The Barrios system was perfectly placed, on the main route between Terrazane, the huge world at the outskirts of the Oligarchy, and the Inner Frontier's vast Quinellus Cluster.
There were fourteen planets in all. Eight were gas giants. Four more were mining worlds that had long since been abandoned. The thirteenth boasted an ammonia atmosphere. But Barrios II was a bustling center of activity. It had started out as nothing but a refueling station. Then plutonium had been discovered, and it became the proudest of the system's mining world. When the plutonium ran out, it metamorphosed into an agricultural world, becoming the breadbasket for half a dozen nearby systems. Finally, thanks to its favorable location and its constantly-increasing population, it became a major financial world, dealing in thousands of rare commodities from the Inner Frontier, and handling literally hundreds of different currencies.
One of Barrios II's landmarks was the Gomorrah Palace, easily the biggest brothel on the Frontier, and quite possibly the oldest as well. This was not a swank, elegant temple of luxury like the fabled Velvet Comet, which drew its clientele from the wealthiest men and women in the galaxy. Instead, it was an efficiently-run operation, specializing in service rather than expensive fantasy. From its meager beginnings almost a century ago, it had undergone a series of facelifts and five additions, and now took up an entire city block. Some of the locals objected to it, as had their parents and grandparents, but since the Gomorrah Palace brought in more hard currency than any business on the planet except for the branch of the Bank of Deluros VIII, no one in authority ever seriously considered shutting it down as long as it paid its taxes.
Nighthawk looked at the front entrance to the Palace as he and Kinoshita approached it on foot.
"Not as impressive as one might expect, is it?" he remarked dryly.
"I told you it wasn't," replied Kinoshita defensively. "We could have stopped at Pollux IV."
"I was observing, not complaining. This is the place I want."
"I can't imagine why."
"Because the biggest whorehouse will have the biggest selection."
"Just as the best whorehouse will have the best selection," grumbled Kinoshita. "And the best whorehouse is about forty-five hundred light-years behind us."
"This'll do just fine."
"Whatever perverse needs you have, you could have taken care of them in much more luxurious surroundings on Pollux IV."
"I doubt it," said Nighthawk.
"Well, it may suit your tastes, but it sure as hell doesn't do much for me."
"Just as well. We won't be here long enough for you to avail yourself of their services anyway,"
Kinoshita stared at him curiously.
"Just stay in the bar and have a drink or two. I expect to be through before you're done."
"Maybe you're right, after all."
"About what?" asked Nighthawk,
"If you're that fast an operator, a whorehouse like the one on Pollux IV would be wasted on you."
Nighthawk allowed himself an amused smile as they reached the front door, which melted before them and reconstituted itself after they had passed through to the large lounge. There were prints and holos—no originals—on the walls, and a long, gleaming bar along one wall. A few men were discreetly sitting inside "line-up booths," selecting their companions for the evening.
A once-beautiful and still strikingly handsome middle-aged woman, obviously the madam—or one of them, at least—walked up to Nighthawk and Kinoshita after they'd each ordered a drink.
"Welcome to the Gomorrah Palace," she said. "I don't recognize either of you."
"It's our first visit," said Kinoshita.
"Did you have anything special in mind?" she asked.
"Not really."
"How about anyone special?" she continued with a knowing grin.
"It's possible," replied Nighthawk. "What have you got?"
"We have too many girls to do a live line-up," answered the madam. "But we can show you holographs of each of them."
"Fine," said Nighthawk. "Let's see them."
"Most men prefer the privacy of a booth when making their selection."
"My friend's just here to drink, and I'm not shy."
The madam shrugged. "Whatever you say."
She touched a small control on her bracelet, and suddenly a holograph of a gorgeous redheaded woman, no more than a foot high, floated a few inches above the bar. Nighthawk made no comment or gesture, and after a moment the holograph was replaced by another.
By the time the fortieth holo had appeared without eliciting any reaction from Nighthawk, both Kinoshita and the madam were wondering just what he was looking for. He found it in the forty-first holo.
"Stop."
Kinoshita stared at the holo in disbelief. "You're kidding!" he exclaimed at last.
"Why should you think so?"
"She's got to weigh three hundred pounds. And look at her features: she's not even human."
Nighthawk turned to the madam. "She's the one I want."
