Free Soothsayer by Mike Resnick Page A

cubes work?” asked the Mouse, momentarily disoriented.
    "It's almost dark out,” responded the girl. “You've been asleep all afternoon."
    The Mouse sat up, scratched her close-cropped hair vigorously, and then stretched her arms and looked out the window.
    "I've got time for a dryshower,” she announced, and went off to the bathroom to cleanse the dirt and dried sweat from her small, wiry body. She wished that she had some fresh clothes, but she settled for tossing her outfit into the dryshower for a few minutes. It came out wrinkled but clean, and a few minutes later she walked out into the hall and down the stairs, after warning Penelope not to let anyone else into the room.
    A handful of miners were seated at the table nearest the door. They were hard, grizzled men who quaffed their beer as if it meant the difference between life and death, and complained long and loud to each other about everything from the weather to the price of industrial and investment-grade diamonds.
    Then the Mouse looked toward the far end of the room, and there, sitting in the shadows, his back to the wall, an expression of boredom on his handsome face, sat a young man with a shock of unruly blond hair who seemed scarcely old enough to shave. His clothes were sporty without being ostentatious, and bulky enough to hide half a dozen weapons. There was a container of water on the table in front of him.
    The Mouse walked around the miners’ table, grateful that they were too absorbed in their conversation and their beer to offer any catcalls or whistles, and approached the young man.
    "Good evening,” she said pleasantly.
    "Is it?” he replied, looking up at her, and she was suddenly struck by how bored and ancient his blue eyes seemed.
    "It might be, if you'd invite me to sit down."
    He nodded toward a chair opposite him. “Be my guest."
    "What'll it be, Miz Mother?” Ryan called out from behind the bar. “Another glass of water?"
    The Mouse shook her head. “Make it a beer."
    "Coming right up."
    "And a dinner menu,” she added.
    Ryan chuckled. “You make it sound like there's a choice."
    "Isn't there?"
    "Out here? We're lucky to have any food to serve at all. I'll bring you a plate when it's ready. Be another five minutes or so."
    "Thanks."
    "How about the little girl?"
    "She's sleeping,” replied the Mouse, studying the young man to see if he reacted to the news that she was traveling with a child. His face remained expressionless. “I'll bring a plate up to her when I'm done."
    Ryan approached the table, handed a glass of beer to the Mouse, and retreated to his station.
    "Well, that's over with,” said the young man with the ancient eyes. “Now what can I do for you?"
    "That all depends,” answered the Mouse.
    "On what?"
    "On who you are."
    "My name's Bundy."
    "I don't care what your name is."
    The young man shrugged. “I don't much care what yours is, either. Why don't you just say what's on your mind?"
    "I need protection,” said the Mouse. “I think you can provide it."
    "So you can live another 50 years?” he asked. “Take my word for it—it's not worth it."
    "I want your protection anyway."
    "Do I look like the protective type?” asked the young man. “Hell, lady, I'm just a kid."
    "A 200-year-old kid,” said the Mouse, staring into his clear blue eyes.
    "223 years, to be exact,” replied the Forever Kid, displaying neither surprise nor anger that she knew who he was.
    "That's a long time to stay alive out here on the Frontier,” said the Mouse. “Especially for a man in your line of work."
    "Longevity is a greatly overrated virtue,” replied the Kid.
    "I'm 37,” said the Mouse bluntly. “I stand a good chance of not reaching 38 if I can't find someone to help me get away from here."
    "You have my sympathy,” said the Kid, his voice as bored as his eyes.
    "I need more than your sympathy."
    "My sympathy is freely given,” said the Kid. “Everything else costs money."
    "How much?"
    "How far away do you want