The Rhymer heard about him and was touched by his story, and even though they never met, no one who knew Tchanga ever argued with the truth of the poem.
"So what makes this Rough Rider so special?" asked Matilda as Dimitrios directed their ship to Gingergreen II after dropping Jacobs off at the nearest bounty station. "The word I get is that he's lost his nerve."
"He was my hero when I was a kid."
"That was a long time ago."
"The qualities that made him a hero haven't changed," said Dimitrios.
"But other things have changed him," she said. "So why, of all the people you might have suggested, are we seeing the Rough Rider?"
"To give him a chance to save his soul."
"We're not in the salvation business," said Matilda.
"Really?" said Dimitrios wryly. "I thought Santiago was going to be the salvation of the Inner Frontier."
"You know what I mean."
"Yeah, I know."
"Then why him?"
"When I was a kid, I wanted to grow up to be the Rough Rider," said Dimitrios. "A man who couldn't be bought off or scared off. A man who knew that the humanists are wrong, that there is good and there is evil, and both are abroad in the galaxy, and that someone had to confront evil and destroy it. You slept better knowing there were men like Wilson Tchanga."
She got to her feet and walked to the small galley. "I'm getting hungry. Do you want anything before we land?"
"Yeah, might as well," he said, joining her.
"I hope this Tchanga is everything you think he is."
"He was once."
"That's not much of a recommendation," said Matilda. She sighed. "I've never recruited a Santiago before. I don't know if I'm doing it right." She ordered beer and sandwiches for both of them. "I hope you've got the right man, but somehow I can't believe it's this easy."
"We'll know soon enough," said Dimitrios. "And don't forget, all but the first Santiago had an advantage ours won't have—a ready-made organization. Maybe they had to take it over, convince it, mold it to their needs, but it was there. Our man will have you, me and the poet. That's not much of an army to stand against the Democracy."
"Then we'll get more."
"Where?"
She shrugged. "Where we got you."
"Bounty hunters?" he replied. "There aren't that many of us, and most bounty hunters don't have any reason to be unhappy with the Democracy."
"No, not bounty hunters," answered Matilda. "Just men and woman who know the time has come for Santiago to walk among us again."
"When you describe him like that, he sounds bigger than life," noted Dimitrios.
"He is."
"That's a lot to ask of one man."
"Maybe that's why it's been a century since he last manifested himself."
"You make him sound like he's still alive."
"He is," said Matilda. "He's an idea—and it's harder to kill an idea than a man."
Dimitrios took a bite of his sandwich, then tossed the rest of it into the atomizer. "Next big one I bring in, I'm using the money to buy a ship with a better galley," he announced.
She stared at her sandwich. "It's not spoiled."
"No. It's just not good enough. Like most of your candidates for Santiago. They won't be evil, and they won't be stupid. They just won't be good enough."
"Well, I like it," she said, taking another bite.
"I hope you're choosier when it comes to Santiago."
"You worry about your Rough Rider; I'll worry about my decision."
"Fair enough."
They finished their beer and returned to the control cabin just as the ship went into an elliptical orbit around Gingergreen II. A moment later they received their landing coordinates from the sole spaceport, and shortly thereafter they were on the ground.
"So where do we find the Rough Rider?" asked Matilda when they had cleared Customs.
"I've got directions to his place," answered Dimitrios. "It's out in the country."
She looked around. "Except for maybe a square mile, the whole damned planet's out in the country."
"It's an agricultural world," said Dimitrios. "They grow food for seven nearby mining worlds."
"They don't need a whole world for that. Most of the mining's done by machine."
"Then they sell what's left to the Navy at rock bottom prices . . . or maybe they just give it to them in exchange for being ignored."
"Ignored?" she repeated.
"At tax and conscription time."
"Were you ever in the Navy?"
"The Army."
"For how long?"
"53 days."
"And then what?" she persisted.
"And then I wasn't in the Army any more," said Dimitrios, and for the first time since she'd known him, she felt a trace of fear.
She followed him in silence to a ground vehicle, and a moment later they were speeding out of the planet's only town, skimming a few inches above a dirt road that took them through blue-tinted fields of mutated corn. Finally, after about 20 miles, Dimitrios instructed the vehicle to take the shortest route to a location that consisted only of numbers, no words.
It turned onto a smaller, narrower road, bore right through two forks, and finally came to a halt before a small one-story home. Dimitrios and Matilda got out of the vehicle and approached the front porch.
"That's far enough!" said a voice from within the house. "Who are you?"
"I'm Dimitrios of the Three Burners," said the bounty hunter, holding his hands out where they could be seen. "This is Waltzin' Matilda, a dancer."
"What's your business here?"
"We want to talk to you."
"What about?"
"Why don't you invite us in and give us something to drink and we'll be happy to tell you," said Matilda.
"The man drops his burners where you stand," said the voice.
Dimitrios unfastened his holster and let it fall to the ground.
"And the one in your boot."
"Good eyes for an old man," said Dimitrios with a smile. He removed the third burner and placed it atop the other two.
"You got any weapons?"
"I just took them off," said Dimitrios.
"Not you. The lady."
"None," said Matilda.
"You'd better be telling the truth. You'll be scanned when you walk through the door, and I'll have the punisher set on near- lethal."
"Well, let me check and make sure," said Matilda. In quick order she found two knives and a miniature screecher and left them next to Dimitrios' pile of weapons. "I must have forgotten about them," she said with an uneasy smile.
"Can we come in now?" asked Dimitrios.
"Yes—and keep your hands where I can see them."
They obeyed his instructions, got past the scanner without incident, and found themselves in a small, modestly-furnished living room. Standing against the far wall was a tall black man, his face ravaged by illness and inner demons, his body emaciated, a pulse gun in his right hand.