"I'm afraid that's not possible. She's in hospital."
"Have you got any other—?
"—Balatai women?" She completed his sentence. "Just one other. They're quite rare, you know."
"So I've been told."
"And consequently they cost extra."
"How much?"
The madam stared at him, as if sizing him up. "Twelve hundred credits?" It was as much a question as an answer.
Nighthawk stared at her without speaking, and she became visibly uneasy.
"This your first time here, right?" she asked at last.
"Yes."
"Hell, make it an even thousand. I wouldn't want you to be unhappy with us." She paused. "We'll also take payment in Far London pounds, Maria Theresa dollars, or New Bombay rupees. There's a five percent conversion charge. If you have any other currency, you'll have to exchange it at a bank."
"A thousand credits is acceptable."
She turned to Kinoshita. "And how about you? Are you sure we can't find someone to interest you?"
"I'm sure you can," said Kinoshita bitterly. "But I'll just stay here at the bar and wait for my friend."
The madam shrugged. "Whatever makes you happy."
"Being happy's got nothing to do with it," muttered Kinoshita.
"Lead the way," said Nighthawk. "And put my friend's bar bill on my tab."
"Happy to," she replied, as Nighthawk followed her down a long, dimly-lit corridor. A doorway dilated and they entered another building, then took an airlift to the third level.
"Here we are," said the madam, coming to a stop in front of an unmarked door. "You'll pay me now. Any tip you arrange will be paid directly to the lady of your choice."
She pulled out a pocket computer, which registered Nighthawk's retina and thumbprint, paused for about ten seconds, and flashed a credit approval code.
"Enjoy," said the madam, turning and walking back to the airlift.
Nighthawk looked for a handle or a knob, couldn't find one, and finally said, "Open". The door slid back into a wall as he stepped through, then closed behind him.
Laying on a bed in a corner of the room, wearing something black, lacy and skimpy, was a female. At first glance she appeared to be a normal human woman, but there were enough differences so that even the casual observer would quickly realize that while she had come from human stock, her branch of the Tree of Man had been evolving and changing for more than a few generations.
Her ears were round and lobeless. Her fingers were all of the same length. She had only four toes on each foot. Her pupils were not round but vertical slits. Her knees and elbows seemed somehow exaggerated, almost swollen.
Nighthawk stood where he was, carefully observing her. At first the woman struck a provocative pose, then another. Finally she stared at him, studying him as carefully as he was studying her.
"All right," she said after a minute had passed. "What's going on here?"
"I just bought you for the night."
"Why?" she said. "You don't want me."
"I want you very much," said Nighthawk.
"You know you can't lie to me. I'm a Balatai woman."
"I know."
"Well, then?" she said. "Why did you pay for my time if you don't want to have sex with me?"
"Because I have a business proposition for you, and I didn't know how else to contact you."
"I don't know what you're talking about," she said. "You've already made a business proposition, and the house has accepted it. Otherwise you wouldn't be here."
"That was business with them. Now I want to talk business with you."
She frowned. "What the hell are you talking about? You have no more desire for me than I have for you."
"Less, probably," said Nighthawk. "Now, are you going to listen to me or not?"
"You've paid for my time," she answered with a shrug. "If talking is your notion of a good time, go ahead. And watch your temper; you're starting to get angry."
"Irritated," he corrected her.
"Irritated, angry, what's the difference? They both wind up with me getting beat up."
"I'll never lay a finger on you," said Nighthawk. "Consider it carefully. You should be able to tell if I'm lying."
She stared at him curiously for a long moment. "Okay, you're not lying," she said at last. "Go ahead. You do the talking, I'll do the listening."
"My name is Jefferson Nighthawk. Does that mean anything to you?"
"No. Should it?"
"Not necessarily. In some places I'm also known as the Widowmaker."
"I remember reading stories about the Widowmaker when I was a little girl."
"That was me."
"It couldn't be," she said, sitting on the edge of the bed and staring at him with a mixture of curiosity and disbelief. "He died a century ago."
"Check me out. Am I lying?"
She frowned. "No." A thoughtful pause. "But that doesn't mean you're not crazy. A crazy man might believe that he's the Widowmaker, and I couldn't tell he was lying because he'd truly believe it."
