Oracle by Mike Resnick Read Free Book Online Page B

contorted in agony, saw him and reached out a trembling, supplicating hand. Chandler stared at her for a moment with an expression of distaste, then turned away and continued walking.
    Finally they came to a spacious lounge. There were no chairs or couches in it, just a number of large pillows on the floor. Some eleven men and eight women sat or lay upon them, some in clusters of two and three, some alone. Many of them looked bewildered, as if they were just coming down from a high; others looked anxious, as if they were preparing for one. A few merely looked bored. There were half a dozen Domarian actigraphs on the walls, three-dimensional creations of concentric circles and intricately weaving lines that pulsed with energy and had an almost hypnotic effect upon the viewer.
    Suddenly Gin stopped and tensed.
    "Where is he?” asked Chandler softly.
    "See those two guys talking in the corner?” whispered Gin, indicating a bald, rotund man dressed in a blue satin outfit and a small, wiry man with a widow's peak and an aquiline nose, who wore an expensively-tailored white tunic.
    "Yes."
    "The fat one is Omar Tripoli. He's a banker, and he owns a couple of nightclubs in the Antarrean Quarter. The little guy is the Surgeon."
    "He doesn't look like much,” noted Chandler.
    "The graveyards are full of people who didn't think he looked like much."
    Chandler stared at the Surgeon for another moment, then turned to Gin. “Wait here,” he ordered the driver.
    "He's probably armed,” whispered Gin.
    "Just do what I say,” answered Chandler, walking across the room and coming to a halt next to Omar Tripoli.
    "We're having a private conversation,” said the Surgeon without looking up.
    "I know,” said Chandler.
    "Then go away,” said the Surgeon.
    Chandler remained where he was, silent and motionless.
    Finally the Surgeon looked at the man who was confronting him and got to his feet. “You don't listen very good, do you?"
    "I haven't heard anything worth listening to,” replied Chandler.
    "You're taking a big chance, friend,” said Tripoli.
    "Not as big a chance as you're taking, Mr. Tripoli,” replied Chandler.
    "What do you mean?” asked Tripoli nervously.
    "You mean the Surgeon hasn't told you?” said Chandler with mock surprise.
    "Told me what?"
    "That he's leaving Port Marrakech this evening and going into a different business. If I were you, I wouldn't pay him another credit."
    "All right!” snapped the Surgeon. “Just who the hell are you?"
    "Your successor,” said Chandler. He paused. “I think if you hurry, you can just make the flight to Binder X."
    "You've got balls, mister, I'll give you that,” said the Surgeon. “I wonder how you'll feel when you see them rolling across the floor?"
    "Save your threats,” said Chandler calmly. “Mr. Tripoli isn't impressed by them—and neither am I."
    Suddenly a wicked-looking knife appeared in the Surgeon's right hand. “Are you going to tell me who you are, or am I going to have to take your ID off your body?"
    "I've no objection to telling you. My name's Chandler."
    "I never heard of you."
    "That's just one of my names. Some people call me the Whistler."
    The Surgeon's eyes widened briefly, but he didn't lower the knife or back away.
    "You can still walk out of here,” said Chandler. “In fact, as long as you're turning your business over to me, I'll even pay for your ticket."
    "You think you can buy me off with a spaceship ticket?” said the Surgeon with a harsh laugh.
    "Not really,” answered Chandler. “But I thought I'd offer you the opportunity to live."
    "I've got a little something to offer you!” grated the Surgeon. He flipped his knife back and forth between his hands a number of times, then lunged forward with his left hand extended.
    Chandler grabbed his wrist, sidestepped the thrust, and then, more rapidly than Tripoli or Gin could follow, delivered three quick blows, one to the groin, one to the Adam's apple, and a final one upward against the