City of Baraboo

ONE

Two and a half centuries after August Riingeling's famous sons—the Ringling Brothers—took their first circus on the road in 1884, the "Greatest Show on Earth" was, as well, the last show on Earth. It was a poor three-poled affair stalled under patched canvas on the outskirts of Ottawa. As the mud road had given way to rails, and the railroad to concrete and asphalt, the hard road had ended under a blizzard of paper.

The old problems had never left. Fire, windstorms, ice, mud, accidents, rain, shakedowns, breakdowns, and crackups were as common to the trouper as his name. But in an age when the resolution of human problems was taken for granted, no room had been left for John J. O'Hara's circus. Room, the kind needed by a canvas show, was too valuable. The road cost the show seven-hundred credits per kilometer in tolls, while hard, grassy lots near population centers—such as remained—cost the show upwards of thirty-thousand credits for the twenty-four hours the site would be occupied to put on five hours' worth of entertainment. All this, and more, the show had endured. Its road ended at the Ottawa stand when it was faced with that thing feared above all else by an institution of exception—laws for the general good enforced by incorruptible officials.

"They won't budge an inch, Mr. John." Arthur Burnside Wellington, the show's fixer, had stood before the Governor's desk shaking his aging head. The tall, frail man in black seemed stumped for the first time in his sixty-odd years. He held up his hands, then dropped them at his sides. "I just can't move them."

O'Hara rubbed his eyes, then looked at Wellington. "Patch, have you tried a little sugar?"

Wellington nodded. "Those gillies aren't hungry, Mr. John. Not a bite."

"What about dirt?"

Wellington shook his head. "Never saw a cleaner bunch of politicos. Not so much as a parking ticket. No outside incomes, no affairs, no relatives on the payroll—nothing." Again he shook his head. "Of all the times to run into honesty in govern..." Wellington stopped short, rubbed his chin, then stared at the Governor without seeing him.

"Patch, what is it?"

Wellington frowned, then shook his head. "Probably nothing. Maybe a straw; maybe not." Wellington turned and left the office wagon, deep in thought.

Hours later, midway through the evening show, O'Hara sat in the dark of the office wagon half-listening to the windjammers slamming out notes from the main top. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the chair. Nothing sounds like a circus band. Skilled orchestras sawing and blowing away make good tries but to the ear that had been reared with the windjammers, the difference was considerable. No musician strapped into rigid notes, bars, and rests can imitate the sound and beat of windjammers trained to play to the kootch of a dancing horse or elephant, making it look as though the animal was dancing to the music rather than the other way around.

O'Hara opened his eyes and watched the colored reflections of the main entrance lights dancing on the wall opposite the wagon's pay window. That fellow in Bangor—that writer—had asked why. He had really been puzzled. Circus work was back-breaking, dangerous, and not particularly profitable. Why a circus? The Governor had made an effort at finding the words, but in the end had resorted to the stock trouper's reply: "It's a disease."

The Governor leaned forward, placed his elbows on his desk, and lowered his face into his hands. The disease. It's worse than a disease—an addiction. It's a clawing need that no rube with a typewriter could ever understand. And so, the ladies and gents of the media get told the same thing that circus people have been telling civilians for uncounted years: "It's a disease."

Troupers have no ready answers for why they troup. Question-asking is a head game, and the answers—if they exist—are under the paint, the sweat, the scars, the pain, deep within that thing called a soul. A trouper troups. It's a given.

"Perhaps we should ask why." O'Hara lowered his hands, dried his cheeks on his sleeves, then surveyed the empty interior of the wagon. He pushed himself to his feet, walked around his desk, then to the door of the wagon. O'Hara was feeling his years, and Wellington had been the Patch for O'Hara's Greater Shows when the Governor's father had been Governor. O'Hara rubbed his close-cropped white beard and nodded. "Maybe we're all past our prime."

