"Thou dost not mean he hated good folk!"
"That is perhaps an overstatement," Fess said, "yet not quite so far off the mark as it might be."
"But folk cannot live without other folk!"
"On the contrary, they can. They will be emotionally starved, of course—but such people frequently are emotionally crippled to begin with."
Cordelia shuddered. "How couldst thou think any good of mortal folk with such as that to form thine opinion?"
"Because I was constantly exposed to good people, Cordelia—or to news of them, at least."
Magnus frowned. "How couldst thou be?"
"Because most of the Belt folk were lonely, and wished company. They sought it the only way they could—by radio and video communication with others. I, of course, had to be ever vigilant, listening to the constant stream of chatter, in case some event should occur that would affect my owner—and as a result, I came to learn of all manner of people—some bad, some good, some quite evil, some very good. I learned of events, both important and insignificant. I think I remember best the time when an asteroid's dome failed—a force field that enclosed the atmosphere the people breathed."
Cordelia stared, shocked. "How could they have lived?"
"They did not—they died, with the exception of a technician and a tourist, both of whom happened to be in space suits at the time, and a little girl, who survived under rather unique circumstances."
"Oh, that must have wrung the heart of thee!"
"I have no 'heart,' as you call it, Cordelia—but I did learn a great deal about the abilities of people to sacrifice for one another, as I tracked her through the remainder of her childhood."
"Tell us of her then!" Gregory cried.
"Oh, 'tis all weepy lass's stuff!" Geoffrey objected.
"Not entirely, Geoffrey, for there was a villain involved, and a bit of fighting."
The boy's eyes glittered. "Tell!"
"Willingly, for it is part of your heritage. The hero of the tale is a quite unlikely specimen, for he was a reformed criminal."
"Indeed! Who was he?"
"He came to be called 'Whitey the Wino' after he reformed, and he earned his living by making up songs and singing them in taverns…"
Whitey struck a last chord from his keyboard and lifted his hands high, grinning at the burst of applause from the customers. "Thank you, thank you." His amplified voice boomed out through the cabaret—at least, they called it that. "Glad you liked it." Yeah, and the shape you're in, you'd like anything right now. But you don't get cheers by insulting your audience, nor return engagements either, so he kept the smile on and waited till the applause slackened, then said, "I'm going to take a little rest now, but I'll be back real soon. You take one too, okay?" Then he waved and turned away, with cheers and laughter behind him. Yeah, take one—or two, or three. Then you'll think whatever I do is great.
He shouldn't be so bitter, of course—they were paying his livelihood. But fifty-three, and he was still singing in glorified taverns on backwater moons!
Patience, he told himself. After all, there had been that record producer on vacation, who'd heard him and signed him before he sobered up. But he'd come back the next day with a studio booked, and Whitey had cut the wafer, and it had sold—with a low rating, yes, but a low rating of a hundred billion people on fifty-some odd planets is still twenty million, and Whitey got six per cent. It kept him alive, even under a dome on an asteroid or a lifeless moon, and paid his passage to the next planet. He never had trouble finding a cabaret who was willing to pay him now, so its patrons could hear him chant his songs. Then that critic had gone into rhapsodies about his verses being poems from the folk tradition, and a professor or two had agreed with him (anything for another article in print, Whitey supposed) and there had been another burst of sales, so here he was back in the Solar System, even if it was only on Triton, to cut another wafer. He hoped the professor wouldn't be too disappointed when he found out Whitey had a college degree.
All right, so a few million people are willing to keep you alive so they can hear your verses. Does that mean you're good?
He tried to throw off the mood—it meant he was good enough, he thought as he stepped into the glorified closet that the cabaret laughingly called a "green room." Well, at least it had someplace for the entertainers to relax between sets—more than a lot of clubs had.
He looked around, frowning. Where was that wine Hilda had promised him? Promised to have it waiting, too.
Ah, there she came, diving through the door, sailing in Triton's low gravity, out of breath. "Sorry, Whitey. There was a hold-up."
"Don't give them anything—it's a water pistol." Whitey reached out and plucked the glass from her as she braked against the other chair. "What was his name?"
"Terran Post Express." Hilda took an envelope from her bodice and handed it to him. "For Mr. Tod Tambourin."
Whitey winced at the sound of his real name. "Official, huh?"
"I'll say. Who knew you were here?"
"My producer." Whitey grinned, stroking the letter lasciviously as he eyed her.
"Don't give me that—if you meant it, you'd be trying to pet me, not the letter. What is it?"
"Probably money." Whitey slit the envelope.
She could almost hear his face hit the ground. "Who… who is it?"
"Lawyers," he told her. "My son's."
Not that he had ever known the boy that well, Whitey reflected, as he webbed himself into the seat on the passenger liner. Hard to get to know your son when you're hardly ever home. And Henrietta hadn't wanted him to be, after she realized her mistake—at least, that's what she had called it when she had figured out he wasn't going to settle down and become a nice safe asteroid miner, like a sensible man. She didn't approve of the way he made his living, either—selling exotic pharmaceuticals at an amazing discount, on planets where they were highly taxed. Totally illegal, and his first big regret—but she'd been plenty willing to take the money he'd sent back, oh yes—until that horrible trip when he'd landed on a tariff-free planet, and couldn't even make enough profit to ship out, and had found out, the hard way, what his stock-in-trade could do to his clients.
So no more drugs, for him or his customers—only wine, and beer at the most. He hadn't needed to smuggle any more, anyway—he had enough invested, he could live on the interest. Or his wife and boy could, while he eked out a living wandering from bar to bar, singing for shekels. The accommodations weren't too great, but other than that, it wasn't so different. He'd missed his son's early years though, and was beginning to think of going back to Ceres and getting to know him. Henrietta couldn't be all that bad.
Then he'd had the letter from the lawyer, and decided maybe she could. He'd had to live on his singing after that, because the court had given Henrietta all the stocks and bonds, and the kid. Whitey didn't have a leg to stand on—so he'd missed the lad's middle years, and teen years, too, because Henrietta had taken the money and the boy and emigrated to Falstaff, where Whitey couldn't follow—he didn't have the money for a ticket any more.
Not that he was about to try. In fact, he was ashamed for even thinking about it.
Of course, there was the chance that the kid might have wanted to meet him, when he grew up—so Whitey had written him a letter, when he found out that the kid had come back to Ceres. But the boy sent him a pointed note, one, and very pointed—"Stay out of my life." Not much arguing with that—and not much of a surprise, considering all the things Henrietta had told him about his father, some of which were actually true. So Whitey had lived with his second big regret, and gone on singing.
Ceres! Why did the kid have to go back there?
Because it was where he'd spent his boyhood, of course—nice to know it must have been halfway happy.