"Fair enough," said Nighthawk. "When I start acting crazy, activate that alarm by your headboard and call for the bouncers. But in the meantime, why not assume I'm sane and hear me out? After all, I've paid for your time."
She continued staring at him, more curious than frightened. "All right, Jefferson Nighthawk, let's hear what you've got to say."
"To begin with, I'm a clone of the original Widowmaker."
"I thought clones were illegal."
"Most of them are."
"Including you?"
"Probably," said Nighthawk.
"Okay, you're a clone," she said, walking to the bar and pouring herself a drink. "So what?"
"I'm a clone with a difference. I was given the original's memories."
She looked him up and down, as if appraising him. "Can they do that?"
"They can." A pause. "They did. I've got 'em."
"So who's after you?"
Nighthawk smiled. "I'm after someone."
"Me?" She put the drink down, suddenly tense. "What did I ever do to you?"
He shook his head. "No, not you. I've been commissioned to rescue a woman who's been kidnapped, and to terminate her kidnapper."
"Terminate?" she repeated. "You mean kill him?"
"Right."
"I still don't understand: What does all this have to do with me?"
"The kidnapper is a revolutionary," said Nighthawk. "He's got an entire army protecting him and the girl. That means I can't approach him directly. I'm going to have to infiltrate his forces to get to him." He paused. "I had to infiltrate a gang of smugglers in 4986 . . ."
"You?"
"No, I mean the original me," said Nighthawk irritably. "Sometimes I get confused separating us." He grimaced. "He's the one who did it, but I'm the one who remembers it."
"What about it?"
"I used a Balatai woman," he said. "I think it's time to use another."
For the first time the woman's face came alive with interest. "You used one of us?"
"Yes," answered Nighthawk. "I think I would probably have been killed if I hadn't."
"What was her name?"
"I couldn't pronounce her real name. She had a human name she used, but it wouldn't mean anything to you."
"How interesting," mused the woman. "Someone actually had the good sense to use one of us for something meaningful, instead of games in a whorehouse." She paused and scrutinized him intently, "But why did you seek me out here? Why not go to my home world?"
"I don't know where it is."
"She never told you?"
Nighthawk shook his head. "It was a well-kept secret a century ago. If it's been made public since then, I wouldn't know about it anyway."
"It hasn't," she answered. "We have enough problems without being exploited."
"Seems to me you're being exploited right here."
She shook her head. "I have my reasons for working here."
"What are they?"
"Personal."
Nighthawk sat down on the room's only chair. "I just paid a thousand credits for your time. How much of that do you get?"
"Three hundred, plus whatever tip we agree to."
"Come with me and I'll pay you two thousand a day for as long as the job takes."
She smiled at him. "You'll pay more than that, Widowmaker. Someone went to a lot of expense to create you. They can spend a little more and protect their investment."
"Twenty-five hundred," said Nighthawk.
"Five thousand."
"Don't get too greedy," he said. "That's a raise of almost seventeen hundred percent."
"Maybe I'm only worth three hundred credits a night here, but I'm worth a hell of a lot more than that to you. After all, who else but a Balatai can tell you if your cover has been penetrated, if your identity is known, if your enemy is aware of your presence?" She paused. "Of course, if you think you can get some other Balatai cheaper . . ."
"Maybe I can, maybe I can't," said Nighthawk. "But I don't have the time to find another one."
"There's another consideration," she said. "I have a contract with the Gomorrah Palace."
"Don't worry about it."
"Why not?"
"For the same reason the bouncer who's monitoring this conversation won't try to stop you from leaving." He paused. "Would you go up against the Widowmaker because some prostitute decided to break her contract?"
"No, I don't think I would." She paused and then smiled. "Have we got a deal, then?"
He shrugged and nodded. "What the hell, it's not my money I'm spending."
"You shouldn't have said that, Mr. Nighthawk," said the woman. "That'll cost you another thousand a day."
"Forget it. You named a price, I agreed to it. I don't renegotiate."
"If you don't, I'll stay here."
"Then stay," he said, walking to the door.
"You're bluffing."
He turned and faced her. "Am I?"
She stared at him for a moment. "No," she said slowly. "No, you're not."
"Well?" he said. "Am I leaving alone or with you?"
"Give me a moment to get dressed." She got to her feet and walked to a closet, then turned to him. "Mr. Nighthawk, you've bought yourself an empath."