Prophet Read Free

there's some scar tissue on the rods and cones. Five'll get you ten they're not on record anywhere in the galaxy."
    "No serial numbers on any of the weapons, either,” noted the Iceman. “Strange. Out here on the Inner Frontier, most killers pick colorful names and brag about their accomplishments. But this is the fourth one in a row who has no name, no identification, no reputation."
    "Nice boots, though,” said the man in black.
    "I suppose so."
    "Very nice."
    "I checked for labels or manufacturer's marks,” said the Iceman. “There aren't any."
    The man in black continued staring at the boots.
    "Do you see something I'm missing?” asked the Iceman, suddenly interested.
    "It's possible,” said the man in black, taking a boot from the corpse's foot and examining it.
    "Looks sort of blue when the light hits it,” commented the Iceman.
    "I know,” said the man in black. He handed the boot to the Iceman. “There aren't a lot of blue reptiles on the Inner Frontier—and I only know of one that's got this circular pattern of scales."
    "Oh?"
    The man in black nodded. “Big sonuvabitch. It lives on a world called Greycloud, out by the Quinellus Cluster.” He paused. “They call it a Bluefire Dragon. It could swallow you whole and then look around for the main course."
    "How big a world is Greycloud?"
    "About the size of Last Chance, maybe a little smaller."
    "Oxygen world?"
    "Yes."
    "Any sentient life forms?” asked the Iceman.
    "Not since we colonized it a few centuries ago,” answered the man in black.
    "How many Men?"
    "Maybe seven thousand, mostly miners and aquaculturalists. It's mostly freshwater ocean, with a batch of islands and one very small continent."
    "Does it do much exporting?"
    The man in black shook his head. “Too small. Probably doesn't get a mail or cargo ship more than seven or eight times a year."
    "So,” continued the Iceman, “if our killer was wearing boots made from the local lizard..."
    "There's a pretty good chance that he bought them there,” concluded the man in black.
    "They look relatively new,” said the Iceman, studying the boots. “I think maybe you'd better pay a little visit to Greycloud. Take a couple of holos of our friend here before we bury him, and see if anyone knows who he was or who he worked for."
    "I assume you'll be all right while I'm gone?"
    "I'll make do,” replied the Iceman dryly. “By the way, if Greycloud is so far off the beaten track, how come you know about this Bluefire Dragon?"
    "I've been there."
    "When?"
    The man in black shrugged. “Oh, about eight or ten years ago."
    "On business?"
    "In a manner of speaking,” said the man in black noncommittally.
    "Good,” said the Iceman. “You'll have some contacts there, some people you can talk to."
    The man in black shook his head. “Everyone I knew there is dead."
    "Recently?"
    "About eight or ten years ago."
    The Iceman smiled in grim amusement. “No wonder they call you the Gravedancer."
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2.
    His real name was Felix Lomax, and he used it for the first 26 years of his life. But names have a way of changing on the Inner Frontier, metamorphizing to fit the natures of the men and women they're attached to.
    Originally he'd been a Pioneer, one of that group of highly-trained specialists that opened new worlds for the Democracy, terraforming them when necessary, cataloging the various life forms, designing settlements, analyzing soils and minerals and water samples to determine exactly what type of colonists would be the most productive: miners, farmers, aquaculturalists, whatever. His specialty was Pacification, a euphemism for decimating native populations until such time as they were willing to allow colonization—or, in some instances, until there were none left to object.
    During that period of his life he had been known as Double X, an easily-identifiable code name based on the spelling of his given name. (It was best not to use one's true name, just in case there were