Port Marrakech?"
"There are a lot of Chandlers in the galaxy. What makes you think I'm the Whistler?"
"How many Chandlers come out of the spaceport with five guns and a knife hidden on their persons?” grinned Gin. “That was your first mistake. My groundcar's got a security system that registers on the dash."
"I know,” said Chandler calmly. “I spotted it the second you opened the door for me."
"You did?"
Chandler nodded. “I figured it was for your own protection. After all, if it was against the law to bring weapons onto the planet, they'd have stopped me at Spaceport Security."
"Makes sense,” admitted Gin. “Still, there are ways of landing here without being spotted. By morning, everyone will know that the Whistler is on Port Marrakech."
"Do you plan to tell them?"
Gin shook his head. “I won't have to. By now someone in Spaceport Security has checked out your ship's registration, or run your retinagram through a computer, or just out-and-out recognized you. Especially if you used Chandler as your name."
"So they know who I am,” said Chandler. “So what? From what I can tell, this place is loaded with killers and worse."
"You didn't come here for your health,” said Gin. “I've heard all about you: When the Whistler shows up, people start dying."
"I'm not after anyone on Port Marrakech. If I was, nobody would know I was here."
"Yeah, I believe you,” said Gin. He paused. “So what are you doing here?"
"You're supposed to be answering questions, not me,” said Chandler. “What do you think was my other mistake?"
"You asked me for a hotel.” Gin smiled. “Not smart. A killer shouldn't let people know he's come to town, and he sure as hell shouldn't let people know where he's staying."
"Unless what?” asked Chandler.
Gin stared at him. “Unless you want people to know you're here."
"That's right."
"Then you must be after someone on Port Samarkand or Port Maracaibo.” He frowned. “But that doesn't make any sense. Why would you land here?"
"Why I landed here is my concern,” said Chandler as the waiter arrived with another drink for Gin.
"You sure you don't want to tell me who you're after, Whistler? I've got pretty good connections. Maybe I could help you find him"—he paused and grinned—"for a small consideration."
"I'm not after a who, I'm after a what: information, remember?"
Gin sighed. “Have it your way. I was just trying to be helpful."
"You're not trying hard enough,” said Chandler. “We've been here ten minutes and you haven't told me a damned thing."
"What do you want to know?"
There was only one piece of information Chandler actually wanted, which was how to get to Hades—but he spent the next half hour asking numerous questions about Port Marrakech, at the end of which he knew more about the local trade in drugs, prostitution, and black market goods than he ever wanted to know.
"Sounds good,” he said at last. “Things have been slow on the Inner Frontier. I'm considering setting up shop here."
"You'll have lots of competition in your line of work,” said Gin.
"Not for long,” replied Chandler.
Gin stared at him and nodded his agreement. “No, I suppose you won't—not if you're half as good as they say you are."
"Could be that I'll need a driver who knows his way around, and can tell me where all the bodies are buried,” continued Chandler.
"Yeah?” said Gin, his face alive with interest.
"It's possible. Think you might know anyone who'd be interested in the job?"
Gin grinned. “You're looking at him."
"You've got a job."
"On a moon loaded with killers, I like the security of working for the best killer of all."
"Well, you're pretty good at talking, I'll give you that,” said Chandler. “How are you at keeping your mouth shut?"
"You can trust me, Whistler."
"If you come to work for me and I find that I can't trust you, I don't envy you your death.” Chandler paused. “Do you still want the job?"
"What does it pay?"
"More than
"There are a lot of Chandlers in the galaxy. What makes you think I'm the Whistler?"
"How many Chandlers come out of the spaceport with five guns and a knife hidden on their persons?” grinned Gin. “That was your first mistake. My groundcar's got a security system that registers on the dash."
"I know,” said Chandler calmly. “I spotted it the second you opened the door for me."
"You did?"
Chandler nodded. “I figured it was for your own protection. After all, if it was against the law to bring weapons onto the planet, they'd have stopped me at Spaceport Security."
"Makes sense,” admitted Gin. “Still, there are ways of landing here without being spotted. By morning, everyone will know that the Whistler is on Port Marrakech."
"Do you plan to tell them?"
Gin shook his head. “I won't have to. By now someone in Spaceport Security has checked out your ship's registration, or run your retinagram through a computer, or just out-and-out recognized you. Especially if you used Chandler as your name."
"So they know who I am,” said Chandler. “So what? From what I can tell, this place is loaded with killers and worse."
"You didn't come here for your health,” said Gin. “I've heard all about you: When the Whistler shows up, people start dying."
"I'm not after anyone on Port Marrakech. If I was, nobody would know I was here."
"Yeah, I believe you,” said Gin. He paused. “So what are you doing here?"
"You're supposed to be answering questions, not me,” said Chandler. “What do you think was my other mistake?"
"You asked me for a hotel.” Gin smiled. “Not smart. A killer shouldn't let people know he's come to town, and he sure as hell shouldn't let people know where he's staying."
"Unless what?” asked Chandler.
Gin stared at him. “Unless you want people to know you're here."
"That's right."
"Then you must be after someone on Port Samarkand or Port Maracaibo.” He frowned. “But that doesn't make any sense. Why would you land here?"
"Why I landed here is my concern,” said Chandler as the waiter arrived with another drink for Gin.
"You sure you don't want to tell me who you're after, Whistler? I've got pretty good connections. Maybe I could help you find him"—he paused and grinned—"for a small consideration."
"I'm not after a who, I'm after a what: information, remember?"
Gin sighed. “Have it your way. I was just trying to be helpful."
"You're not trying hard enough,” said Chandler. “We've been here ten minutes and you haven't told me a damned thing."
"What do you want to know?"
There was only one piece of information Chandler actually wanted, which was how to get to Hades—but he spent the next half hour asking numerous questions about Port Marrakech, at the end of which he knew more about the local trade in drugs, prostitution, and black market goods than he ever wanted to know.
"Sounds good,” he said at last. “Things have been slow on the Inner Frontier. I'm considering setting up shop here."
"You'll have lots of competition in your line of work,” said Gin.
"Not for long,” replied Chandler.
Gin stared at him and nodded his agreement. “No, I suppose you won't—not if you're half as good as they say you are."
"Could be that I'll need a driver who knows his way around, and can tell me where all the bodies are buried,” continued Chandler.
"Yeah?” said Gin, his face alive with interest.
"It's possible. Think you might know anyone who'd be interested in the job?"
Gin grinned. “You're looking at him."
"You've got a job."
"On a moon loaded with killers, I like the security of working for the best killer of all."
"Well, you're pretty good at talking, I'll give you that,” said Chandler. “How are you at keeping your mouth shut?"
"You can trust me, Whistler."
"If you come to work for me and I find that I can't trust you, I don't envy you your death.” Chandler paused. “Do you still want the job?"
"What does it pay?"
"More than
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