As Nighthawk walked back to the Blue Dragon, he got the distinct impression that he was being followed. He knew enough not to turn and look directly, but he could see swift, subtle reflections of motion in the store windows and on the metal doors of vehicles that he passed.
If someone wanted to kill him, they would have fired their weapons already, so he assumed that his shadow either wanted to talk with him or find out where he was going. And since there wasn't much doubt where he was going—it was the only place he'd gone the night before when he'd left the ship, and it was nighttime again—he decided that his tail wanted to talk.
The only question remaining was: make it easy, or make it hard? If they were recruiting a killer, he'd be well-advised to duck into an alley—or whatever passed for alleys in this crazy-quilt checkerboard of human and alien streets—and lie in wait for his tracker, disarm him, possibly rough him up a little, and then find out who sent him. It would be an impressive display.
But he was pretty sure Ibn ben Khalid had more killers than he knew what to do with. This was juvenile thinking, the kind the younger Widowmaker clone was prey to.
No, the more he thought about it—and he thought very rapidly, given the circumstances—the more he was convinced that someone simply wanted to talk to him. Now, why someone should want to talk to Jefferson Nighthawk—for the Widowmaker had been dead a century, and no one here knew otherwise—was a mystery to him, but one he decided to solve.
He came to an alien restaurant that catered to Canphorites and Lodinites, looked in the window until he saw another flash of motion reflected in it, and then entered. The headwaiter, a furry orange marsupial of the Kragan race, looked terribly distressed when confronted by a Man, but managed to control itself long enough to lead Nighthawk to a table.
"We are pleased to serve you," it said into a T-pack that translated its voice into cold, unemotional Terran words and tones, "but I must advise you that you will be unable to metabolize most of the items on our menu."
"I'm game if you are," responded Nighthawk.
The Kragan listened to the translated words, then uttered a squawk loud enough to attract attention from the nearby tables— those few that weren't already staring at Nighthawk with hostility.
"I am not a game meat!" said the little marsupial. "You cannot eat me! We cannot eat each other!"
"Bad translation," said Nighthawk. "You really should learn to speak Terran."
"I suppose it never occurred to you to speak Kragan."
"No, it never did. I don't want your money; you want mine. That means you must make the accommodation."
The Kragan stared at him for a long moment. "You do not wish to eat me?"
"It will cheer you no end to know that I find the thought totally repugnant."
"Good," said the Kragan. "What will you order?"
"Just water for the moment. I'll be joined very shortly, and then you can explain your menu to us."
"I see no other human," remarked the Kragan.
"I didn't say it was a human."
"Then what is it, so I can be alert for it when it enters?"
"That's not your concern," replied Nighthawk. "Whatever it is, it will find me."
"True," agreed the Kragan. "If you have an instinct for protective coloration, it is not functioning."
"Thank you for that observation. Now please get my water and then leave me alone."
"There is one more thing I must tell you," said the Kragan. "We do not accept Oligarchy credits."
Nighthawk pulled out a handful of gold Maria Theresa dollars and laid them on the table.
"Good enough?" he asked.
The Kragan looked, blinked, wrinkled its nostrils—which was as close as it could come to a satisfied smile—and left to get Nighthawk his glass of water. When it came back, it placed the water down on the table and reached for the dollars.
Nighthawk slapped its furry hand.
"Not until after I've ordered and eaten," he said.
"How do I know you won't pick up all the dollars and walk out with them?" asked the Kragan in what Nighthawk was sure were petulant tones prior to the T-pack's translating them into a dull monotone.
"How do I know you won't poison me?" he shot back.
The Kragan stared at him for a long moment, as if this was a fascinating new idea that bore serious consideration, and then waddled off.
Nighthawk sipped his water and looked around. There were seventeen Canphorites, eight Lodinites, a couple of Kragans, all trying very hard to pretend there wasn't a Man in their midst. One small Lodinite child, perhaps four years old and only two-thirds grown, stared at him openly, as if he'd never seen a man before. He had, of course, but Nighthawk thought it was a fair bet that he'd never seen one inside an alien restaurant.
Finally he looked up at the walls. His first impression was that they were covered with works of non-representational art— but as he studied them more carefully, he saw certain themes and color schemes reappearing time and again, and decided they were probably very representational to the beings that frequented this restaurant.
