"You could have killed us!" said Blue Peter.
"I know its physical limits," answered the Bandit.
"As it was, you probably killed a few thousand Men and aliens," said Dante.
"They would have stopped us if they could," said the Bandit. "That makes them our enemies."
"Bullshit!" snapped Dante. "99% of them didn't even know you were here and couldn't care less."
"Then this will add to the legend. Try to understand: Santiago has no friends in the galaxy, just enemies and hirelings."
"So we're just hirelings?" demanded the poet.
"I didn't mean you, of course."
"The hell you didn't!"
"I saved your life. This is no time for an argument."
"You saved my life at the cost of thousands of the lives you were created to save."
"It was a value judgment," said the Bandit. "Don't make me decide I made a mistake."
"It wasn't an either/or situation," said Dante. "There were half a dozen alternatives. Santiago—a real Santiago—would have found one!"
The Bandit turned to the olive-skinned man, who had been listening intently, and burned a deadly hole between his eyes.
"What was that for?" shouted Dante.
"It was your fault," said the Bandit angrily. "You implied that I wasn't Santiago. I couldn't let him hear that and live to pass it on."
"So you killed him, just like that?"
"You made it necessary."
"How the hell did you get so warped?"
"There's nothing warped about it," said the Bandit. "It goes with the job."
Dante snorted contemptuously. "What do you know about it?"
"What do I know?" repeated the poet. "I made you!"
"You found me," replied the Bandit. "There's a difference."
Dante was about to reply, but something about the Bandit's expression convinced him to keep silent. A few days earlier he had told the Knife and the Blade that everyone in Santiago's organization was expendable, but he never really believed it.
Until now.
24.
Dante never wrote a verse about the Madras 300. He tried several times, but it never came out right.
But then, neither did the Madras 300.
It began a week after their experience in the Blixtor Maze. Dante, who had felt ever since they returned, was sitting alone in the dining room very late at night, sipping a cup of coffee, when Virgil Soaring Hawk approached him.
"What are you doing up?" asked the poet.
"Couldn't sleep."
"Why not?"
"Probably because you're using the strongest stimulant on the planet," said the Indian with a grin.
"I'm not interested in your habits or your perversions," said Dante.
"That's what I want to talk to you about."
"I just told you: I'm not interested."
"Neither is Santiago."
"Is that supposed to mean something to me?"
"It should."
"Virgil, it's halfway through the night and I don't know what the hell you're talking about," replied Dante. "I'm not in the mood for guessing games, so if you've got something to say, say it."
"I just did."
"Go away."
"You're not paying attention," said Virgil.
"I must not be, so spell it out for me."
"Look, Rhymer, I know why you came after me in the Maze. We're joined at the soul, you and I."
"The hell we are."
"It's an historic inevitability. Dante has to have his Virgil. But why did he come along?"
"You work for him," said Dante. "We all do."
"All I've done is buy drugs for him," said Virgil. "That's hardly an indispensable job."
Dante stared at him. "You think he shouldn't have come after you?"
"Maybe so, maybe not. But I know what I am and what I've done, and he at least knows some of it. So why did he destroy the Maze and maybe kill a couple of thousand people just to free me? I'm probably just going to get arrested again on the next world I visit for crimes against God and Nature. You know it, I know it, he knows it."
"Let me get this straight," said Dante, frowning. "Are you telling me you wanted him to leave you there?"
"I didn't want him to. I want to be free! But what kind of Santiago frees one lone redskin pervert at the cost of all those lives?"
"He's reestablishing the legend," said Dante uneasily. "He has to let people know how powerful he is."
"By killing the people he's supposed to protect? Hell, I could do that. He's supposed to do something better."
"I don't know what you want."
"It's not what I want," said Virgil. "I work for you—"
"You work for him," interrupted Dante.
"No!" said Virgil firmly. "Everyone else around here works for him. I work for you—and it's my job to tell you that I think you put your money on the wrong horse."
"And you reached this conclusion because he saved your life at the expense of others?"
"How much more honest can I be?" retorted Virgil.
Dante finished his coffee and sat in silence.
"So what do you think?" persisted the Indian.
"He's only been Santiago for a few weeks, and we're redefining the job."
"That's no answer."
"It's the best I've got," said Dante. "Hell, he's the best I've got."
"You found him very fast. Maybe you should have looked a little longer."
"Maybe I should have. I don't know. But the Frontier needs him now."
"It needs help now," agreed Virgil. "That doesn't mean it needs him."
"What do you suggest?" said Dante irritably. "Who has the authority to fire him? Who has the skills to kill him?" He sighed heavily. "Hell, he's doing what he thinks is right. Who am I to challenge that? I'm just a small-time thief turned poet. I don't have a monopoly on right or truth."
"All right," said Virgil. "You're the boss."
"I'm not the boss, damn it!"
"You're my boss. I won't bring it up again."
The Indian turned and left Dante alone with his thoughts and his doubts. By morning he had convinced himself that both of them were wrong, that this was a century and a half after the original Santiago and different times called for different approaches.
Then came the Madras raid.
Word came from an informant that a small Navy convoy was shipping gold bullion to their base on Madras IV, a mining world some 132 light-years distant.
The Bandit knew he didn't have the firepower to take on the Navy in space, so he waited until they landed and most of the ships departed. Then he touched down on Madras with Dante, Virgil, and three new hirelings.
The moment they emerged from their ship they were captured by an armed patrol. The Bandit meekly surrendered, the others followed suit, and shortly thereafter they found themselves incarcerated in an otherwise-empty stockade, surrounded by a sonic barrier that became intensely painful every time anyone got within four feet of it.