"They can't laugh," said Moby Dick. "They're physically incapable of it. But if they could, they'd laugh in your face."
"Just deliver it."
"You're bluffing, of course," said the albino. "Or out-and- out lying. It won't work. They don't understand bluffs. They'll believe what you say."
"I want them to."
"No you don't," said Moby Dick. "I keep telling you: you don't want any part of them. Neither does your boss, whoever he is."
"How is it that you alone know how to contact them?" asked Dante, changing the subject.
"Lots of people know how. I might be the only one currently on Hadrian, or the only one the little bitch sister knows, but there are lots of us."
"Why are you and this small handful of men and women so favored?"
"There are only two of them in the whole damned universe," answered Moby Dick. "There's just so much they can do, so they rule through hand-picked men and women."
"And they picked you?"
The huge man shook his head. "Do I look like a ruler? I'm just a supplicant. If things work out, they may toss me a couple of crumbs someday."
"Would I be correct in assuming one of those crumbs will be Hadrian II?" asked Dante.
"Why not?" Moby Dick shot back. "They can't live everywhere. They can't be everywhere. Someone has to bring order to their empire."
"How many planets do they control right now?"
"Maybe eight or nine."
"That's not much of an empire. The Democracy controls about 150,000 worlds, and they influence at least than many more."
"It's a start. Even Man started out with just one world, you know," said Moby Dick.
"So you're going to fight for them?"
"They may never ask me to, and if I do it'll be without much enthusiasm," answered Moby Dick. "Show me a better side to fight for."
"I intend to," said Dante. "Order something to drink. This is going to take a while."
For the next two hours, Dante filled the huge albino in on what had been transpiring for the past few months, about the poem, and Matilda, and the Bandit, and Silvermane, and—always—the ideal of Santiago. When he finally finished, Moby Dick stared at him for a very long time, and then spoke:
"It's an interesting idea," said the albino. "If you had the right Santiago, I'd join up this minute. But you don't."
"You haven't even met him."
"I don't have to. You've described him. That was the giveaway."
"The giveaway?" repeated Dante, puzzled.
"Yeah. You described his gun and his bullets, you told me how tall and graceful he is, you told me that he looks like some artist's dream, you told me about his silver hair. You told me almost everything I need to know about him—except who and what he is."
"I told you: he's Joshua—" began Dante.
"You described a very beautiful and efficient killer," interrupted Moby Dick. "And except for being very beautiful, I don't see much to differentiate him from your last killer, the Santiago you and September Morn . . . ah . . . deposed right here on Hadrian II."
"He's totally different," said Dante. "For one thing, he's not a fanatic. For another, he really does understand what being Santiago means, what's required of him."
"I don't know," said Moby Dick. "I think they're both dead ends."
"Would you care to explain that?"
"Sure. But first let's generalize a bit. What causes a species to evolve?"
"What are you talking about?" asked Dante irritably.
"You heard me," said the huge albino. "What makes a species evolve?"
"How the hell do I know?"
"You would, if you were using your brain. If you don't, you're just like them."
Dante stared at him, but made no reply.
"The answer," continued Moby Dick, "is that evolution is a response to environmental need. Are the branches of a tree too high? Grow a long neck. Is the sun too bright? Grow bigger eyes and better ears and sleep all day. Are you too small to kill prey animals? Develop opposable thumbs and a brain, and learn to make weapons."
"You are going to get to the point sooner or later, aren't you?"
"The point is obvious. You found two of the most efficient killers on the Frontier, maybe the two best. But because they've always been able to get anything they wanted with their weapons and their physical skills, why should they develop social skills, or be adept at teamwork, or inspire loyalty when they've never required any help before? I'm sure your Silvermane is a dangerous man, and I'm sure he wants to be Santiago—but based on what you've told me, I don't think I'd be inclined to lay down my life for him, or to follow him into battle if the odds were against us."
"You wouldn't be asked to risk you life—or lose it—for him," said Dante, "but for the cause."
"The two should be indistinguishable," answered Moby Dick. "And I get the distinct impression that neither of your Santiagos could describe the cause in terms that would make people willing to die for it."
"All right," said Dante. "So you won't join us. Will you at least help us?"
"You really want me to contact them, even after what I've told you?" asked the albino.
"She saved my life. I owe her."
"Noble," commented Moby Dick. "That's not a trait I see much of out here—nobility."
Another pause. "Then you'll do it?"
"I'll do it. Where can I reach you?"
"The Windsor Arms."
"Wait for me there. I'll be in touch."
Dante got up. "Thanks."
"It's a pity," said Moby Dick.
"What is?"
"I like you, Dante Alighieri. You're a little too noble for your own good, but I really like you. I hate to send you and your boss to your deaths."
"I've got to at least try to save her," answered Dante simply.
"I know."
Dante turned and left the casino, window-shopped his way back to the hotel, and took the airlift up to his room, where he found a message from Virgil waiting for him.
"I'm on Laministra IV, encouraging a couple of drug dealers to voluntarily join our network of freedom fights"—a nasty grin—"and I realized I'm just a hop, skip and a jump from Hadrian, so I thought I'd pop over there and take my ship back if you're through with it. See you in the morning."
Dante wiped the message, waited a few minutes for Moby Dick to contact him, and finally lay down on the bed and closed his eyes.
He didn't know how long he'd slept, but his computer awoke him by gently repeating his name over and over. Finally he sat up groggily.
"All right, I'm awake," he mumbled. "What is it?"
"A Mr. Dick is attempting to communicate with you, Mr. Alighieri."
"I don't know any—" Suddenly he straightened up. "Put him through!"
Moby Dick's image flickered into existence above the computer.
"I've contacted them," he announced, staring straight at him.
"And?"
"As I told you, they can't laugh—but they did seem amused."