Suddenly a tall alien—sleek, red, humanoid, almost gleaming in the dull light of the restaurant—entered and walked directly to Nighthawk's table.
"May I join you?" it asked in harsh, grating syllables.
Nighthawk nodded. "I assume you got tired of waiting for me to come out."
It was the alien's turn to nod. Its ears, though no larger than a man's, flopped wildly with the motion, reminding Nighthawk of nothing more than the recreations he had seen of African elephants.
"Why are you here?" asked the alien. "You cannot consume this food without becoming ill."
"I thought you'd rather speak to me here than at the Blue Dragon. But if I'm wrong, we can go there right now." He half-rose from his chair.
"You are not wrong."
Nighthawk settled back down. "Have you got a name?"
"Everyone has a name, Jefferson Nighthawk."
"Would you care to tell me what it is?"
"In due time."
"All right, then—at least tell me what race you are?"
"It is I who shall ask the questions," said the alien.
"That's a matter of some debate," replied Nighthawk calmly. "It is I who has his gun trained on your belly beneath this lovely table."
The alien tensed, but chose not to verify the statement by looking.
"You cannot pronounce my name, but another Man I worked with many years ago called me Friday, and that is the name I use when dealing with Men. I am a member of the Projasti people of Czhimerich, which Men call Marius II."
"And I'm Jefferson Nighthawk, as you already seem to know. Now state your business, Friday."
"You are the Widowmaker," said Friday. "You are the most remarkable of all Men, for your appearance has not changed in more than one hundred Standard years."
"You saw me over a century ago?"
Friday nodded his head, setting his ears to flapping again. "My race is very long-lived. I saw you kill seven men without aid of any kind on—"
"—Dimitri IV," concluded Nighthawk.
"Then it is you."
"In a manner of speaking. But my question remains: why have you sought me out?"
"Where the Widowmaker goes, Men die. And now, after being gone for a century, you are back, and Men will die again." Friday paused. "For almost a century I have worked in the mines across the Inner Frontier, opening them when they were discovered, sealing them when they were played out. My specialty is explosives, and I tell you that there is none who knows them better. But one of the problems with a lifespan as long as the Projastis is that eventually one becomes bored, even in a field where one has no equal." It paused and stared into Nighthawk's eyes. "I am tired of using my explosives on inanimate mines, Widowmaker. I wish to work with you."
"You don't even know who or what I'm up against."
"It makes no difference to me."
"What if I've been commissioned to blow up Marius II?" asked Nighthawk.
"Have you been?"
"No."
"All other worlds are equally unimportant to me."
"You just want to play with your explosives, right?" said Nighthawk.
"I want to kill Men."
"Why should I help you?"
"Why not? You will kill them for money and I will kill them for pleasure, and in the end, what difference will it make which of us does the killing?"
"How do I know you won't kill me, too?"
"Can you be killed?"
"Not by you."
"There you have it."
"How much do you propose to charge me for your services?
"Nothing," responded Friday. "I will save you from failure and you will save me from boredom. It will be a fair trade."
Nighthawk stared at him for a long moment, waiting for a gut instinct, pro or con, to kick in. Finally it did.
"Okay," he said at last. "You're working for me now."
"When do we leave?"
"A day or two. You know which ship is mine?"
"I followed you from it."
"Right. Okay, then . . . vanish for a day and then come to the ship."
"I will go there right now."
"Do what I say. You might terrify one of the occupants, and the other might shoot you."
"All right, then: One day from this moment," agreed Friday.
"Aren't you curious to know who's on the other side?"
"I already know," said Friday.
"Oh?"
"You make war with Ibn ben Khalid."
"Why should you think so?"
"Against who else would the Widowmaker need my expertise?" answered Friday. "Have you been commissioned to kill him, or merely to rescue the human girl?"
"Both. You know where I can find them?"
"I have no idea. I did not expect to be at war with him until I recognized you." Friday paused. "How very exciting this is! Not only has the Widowmaker returned, but I am working for him, and together we shall kill millions of Men!"
"Try not to get too excited about wiping out my race."
"I will try," promised Friday with a dubious expression on his alien face.