An hour later and it was time to close the place up. Pavanaz enlisted the aid of his worshippers to drag his ’Vader into a room Fat Bill was only too pleased to clear out for him, and before they left he said to them:
“Guys, I have an idea which I think you’ll like. Kem, you’ll like it best of all. A lot of you lost money tonight, creds you loaned to Aces and Kem here. Now I’m going to give you a chance to get those creds back.”
“Big deal!” somebody groaned. “Pavanaz, we couldn’t beat you in a thousand years! Win our money back? That’s not the funniest thing you ever said.”
“I didn’t say ‘win’ it back,” Pav sighed. “Who mentioned miracles? So why don’t we talk about earning it back, eh?”
“Earn it back?” (This from Kem, who was learning caution.) “You mean we should work for you?”
Pavanaz shrugged. “You can call it that if you like. Me, I’d call it easy money. I mean, there are other arcades on this morass, right? Other ‘champions’? So go on out there and bring ’em back alive! Bring ’em here, to me. Guys long on creds and short on talent—by my standards. And that covers everybody, you dig?”
“This is easy money?” someone piped up. “You rip ’em off, and we get beaten up? Easy money for who—Grint Pavanaz?”
Again Pavanaz sighed. “All you got right was my name,” he said. “Look, why should they take it out on you? You think I want you to lie? Like you should tell them there’s this nut called Pavanaz who’s loaded and an easy mark for anyone with one good eye and a steady hand? Hell, no! Tell ’em the truth and nothing but—that I’m the best there is. That way, who could resist coming to see for himself? Could you? And for every hundred I take off one of these suckers, it’s ten creds to the guy who reeled him in. Now tell me, is that easy money or isn’t it?”
With which, no one could find anything to disagree.
III
It happened like Pavanaz figured: customers were shy; and business quiet—for forty-eight hours. Then word got out and the punters came in. At first from arcades on the spaceport perimeter, then from Guni, the supply town, eventually from halfway across Shankov’s as Pavanaz’s legend spread. By night five, his take was approaching four thousand credits and all debts paid, however grudgingly.
For this he’d had to lose the occasional game (the little ones, to give the punters heart) and the rest of the time he’d played as only Grint Pavanaz could, but not once extending himself too far. It was all good practice for the tournament.
Fat Bill was happy; Pav’s pals were happy, including Kem; happiest of all was Pavanaz himself. A packet for Earth was due in a fortnight, and he’d made the down payment on a ticket for himself and a crate for his ’Vader. He needed another grand to buy his passage outright and give him floating creds to spare.
But the next day takings were down, and the day after that they fell away entirely. By the next morning Pavanaz was back to playing two credit games with the local talent, and already he suspected he wasn’t going to make it. Only eleven days left and hopes rapidly fading, Pavanaz despaired. He’d been a shade too good, too greedy, too soon. That’s what was wrong.
Noon of that same day, after Fat Bill went out for lunch, who should walk in but Aces with…somebody. Pavanaz knew he was somebody as soon as he saw him.
He was cleaning his ’Vader when the two came over. He heard Aces’ sneakers on the tiled floor, but not the footsteps of the other. This one walked like a cat, looked like one, too. But an old cat, a mouser out of time. To Pav, anyone over thirty-five was ancient—history, almost—and this guy was ten plus beyond that. He looked like…a relic from the Khuum wars? In that last observation, Pavanaz couldn’t be more accurate if he tried. Indeed Hal Gaddy was a relic from the Khuum wars.
“Aces,” Pavanaz nodded, casually. “And…friend?”
“Pavanaz,” said Aces, short on greetings, “this is Gaddy. He’d like to see you play. If he’s impressed, maybe he’ll let you try to take some money off him.”
“Gee, I’m honored!” said Pavanaz.
“You should be,” the newcomer growled, like gravel sliding down a chute. And Pavanaz looked at him more closely.
Hal Gaddy was five-seven in his high-heeled boots, weighed maybe a hundred and thirty-five pounds, and was tanned a permanent brown to match his trappings. While his jacket and trousers were of a fine, thin leather, his leather gloves looked almst painted on his hands. But inside those gloves Gaddy’s hands themselves were trembling where they hung loosely, yet awkwardly, at his sides.
Gaddy’s forearm under rolled-up sleeves were deeply scarred; likewise his face, which was equipped with eyes that were piercing blue and looked like cold moons rising behind the hollow crags of his weathered cheeks. His mouth was straight, but a small piece of his upper lip was missing on the left, letting an eye-tooth show through like naked bone. The many lines etched into his skin around his eyes and mouth could be from laughter or pain, Pav wasn’t sure. He suspected, though, that Gaddy hadn’t laughed in a long time.
“See,” said Pavanaz after a moment, “it’s a game of skill. Good eyes, hands, nerves, and an ability to anticipate bordering on the supernatural—that’s all it takes. Over twenty-two or three and you’re slowing down, twenty-five and you’re plodding, more than that and you’re in reverse. I see that back on Earth a sixteen-year-old black kid has run the first three-minutes-forty mile! Why don’t you go in for athletics, Mr. Gaddy? I mean, your chances would be a lot better.”
“Stow the mister,” said Gaddy. “Call me Gunner.”
Pavanaz knew what that meant and for a moment felt a genuine thrill. Gunner! If so, Gaddy was a fighter pilot from the Khuum wars. Or…he was a fake, a bum living someone else’s legend for whatever crumbs got thrown his way. But the Khuum had pulled out a quarter-century ago, so it was just possible. Just, because surviving Gunners from that mess were so few you could count them on one hand with several fingers missing. So Pav had always understood it.
“The real thing, eh?” he said, finally nodding, but knowingly, cynically. “Maybe. Or…just another stowaway?”
“Stowaway?” Gaddy lifted an eyebrow.
“Sure.” Pavanaz shrugged. “On Gizzich I knew a couple of ‘Gunners.’ One was a cook retired off cruisers, and the other was a colorblind son of a no-account prospector from Faggul V. But they’d read the manuals and you couldn’t fault ’em—until they climbed into a bucket. Gunners? Naw! Just stowaways hitching a ride on a legend.”
“Pavanaz, you’re a—” Aces started forward, his jaw jutting.
“It’s OK, son,” said Gaddy, his chipped lip lifting a little. And to Pav: “I’d heard you had lots of mouth, Pavanaz, so that kind of garbage doesn’t worry me. What? I should lose my cool just before a game?”
Pavanaz scowled. “Who said you were going to get one?”
Gaddy took out a five-credit note and waved it under Pav’s nose. “This says so,” he said. “Also the fact that you’re dying to know. ’Cos if I’m the real thing, you’re not going to meet another one in a long, long time.”
“Hah!” Pavanaz snorted. “I should play for fives? Against grandfathers? For the thrill of gutting a tired old Gunner? If you’re for real?”
“The word is,” Aces grated, still sizzling, “you’re down to playing for twos, hotshot.”
“Well—” Pavanaz started, paused, and eventually continued, “—see, it’s like this: the twos are for amusement. But five on a grudge is cheap and nasty. I mean, it would be a grudge game, right, Aces old buddy? You brought this guy in here to wipe the floor with me, to see me sweat for a miserable five, right? I’m not amused, and I’m not desperate either. But for fifty…?”