."
"Don't have the talent, huh?"
"I don't know. That's for others to judge. But Orpheus had a unifying theme."
"What theme was that?" asked Bailey.
"He had Santiago."
"Santiago wasn't a theme. He was a man."
"He was both. Everyone in the poem is valued based on how he related to Santiago."
"What are you talking about?" said Bailey. "I grew up on that poem! I can quote whole sections of it to you, and we both know that most of them never even knew Santiago!"
"The outlaws were compared to him, never very favorably. The bounty hunters and lawmen were measured based on how close they got to him. Preachers, thieves, aliens, even an itinerant barmaid, they all formed a kind of nebula around him. They were caught in the field generated by his strength and his charisma; Orpheus knew it, even if they didn't."
"So who's your Santiago?" asked Bailey.
"I don't have one . . . yet." The poet sighed. "That's why my job's harder."
"And you may not live past noon tomorrow."
Dante smiled ruefully. "That's another reason why my job's harder."
"So what's your name—Danny or Dante?"
"Dante Alighieri—but they call me the Rhymer."
"Who does?"
Dante made a grand gesture that encompassed half the universe. "Them."
"Them?"
"Well, they will someday."
"We'll see," said Bailey dubiously.
"What makes you an expert on poetry?" demanded Dante.
"I'm not," answered Bailey. "I'm an expert on survival." He stared at Dante. "You've already made a lot of mistakes. You're lucky you're still alive."
"What mistakes?"
"You hooked up with my friend Virgil, who attracts outraged moralists everywhere he goes. You made some kind of mistake at the spaceport, or Wait-a-bit Bennett would never have spotted you. You made a third mistake by sticking around after he made you that offer. He probably has a confederate watching your ship, but by tonight he'll be there himself, and I guarantee he's more dangerous than anyone he might hire." He paused. "How long have you been on the Frontier, poet? A week? Ten days? And you've already made three fatal blunders. Tomorrow you'll probably make a fourth."
"I don't know what I can do about it," said Dante. "I can't raise 50,000 credits by tomorrow morning."
"Sell your ship."
"Uh . . . it's not exactly my ship," said Dante.
"Make that four fatal blunders. The spaceport's got to have reported the registration back to the Democracy. You'll have another warrant out on you by dinnertime, and you've almost certainly got a squad of soldiers already flying out here to reclaim the ship—after they kill you for putting them to the trouble."
"So what do you think I should do?"
"I thought you'd never ask," said Tyrannosaur with a grin. "What you should do is hire a protector, someone who can stomp on Wait-a-bit Bennett as easily as you stomp on an insect."
"If I can't afford to buy him off, I can't afford to pay you to protect me," explained Dante.
"I don't want your money."
"What do you want?"
Bailey learned forward. "How many verses did you give Bennett? I want the truth, now."
"Three," said Dante.
"Then the man who kills him ought to get at least four, right?"
"Maybe five," agreed Dante.
Tyrannosaur extended an enormous hand. "You've got yourself a deal, poet."
Dante shook the giant's hand. "Call me Rhymer," he said with a smile.
"Rhymer it is!" said Bailey, gesturing to the purple-skinned Stelargan barmaid. "This calls for a drink!"
This calls for more than that. It calls for some serious thought. Here I am, the objective observer, the non-participant, the man who reports history but doesn't make it, and I've just commissioned a man's death. Sure, it's a man who's planning to kill me, but that's his job, and he did offer me a way out.
And then: I'm the only historian out here, as well as the only poet. What I write will become future generations' truth. Is Tyrannosaur Bailey worth five verses? Was Bennett worth three? What criteria do I apply—who saves me and who threatens me? Is that the way history really gets created?
And because he was nothing if not a realist, he had one last thought:
What the hell. Orpheus didn't leave any guidelines for the job, either. I'll just have to play it by ear and do the best I can—and how can I serve history or art if I die tomorrow at noon?
"Here you are, Rhymer," said Tyrannosaur, taking a drink in his massive paw and handing another to Dante.
"Thanks."
"Here's to five verses!"
"You've got 'em, even if he runs."
"Bennett?" asked Tyrannosaur. "He won't run."
"But he can't beat you." Suddenly Dante frowned. "Can he?"