He pushed open the door and inhaled the smell of the lot. It was a curious mixture of grass, straw, candy, and wild animal. The afternoon's dust was out of the air, giving a sharpness to the colored lights still strung around the sideshow and animal top. The windjammers swung into the waltz that cued the flyers, marking the forty-sixth minute of life left to the circus. It gave O'Hara a strange feeling to hear that waltz and still see the animal and kid show tops standing. On normal nights, they would have been torn down, loaded, and off to the next stand by the waltz. The canvas gang would be preparing to clear out and tear down the main top hot on the heels of the last customer.

O'Hara thrust his hands into his coat pockets, stepped down from the office wagon, and headed toward a small group of roughnecks standing next to a moving den in front of the animal top. As he approached, one of the husky men parted from the others. "Evening, Governor."

O'Hara stopped and nodded at the heavy-set man in plaid shirt and work-alls. The man's face was hidden by the shadow cast by the brim of his sweat-stained hat. "Goofy Joe."

"Any word, Mr. John?"

O'Hara looked down and slowly shook his head. "Looks like we're in the cart. Those environmental officers say they'll confiscate the animals and run us in if we cross the district line."

Goofy Joe pulled his hat from his head, threw it on the lot, and jammed his hands into the pockets of his work-alls. "Damn!" He frowned at the Governor. "Can't the Patch fix it?"

O'Hara shrugged. "I wouldn't count on it. Not this time. Seen the Boss Canvasman?"

Goofy Joe stooped over, picked up his hat, then held out a hand toward the menagerie entrance as he stood. "You know Duckfoot. He'll be in there with the bulls." The roughneck threw his hat on the lot again. "Why'd we ever have to come here?"

O'Hara placed a hand on the man's shoulder. "We're in the right place, Joe; it's just that we're about a hundred years too late." He withdrew his hand, turned, and walked through the dark to the animal top entrance. In the dim light of service lamps at the ends of the tent, he could see the eight elephants calmly pulling truckfuls of hay from bales, and munching. As she recognized him, Lolita stuck out her ears, lifted her massive head, then lowered it again as she pretended not to see him. He entered the tent, nodded at the Boss Canvasman and Boss Animal Man seated in the center of the tent on overturned buckets, then he stopped with his back facing Lolita. In seconds O'Hara felt Lolita's trunk slip into his coat pocket, grab the bag of peanuts he kept there, and sneak it out.

He turned and looked at the elephant. "What was that?" Lolita shifted her weight from one foot to the other and shook her head. O'Hara reached into his coat pocket and frowned. "I could swear that I had peanuts in here." He glowered at the elephant. Lolita shook her head again, and as O'Hara turned his back and left, she swept the straw in front of her with her trunk, picked up the bag of peanuts, and stuffed the entire thing in her mouth.

Duckfoot chuckled as he stood. "Lolita's getting to be a real dip, Governor. Careful she doesn't go after your leather." The Boss Canvasman was built along the general proportions of Gorgo "The Killer Ape" who now reclined in his cage scratching at imaginary fleas. Duckfoot's hair was thinner than Gorgo's, but the arms more powerful.

O'Hara grimaced and shook his head. "For all the money that's in it, she's better off with the peanuts." He nodded at the Boss Animal Man, who, although he was every bit as big as O'Hara, looked frail next to Duckfoot. "Is everything quiet, Pony?"

Pony Red Miira nodded. "They were a little excited that they weren't being loaded on time, Mr. John, but they're settled down now."

O'Hara nodded, kicked over a bucket with his foot, then sat on it. Duckfoot and Pony Red resumed their seats. "Duckfoot, the city wants us off the lot by tomorrow, so don't let the canvas gang go until after. One way or the other we'll need them to tear down the show."

Duckfoot shook his head. "Where're those roughnecks going to go, Mr. John? It's not like they can hook up with another show. We're it. The last show on Earth. What's going to happen to them?"

O'Hara shook his head, pursed his lips, then shook his head again. "I just don't know."

Pony Red held out a hand indicating the elephants and the line of cage wagons filled with tigers, lions, apes, and other animals. "What about them?"

O'Hara looked into Pony Red's eyes, then averted his glance. "None of the zoos or preserves will take them. All the time I get the same reason: they're not wild anymore so putting them in a preserve would violate the environmental integrity or something." He shook his head. "Of course, we can't take them over the district line because we aren't providing environmental settings appropriate to them in their wild states."

