"I didn't think of that," admitted Moby Dick.
"It's not your job to," said Dante. "All right, we'll just have to assume the Tweedles become aware of him almost as soon as he lands. Now, will they go there immediately, or will they stay put and see if he's waiting for allies?"
"They don't worry about losing battles," said Moby Dick. "I think they'll go right away."
"I agree," said Dante. "If they can't teleport, how soon can they get there?"
"The planet's got a heavy atmosphere. Whatever kind of vehicle they're using, if they go too fast they'll burn up. Let's land him a thousand miles away and give them six minutes to get there. Maybe it'll take them an hour, but I sure as hell doubt it."
"Okay, I'll just have to assume they act like rational beings and show a little curiosity."
"And if they don't?"
"Then I'll have to do some mighty fast talking when they ask me what I'm doing there," said Dante.
"Is there anything else?"
"Lots," replied the poet. "But let's see if your preacher's available first."
"Let me get to the radio and I'll contact him," said Moby Dick, relaxing as his chair gently changed shapes and helped lift his huge bulk onto his feet.
Dante suddenly realized that he hadn't slept the night before, that he'd been sitting here at the table for almost 20 hours working out all the ramifications of his plan. Suddenly he could barely keep his eyes open, and he went back his room at the Windsor Arms. He didn't even bother taking his clothes off or climbing under the covers. He just collapsed on the bed, and was asleep ten seconds later.
When he awoke, he felt like he'd just come out of the Deepsleep pod. All his muscles ached, and he was starving. He looked at the timepiece on his nightstand: he'd been asleep for 22 hours.
His mouth felt dry and sour, and he wandered into the bathroom, drank a glass of cold water, threw some more on his face, took a quick shower, rubbed a handful of depilatory cream on his face, climbed into the robe the hotel had supplied, and went back to the bedroom. He put on fresh clothes, and was considering having breakfast delivered to his room when the security system told him he had visitors. The moment he saw that one of them weighed in excess of 500 pounds, he commanded the door to dilate.
"I trust you slept as well as you slept long," said an amused Moby Dick, stepping into the room.
Accompanying him was a pale, thin, almost emaciated man with piercing blue eyes, an aquiline nose, and thin lips above a pointed chin. He was dressed all in black, except for a glowing, diamond-studded silver cross that hung around his neck.
"Dante Alighieri, allow me to introduce you to Deuteronomy Priest," continued the albino.
"Pleased to meet you," said Dante, staring at the strange- looking man.
"More pleased than this fucking alien will be, I can promise you that," said Deuteronomy Priest in a vigorous voice that seemed much too powerful for his body. "The blue bastard will never be the same. Once I convert the fuckers, they stay converted!"
Dante looked at Moby Dick with an expression that seemed to say: Is this a joke?
Moby Dick grinned back so happily that Dante knew it wasn't a joke at all, that this was the person September Morn's—and his own—life depended on.
"You got anything to drink?" asked the preacher, looking around the room.
"Sorry," said Dante.
"What the hell kind of hotel doesn't supply booze for its guests?" groused Deuteronomy Priest. He looked up. "How about drugs?"
"I don't have any."
"What the hell are you good for?" muttered the preacher. He walked to the door. "I'll be back in the casino. Let me know when we're ready to read the riot act to this alien bastard."
And with that, he was gone.
"I wish you could see your face right now!" chuckled Moby Dick.
"Is this guy for real?" said Dante.
"He's perfect for the job," answered the albino. "Nothing in the world can shut him up or scare him. Once he touches down, he's the one person you can be sure won't be tempted to cut and run when the Tweedles confront him. Hell, he might actually convert them!"
"Just keep him sober enough to stand up and talk once he gets there."
"When are we leaving?"
"Not for a week, maybe even a bit longer."
"That long?"
"We've got a lot of work to do first."
"We do?"
"Matilda and I have built a formidable organization. In Santiago's absence, I'm going to put it to work—and you're going to help."
"Just who are you going to war with, besides the Tweedle?" asked Moby Dick.
"No one. The key to survival is avoiding wars, not fighting them."
"Then what are you going to do?"
"Arrange a war between two other parties," answered Dante.
41.
He killed a man by accident, then two, then six, then ten.
He's got to where he likes it, and longs to kill again.
His name is Accidental Barnes, he cannot lose that yen—
His weapon is the crossbow, his game is killing men.
Dante arranged for the hotel to give Deuteronomy Priest the Presidential Suite, and put Moby Dick in charge of him. Then he went back to his own room and raised the Grand Finale on the subspace radio.
"Well, hello, Rhymer," said Wilbur Connaught's image as it flickered into existence. "I haven't heard from you in a while. How are you?"
"I'm fine, thanks," replied Dante.
"What's all this I hear about someone called Silvermane taking over?"
"Forget it. He's dead."
"Then I still report to the bandit?"
"He's dead, too."
Wilbur frowned. "Who's left?"
"Until we find another Santiago, you'll report to me," said Dante. "But that's not what I'm contacting you about. You've been operating inside the Democracy for a few months now. Have you got three or four men or women, also within the Democracy, that you can trust?"
"Four for sure. Maybe five."
"Stick to the sure ones."
"Okay," said Wilbur, lighting a smokeless cigar. "What do you want them to do?"
"I want them to spread out, thousands of parsecs from each other. And I want each of them, independently, to report to the Navy that an alien entity that calls itself the Tweedle was responsible for slaughtering all those children in the Madras system, that it's been bragging about it all across the Inner Frontier."