His clothes were nondescript, wrinkled, a bit faded. The left elbow was patched; the right cuff frayed. He wore no primary colors; everything was neutral, fading and blending into one another.
The only belt he wore held his loose-fitting pants up. It housed no weapon of any kind. There were no tell-tale bulges pinpointing hidden knives or pistols anywhere on his body. His boots were so old they were past the point of holding a polish, and the large toe of his left foot poked out through a crack in the inexpensive material it was made of.
And there were the gloves.
They went halfway up his forearms, totally functional, totally unstylish.
There was also the mask. It was transparent, and covered his face from the bridge of his nose down to his Adam's apple, then all the way around to the back of his head.
If there was ever a man who looked less than formidable, it was Henry Marston.
So it was probably God's little cosmic joke that he was the deadliest man alive, far more dangerous than Dimitrios or the One-Armed Bandit or Tyrannosaur Bailey, with a sobriquet that was more accurate than most.
"No matter what you think," Virgil told his companions as they waited patiently to pass through Customs at the Tosca III spaceport, "he's everything I've said he is."
"Why shouldn't we believe you?" asked Dante.
"Well, he doesn't make a good first impression," admitted Virgil. He paused thoughtfully. "Come to think of it, his second and third impressions aren't much of an improvement."
"We came here on your say-so," said Dante angrily. "If you've been wasting our time, maybe you'd better tell us right now."
"Everything I said about the Black Death is true," said Virgil. He spat on his hand and held it up, palm out. "I give you an Injun's solemn oath on that."
"There's something you're not telling us," continued Dante.
"It'll probably be better if you find out for yourself."
"Why?"
"Because if I tell you any more about him, you won't want to meet him."
"He's that ineffectual?" asked Matilda.
Virgil smiled. "I told you: he's the deadliest killer out here—at least the deadliest I've ever seen."
"Then why won't we want to meet him?"
"You'll be afraid to."
Dante glared at him. "Just how much seed have you been chewing today?"
"None," Virgil assured him. "I'm depressingly sober."
"Then shut up," Dante ordered him. "The more we talk, the angrier I'm getting with you. Just take us to meet this Black Death and let's get it over with."
"You're the boss," said Virgil. They passed through Customs without incident. "By the way," added Virgil as they walked to a hovering limo, "call him Henry."
"Why?"
"Because that's his name. And he hates being the Black Death."
"You mean being called the Black Death," Matilda corrected him.
"That, too," agreed Virgil.
The limo took them into Red Dust, the nearest of Tosca's three towns. The buildings showed the effects of the wind constantly blowing the dust against them, and two of the slidewalks were closed for repairs, also due to the omnipresent dust.
The limo announced that they had reached the municipality of Red Dust and asked for a specific destination.
"Take us to the Weeping Willow," said Virgil.
"Done, sir," replied the limo so promptly and formally that Dante decided that it must be frustrated at its inability to offer a snappy salute.
The Weeping Willow was a nondescript tavern. small and unimpressive, filled with second-hand and oft-repaired chairs and tables. There was no back room for gambling, no upstairs rooms for sex, nothing but a small selection of mediocre liquor from various points on the Inner Frontier, an unused alien dart game hanging on one wall, and a much-dented metal bar in addition to the tables.
Dante glanced around the tavern. A small, sickly-looking man sat at a table in the corner. Two oversized women, smoking alien cigarettes and drinking alien whiskey, sat at another, playing a complex game using hundreds of cards with unfamiliar markings. The only other person in the place was the tall, muscular bartender, who looked hopefully at them when they entered, then lost interest when he saw they weren't there to drink.
"Your information was wrong," said Dante. "He's not here."
"Yes he is," answered Virgil calmly.
Dante looked at the small man with the transparent mask and the long gloves. "Is this some kind of joke?" he demanded.
"Why don't we talk to him, and then you can tell me if it's a joke or not," said Virgil, approaching the small man's table.
Henry Marston looked up and tried to smile at Virgil. It was evidently too much of an effort, and the smile froze halfway across his face, then vanished a few seconds later.
"Hi, Henry. It's been a while."
"Hello, Virgil," said Henry, stifling a cough. "What brings you to a little dirtball like Tosca?"
"I'd like you to meet two friends of mine—Dante and Matilda."
"I hope you'll forgive me if I don't get up," said Henry in a weak, hoarse whisper.
"I heard you were on Tosca," said Virgil, pulling up a chair and motioning for his companions to do the same. "Got a job to do here?"
"It's done," said Henry.
"Then why are you still here?"
"I was paid to kill her," was the answer. "I have to stick around and make sure she died." Wonderful, thought Dante. The old man's such a lousy shot he doesn't know if his victim will live or die. What are we wasting our time here?
"Excuse me for interrupting," said Dante, frowning, "but are you really the man known as the Black Death?"
"It's not a name of my own choosing," said Henry.
"I mean no disrespect, but you look like you're half-dead yourself."
"I am."
Dante turned to Virgil. "And this is the guy you think can take out the Bandit?"
"If he has to," said Virgil. "But I thought the plan was for him to ride herd, to kind of redirect him."
"Ride herd?" repeated Dante. "No offense, Henry, if that's your name, but he can barely sit up in his chair. What the hell got into you?"
Virgil chuckled. "Nothing got into me. That's why I'm still alive."
"I think your friend deserves an explanation, Virgil," said Henry.
"Yeah, I suppose so," agreed Virgil. "Too bad. I just love to watch him when he's confused."
"Is one of you going to tell me what this is all about?" said Dante, trying to control his temper.
"It's him," said Matilda, nodding her head toward Henry.
Henry smiled. "You're very perceptive, my dear."
"I'm getting really annoyed!" growled Dante. He turned to Matilda. "What do you know that I don't know?"
"You're not the Black Death at all," said Matilda, staring at Henry. "That may be what they call you, but that's not what you are. You're its carrier."
"What are you talking about?" demanded Dante.
"Look at him," said Matilda. "That mask isn't there to protect him from unfiltered air. It's to protect us from him. Look at his gloves. You can't touch him and he can't touch you." She paused. "What disease are you carrying, Henry? Ybonia?"