Pony Red spat on the wood shavings that covered the ground. "So, does that mean we'll have to destroy them?"

Duckfoot scratched the back of his neck. "Guess they're about to get the hell protected out of them." He looked at O'Hara. "I never thought the Patch would let us down."

Pony Red held out his hands. "What about that command performance? You know, on that other planet? We could at least keep the show together. Earth is no place for a circus anyway."

O'Hara shook his head. "Patch tried, but the same bunch that won't let us cross the district line say we can't take the animals off the planet, away from their natural environment." He sighed. "We're boxed in, Pony, and that's all there is to it."

All three lifted their heads as the orchestra swung into a familiar two-step. Duckfoot rubbed a knuckle into his right eye. "Damned dust." He cocked his head toward the main tent. "The windjammers sound a little off their tunes." Lunge Rope Willy's liberty horses would be out now doing the quadrille. Thirty-four minutes left.

The customer lights went on, illuminating the interior of the tent. Duckfoot shot to his feet. "What the hell?" Pony Red and the Governor joined him, and the three faced the entrance as several official-looking types entered the tent. The obvious Mr. Big led the procession, followed by some lesser officials and a number of reporters. Mr. Big was holding the hand of a little girl who was staring saucer-eyed at the elephants. Immediately behind the little girl was a tall, thin man dressed in black. Duckfoot jabbed O'Hara in the ribs with his elbow and whispered, "Mr. John, it's the Patch."

As the three walked over to the procession, the little girl pulled on Mr. Big's arm. "Oooooo! Daddy, look at the elephant! And, that one, and that one—"

Mr. Big pulled his daughter along. "Yes, yes, honey. Come along now." He stopped and faced the Patch as Duckfoot, Pony, and the Governor joined them. "Now, Mr. Wellington, could you explain why you dragged me here?"

The Patch held his hand out toward O'Hara. "First, Prime Minister, may I introduce John O'Hara, the owner of O'Hara's Greater Shows."

Mr. Big looked down his nose at O'Hara, issued a two-second grin, nodded his head, and said, "Charmed." He turned back to the Patch. "Mr. Wellington, you said that there was something that I must make a decision on, and my attorney general seems to agree with you. Could we get on with it?"

The Patch nodded. "Certainly. As you know, Prime Minister Frankle, where the statutes are vague and enforcement would cause severe loss to a company or individual, the injured party has the right to demand that an elected official accept responsibility for the enforcement—"

"Yes, yes. Do you have the document?" Mr. Big took the paper from the Patch's hand, scanned it, then reached into his pocket for a pen. "Everything appears to be in order."

Patch rubbed his chin. "Mister Prime Minister, you realize of course that enforcement of that order will require that we destroy our animals."

Mr. Big scanned the document again. "Yes, that seems clear. What of it?"

The Patch handed Mr. Big a photograph, then handed out more photographs to the other officials, the reporters, and to Mr. Big's daughter. "You see, Mister Prime Minister, this is how we have to destroy an elephant. We chain its back legs to a cat—that's a tractor—then run a chain around its neck through a slip ring, then hook that to another tractor. The two tractors go in opposite directions, and the animal is strangled."

Mr. Big curled up a lip, then shook his head. "Well, distasteful as it seems..." He lifted his pen.

"Daddy, you wouldn't!"

He glowered at the Patch, then turned to the little girl. "Honey, you must understand that the law is the law, and it's Daddy's job to enforce it."

The little girl looked at the photo of the strangling elephant, looked up at Lolita happily munching away on a bag of peanuts she had lifted from a reporter, then back at her father. "You monster!" She pulled back a patent-leather-clad shoe and kicked the Prime Minister in the shin, then ran crying from the tent. It was lost on no one that the reporters had snapped possibly fifty different shots of the scene.

The Patch nodded his head at Mr. Big. "If you could just sign the paper, sir, we'll be able to get on with murdering our animals."

The hand holding the paper dropped to Mr. Big's side. "Mr. Wellington, I don't mind saying that this stunt of yours is unfair. Just think what you've done to my daughter!"

