Read Online The Warlock's Companion by Christopher Stasheff - Free Book Online
Authors: Christopher Stasheff
Tags: sf_fantasy
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through the cabaret—at least, they called it that. "Glad you liked it." Yeah, and the shape you're in, you'd like anything right now . But you don't get cheers by insulting your audience, nor return engagements either, so he kept the smile on and waited till the applause slackened, then said, "I'm going to take a little rest now, but I'll be back real soon. You take one too, okay?" Then he waved and turned away, with cheers and laughter behind him. Yeah, take one — or two, or three. Then you'll think whatever I do is great .
He shouldn't be so bitter, of course—they were paying his livelihood. But fifty-three, and he was still singing in glorified taverns on backwater moons!
Patience, he told himself. After all, there had been that record producer on vacation, who'd heard him and signed him before he sobered up. But he'd come back the next day with a studio booked, and Whitey had cut the wafer, and it had sold—with a low rating, yes, but a low rating of a hundred billion people on fifty-some odd planets is still twenty million, and Whitey got six per cent. It kept him alive, even under a dome on an asteroid or a lifeless moon, and paid his passage to the next planet. He never had trouble finding a cabaret who was willing to pay him now, so its patrons could hear him chant his songs. Then that critic had gone into rhapsodies about his verses being poems from the folk tradition, and a professor or two had agreed with him (anything for another article in print, Whitey supposed) and there had been another burst of sales, so here he was back in the Solar System, even if it was only on Triton, to cut another wafer. He hoped the professor wouldn't be too disappointed when he found out Whitey had a college degree.
All right, so a few million people are willing to keep you alive so they can hear your verses. Does that mean you're good?
He tried to throw off the mood—it meant he was good enough, he thought as he stepped into the glorified closet that the cabaret laughingly called a "green room." Well, at least it had someplace for the entertainers to relax between sets—more than a lot of clubs had.
He looked around, frowning. Where was that wine Hilda had promised him? Promised to have it waiting, too.
Ah, there she came, diving through the door, sailing in Triton's low gravity, out of breath. "Sorry, Whitey. There was a hold-up."
"Don't give them anything—it's a water pistol." Whitey reached out and plucked the glass from her as she braked against the other chair. "What was his name?"
"Terran Post Express." Hilda took an envelope from her bodice and handed it to him. "For Mr. Tod Tambourin."
Whitey winced at the sound of his real name. "Official, huh?"
"I'll say. Who knew you were here?"
"My producer." Whitey grinned, stroking the letter lasciviously as he eyed her.
"Don't give me that—if you meant it, you'd be trying to pet me, not the letter. What is it?"
"Probably money." Whitey slit the envelope.
She could almost hear his face hit the ground. "Who… who is it?"
"Lawyers," he told her. "My son's."
Not that he had ever known the boy that well, Whitey reflected, as he webbed himself into the seat on the passenger liner. Hard to get to know your son when you're hardly ever home. And Henrietta hadn't wanted him to be, after she realized her mistake—at least, that's what she had called it when she had figured out he wasn't going to settle down and become a nice safe asteroid miner, like a sensible man. She didn't approve of the way he made his living, either—selling exotic pharmaceuticals at an amazing discount, on planets where they were highly taxed. Totally illegal, and his first big regret—but she'd been plenty willing to take the money he'd sent back, oh yes—until that horrible trip when he'd landed on a tariff-free planet, and couldn't even make enough profit to ship out, and had found out, the hard way, what his stock-in-trade could do to his clients.
So no more drugs, for him or his
He shouldn't be so bitter, of course—they were paying his livelihood. But fifty-three, and he was still singing in glorified taverns on backwater moons!
Patience, he told himself. After all, there had been that record producer on vacation, who'd heard him and signed him before he sobered up. But he'd come back the next day with a studio booked, and Whitey had cut the wafer, and it had sold—with a low rating, yes, but a low rating of a hundred billion people on fifty-some odd planets is still twenty million, and Whitey got six per cent. It kept him alive, even under a dome on an asteroid or a lifeless moon, and paid his passage to the next planet. He never had trouble finding a cabaret who was willing to pay him now, so its patrons could hear him chant his songs. Then that critic had gone into rhapsodies about his verses being poems from the folk tradition, and a professor or two had agreed with him (anything for another article in print, Whitey supposed) and there had been another burst of sales, so here he was back in the Solar System, even if it was only on Triton, to cut another wafer. He hoped the professor wouldn't be too disappointed when he found out Whitey had a college degree.
All right, so a few million people are willing to keep you alive so they can hear your verses. Does that mean you're good?
He tried to throw off the mood—it meant he was good enough, he thought as he stepped into the glorified closet that the cabaret laughingly called a "green room." Well, at least it had someplace for the entertainers to relax between sets—more than a lot of clubs had.
He looked around, frowning. Where was that wine Hilda had promised him? Promised to have it waiting, too.
Ah, there she came, diving through the door, sailing in Triton's low gravity, out of breath. "Sorry, Whitey. There was a hold-up."
"Don't give them anything—it's a water pistol." Whitey reached out and plucked the glass from her as she braked against the other chair. "What was his name?"
"Terran Post Express." Hilda took an envelope from her bodice and handed it to him. "For Mr. Tod Tambourin."
Whitey winced at the sound of his real name. "Official, huh?"
"I'll say. Who knew you were here?"
"My producer." Whitey grinned, stroking the letter lasciviously as he eyed her.
"Don't give me that—if you meant it, you'd be trying to pet me, not the letter. What is it?"
"Probably money." Whitey slit the envelope.
She could almost hear his face hit the ground. "Who… who is it?"
"Lawyers," he told her. "My son's."
Not that he had ever known the boy that well, Whitey reflected, as he webbed himself into the seat on the passenger liner. Hard to get to know your son when you're hardly ever home. And Henrietta hadn't wanted him to be, after she realized her mistake—at least, that's what she had called it when she had figured out he wasn't going to settle down and become a nice safe asteroid miner, like a sensible man. She didn't approve of the way he made his living, either—selling exotic pharmaceuticals at an amazing discount, on planets where they were highly taxed. Totally illegal, and his first big regret—but she'd been plenty willing to take the money he'd sent back, oh yes—until that horrible trip when he'd landed on a tariff-free planet, and couldn't even make enough profit to ship out, and had found out, the hard way, what his stock-in-trade could do to his clients.
So no more drugs, for him or his
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