He skidded to a halt at the end of the giant’s trail, an abrupt cul-de-sac where two miniature cliffs met in a corner. The giant was scrabbling at the rockface, trying to get a handhold. He threw an agonized look back over his shoulder, saw Dirk five feet away, and whipped about, pressing his back against the stone, mewing deep in his throat.
Dirk leaned his head against his staff, contemplating the giant.
Then he leaped forward, yelling, “Havoc!” The giant jumped, too, then shrank down onto his heels against the base of the rock, arms flung over his head, sobbing like a baby.
Dirk planted the butt of his staff and leaned on it, hand on his hip, head cocked to the side. What—in the names of all the saints—was he to make of this?
He frowned down at the giant, brooding. The starlight darkened the hollows of his cheeks, and exaggerated his gauntness, giving him a battered, world-weary look, bringing out the sadness that always dominated his face. The giant seemed to be a little on the slow-wilted side—maybe an idiot. He wasn’t exactly a rarity—there were a lot of half-wits running around the countryside. Giants weren’t quite as common, but this one wasn’t anywhere nearly as big as some Dirk had seen. There were dwarves, too, and geniuses, mostly neurotic—and short-lived, the Lords saw to that. Not to mention large helpings of mental illness and physical deformities—in fact, everything one could expect from six hundred years of inbreeding.
This giant was a case in point, and not really an extreme one. The recessive genes that had given him his size had taken away a large part of his mind, by way of compensation.
What was Dirk supposed to do with him?
He sighed, and eased his hat back on his head. Go off and leave the big fellow, he supposed. He couldn’t be encumbered—not on this mission.
But it didn’t seem right…
The giant dared a peek upward. Dirk’s sadness must have reassured him because he lifted his head and, slowly, cautiously, rose to his knees.
Dirk nodded, with a wry smile. “That’s right, fella—you’ve got it figured. I won’t hurt you.” The giant’s mouth stretched into a loose-lipped, lopsided grin. He crawled forward to tug at Dirk’s clothing. “Poor Gar’s a-hungered!”
Dirk pursed his lips. “Oh. You can talk.”
Gar nodded eagerly and folded his hands together, looking up at Dirk with pathetic eagerness. Dirk sighed and fumbled in his purse, bringing out a silver coin. “Money—that’s all I can do for you. At least maybe you won’t go trying to rob travelers for a while… That was the idea, wasn’t it?”
Gar’s eager grin slipped and faded.
“Jump out roaring,” Dirk pressed, “and scare me so badly I’d count myself lucky if all you did was snatch my purse? That’s how you live, isn’t it?”
Gar nodded reluctantly, eyes downcast like a whipped puppy.
Dirk nodded, too. “I thought so.”
He flipped the coin, spinning through the air. The giant clapped at it, missed, and scrabbled after it in the dust. He came up with it wrapped tightly in a fist the size of a beef joint and an ear-to-ear grin.
Dirk smiled bleakly and turned away. He’d have to find another hiding place; an uneasy conscience made uneasy sleep. He knew Gar wasn’t his fault, but he still felt guilty for not being able to help him.
Whenever he was on this planet, he spent a lot of time feeling guilty.
He set out for the ridge again, his guilt churning in with the satisfied glow of philanthropy and the self-disgust of feeling like a sucker.
Dirk came out of his morass of self-flagellation when he realized he heard footsteps behind him. He looked back over his shoulder. The giant was trailing about fifty feet behind him, still grinning. Dirk turned and leaned on his staff, frowning. Gar stopped too, but he kept on grinning. “Why are you following me?” Dirk said carefully.
“Nice man,” Gar said hopefully. “Nice to Gar.” A red light flashed in Dirk’s mind: SUCKER. He’d been through this before, with a puppy that had followed him home. It had grown into a small horse and eaten up most of his salary. To top it off, the darned thing couldn’t be trained. He’d been through it with girls, too, with much the same results.
The grin faded into a lost, mournful look. “No friend?”
“Look,” he said desperately, “I don’t need a sidekick. I can’t be tied down with responsibility right now. Especially right now. You can’t follow me now. Maybe later. Not now.”
The big man’s face seemed to crumple, his lower lip turning under. Tears squeezed out of his eyes.
And a warning blared in Dirk’s mind.
Up till then, he’d’ve bought it—attack, remorse, fear, the whole bit. But—tears? They wouldn’t have come naturally; they’d have to be a deliberate play on Dirk’s sympathy.
And anyone with enough brains and control to stage deliberate tears couldn’t be all that much of an idiot.
And, come to think of it, roadside beggars didn’t try to latch onto their patrons. They’d had too many kicks from their masters before they ran away.
Dirk straightened, cupping his hands on the tip of his staff, ready to snap it to guard in the blink of an eye. “You just overplayed it, friend,” he said quietly. “You’re no more an idiot than I am.”
Gar stared.
Then he frowned; his jaw firmed; he squared his shoulders; and, somehow, he seemed much more intelligent.
Also dangerous.
Dirk swallowed and slid one hand down the staff, ready to snap it up to guard.
Gar’s mouth thinned in disgust. He shrugged. “All right, the game’s up. I won’t try to run a bad joke into the ground.”
“Joke?” Dirk said softly. “Game?”
Gar shrugged again, impatiently. “A figure of speech.”
“Oh yes, I’m sure.” Dirk nodded. “What game?”
Gar started to answer, then caught himself and grimaced in chagrin. “Twice in a row; it’s a bad night. Okay, I’ll admit it—I was trying to latch onto you for a guide.”
Dirk stood very still. Then he said, “Natives don’t need guides. Also, a native would have a definite place—he’d be a lord, a gentleman, or a churl. In any event, he wouldn’t be wandering around loose—unless he were an outlaw. But then he’d be hiding in the forest with the rest of his band.”
“Very astute,” Gar growled. “Yes, I’m from offplanet. If I didn’t want you to know it, I wouldn’t’ve said ’guide.‘ ”
Very true, Dirk thought; but, by the same token, if Gar was willing to admit he wanted Dirk for a guide, he had another purpose that he didn’t want Dirk to know about. Second Corollary of Finagle’s Law of Reversaclass="underline" If a man says something is true, then it isn’t.
“If you did want me to know it,” Dirk said slowly, “why’d you pose as a poortom?”
“Poortom?” Gar frowned. “Oh, you mean an idiot… Sure, I’d’ve rather you would have thought I was a native, just tagging along. But you found me out, so I had to come clean.”
Dirk wondered if the man knew how poorly he lied. But he nodded slowly, letting Gar think he believed him. Why not? It was a harmless delusion and might give Dirk an advantage. “How’d you get in? If you’d come on the freighters, I’d have known about it.”
Gar shrugged, irritated. “I’ve got my own boat.” Dirk held himself stiff, trying to keep his face empty of emotion while he absorbed the information. A private yacht bespoke money—real money. But why would a millionaire come to Mélange? “So you just dropped in for a visit,” he mused aloud. “Don’t you know Mélange is off-limits to tourists?”
“Off-limits to just about everyone, from what I hear.” Gar smiled contemptuously. “That kind of thing is liable to give a man a bothersome itch in the curiosity bump.”
For a moment, Dirk had to fight down boiling rage. Not bad enough he and his kind had to be treated like animals—now they had to be a sideshow, too.