The Patch shrugged. "I'm not the one who is ordering the animals murdered." He pointed at the paper. "If you would just sign—"

Another official type stepped from the back and faced Mr. Big. "Sir, don't you see what he's doing? We can't let him transport those animals over the district line. We'd be making a laughingstock out of the law."

Another official stepped from the back. "Sir, we cannot take them into the preserves. We are trying to maintain a wild state in the preserves. I mean, what would a performing elephant look like in the middle of that? I just can't have it!"

Mr. Big frowned, looked at the paper, then looked back at the first official. "What about granting a permit for transportation off planet?"

The first official shook his head. "Impossible. It would involve thrusting those animals into totally alien environments. You must see that, sir."

Mr. Big looked at the reporters, looked at the picture of the strangling elephant, rubbed his shin, then studied the document. He looked again at the reporters, then returned his glance to the official. "A thing you appear to be unable to see, sir, is that I am an elective official, while you are appointed." He looked back at the picture. "I would venture that after our friends from the fourth estate"—he grinned at the reporters—"are finished with this, I will go down next to Adolph Hitler as the archfiend of the past two centuries." He shook his head. "But, still..."

The Patch leaned over and whispered into Mr. Big's ear. He finished, and the minister looked at him, pursed his lips, then nodded. "I see, but how..."

The Patch pulled a paper from his pocket and handed it to the official. Mr. Big read it, then nodded, then signed it. He faced official number one. "I have just signed an authorization to transport these animals off planet."

The official's eyebrows went up. "But, sir, the law—"

Mr. Big cleared his throat, looked at the Patch, then looked back at the official. "Since, on Earth, the environment provided by these people for the animals is unacceptable, and since the animals are unacceptable to the preserves because they are circus animals, I have decided to authorize their transportation off planet. After all"—he nodded at the Patch—"what environment for a circus animal is more appropriate than a circus?"

"But—"

Mr. Big held up his hand. "Be still, Beeker. I'm up for election in five months. What chance do you think I'll have if this happens?" He held out the photograph.

"Sir, there are more important things than an election!"

"To you." Mr. Big handed the paper to the Patch, then turned and exited, followed by the officials and reporters. O'Hara lifted his arm and placed it on the Patch's shoulder.

"I suppose you explained to the minister that bulls haven't been destroyed that way for over a century."

The Patch looked at the paper in his hands, closed his eyes, then opened them as his hands began to shake. "Mr. John..."

O'Hara grabbed the fixer by his elbow while Duckfoot rushed to hold his other arm. "Patch, are you all right?"

Patch cocked his head toward the center of the tent. "Put me down on one of those buckets, Mr. John. I've been on my dogs all day..."

Duckfoot and the Governor helped the fixer to one of the overturned buckets and lowered him. The Governor looked up at the Boss Animal Man. "Get Bone Breaker in here."

Patch held up a hand. "No, Pony. All I need is a little rest." O'Hara cocked his head toward the entrance, and Pony Red rushed out to get the circus surgeon. The Patch shook his head. "All I need is some rest. I don't think Bone Breaker has a cure for being a little over thirty, does he?"

O'Hara smiled. The Patch had been "a little over thirty" for at least thirty years. The old fixer's confidence had been shaken pretty badly, but was now on the mend: "Now that we can breathe easy for a while, you better go and lie down."

The Patch frowned, folded the off-planet authorization and placed it into his breast pocket. When his hand came out, it held another piece of paper. "We don't get to breathe easy for too long, Mr. John." He held out the paper. "All I've done is to buy a little time. This fix is up to you."

Duckfoot sighed. "What now?"

The Governor read the telegram, then looked up at Duckfoot. "The backers, Arnheim and Boon. They're closing the show." O'Hara crumpled up the sheet, threw it on the ground and stormed from the tent. Duckfoot looked down at the Patch.

"What do you think?"

The Patch smiled. "I was worried before with the Governor moping around. I think that shook me more than anything else. But now he's mad. I'm not worried."

TWO

You must understand, Mr. O'Hara, that Arnheim and Boon Conglomerated Enterprises cannot afford the liabilities of having a... circus among its numbers." O'Hara frowned around at the sixteen indifferent faces seated around the polished onyx conference table while the accountant consulted his memory. The walls were stark white and without windows. O'Hara felt caged. The accountant looked up from his wrist and turned his head in the direction of the others seated at the table. "It seems that we acquired the assets of O'Hara's Greater Shows in twenty-one thirty-seven when we merged with Tainco, the entertainments conglomerate. Since then, O'Hara's has made a net of fifty-six thousand credits."

O'Hara held out his hands in a gesture of vindication realized.

"See?"

The accountant grimaced and continued. "That is less than half a percent return on investment. And, last year..." He again consulted his wrist. "Last year O'Hara's was in the red to the tune of one hundred and eighty-seven thousand—"

"Point of order." One of the sixteen raised his hand and faced the head of the table. "Karl, haven't we voted on this already? I don't see the point of chewing this cabbage another time."

Karl Arnheim nodded. "Your point is well taken, Sid, but John—Mr. O'Hara—wasn't present when we discussed this. I think it's only right that we give him our reasons for snipping him from the corporate body, so to speak."

O'Hara held up a hand and waved. "Can I say my piece now?"

Arnheim nodded. "Of course you may, John, but you realize that the decision has been made."

O'Hara clasped his hands and rested them on the edge of the table. "What you're telling me is that you're just going to ax the show? You're not even going to try and sell it?"

Arnheim shook his head. "There are no buyers, at any price. And now the government has all but shut you down. What point is there in whipping a dead horse, so to speak?"

O'Hara bit his lower lip. "What if I bought it?"

A wave of chuckles and head shaking circled the table. Arnheim leaned back in his chair, rubbed his chin, then turned toward the accountant. "Milt, what will it cost us to discharge the show's liabilities and dispose of the animals and equipment?"

The accountant again consulted his wrist. "A little over a quarter of a million credits. Of course, with Mr. O'Hara's three-percent interest in the show, A&BCE is only liable for ninty-seven percent of that." The accountant looked at O'Hara with a genuine expression of concern on his face. "Mr. O'Hara, you must realize that absolutely no one wants to destroy your circus, but you can't take on sole responsibility." He shrugged. "It's just not done."

O'Hara looked at Arnheim. "Well?"

Arnheim clasped his fingers and twiddled his thumbs. "What kind of figure did you have in mind, John?"

"Even swap. A&BCE's interest in the show and I take on the liabilities."

Arneim looked around the table. "Gentlemen?"

One of the faces nodded. "We're not going to get a better offer."

Another face nodded. "I say, take it and run like a thief."

Arnheim nodded. "All in favor of accepting Mr. O'Hara's offer?" The vote was unanimous. Arnheim turned to the accountant. "Very well, Milt, see that the papers are drawn up and presented to Mr. O'Hara within the hour." Arnheim faced the Governor, then shook his head. "Explain something for me, John."

O'Hara shrugged. "If I can."

"You've just taken on a back-breaking debt, practically exiled yourself from this planet, and committed yourself and your show to a bleak future. I can't see where you'll go after Ahngar. There just aren't that many wealthy monarchs having birthday parties to keep you going." Amheim held out his hands. "All this for a threadbare tent show. Can you tell me why?"

O'Hara studied Karl Arnheim for a few moments as he searched for the words, but then the Governor shrugged. "It's a disease."

THREE

His permit and title in hand, John J. O'Hara ordered the show torn down, moved from its stand at Manotick Station to Ottawa Interplanetary Spaceport, and from there into the holds of the freighter Venture. In loading a show, there are important considerations concerning the care of animals and equipment, as well as the order in which things are needed. These considerations were rote to Boss Hostler Skinner Suggs and his razorbacks in loading the show for transportation, but Cargo Master Hoik of the merchant vessel Venture had other considerations to take into account: balance, acceleration, fastening in case of free fall, and so forth. After some initial disagreements, the cargo crew and razorbacks arrived at an understanding, depositing the show intact upon the planet Ahngar with bruised knuckles and aching heads.

Since the show had arrived three months early for Erkev IV's birthday celebration, the Governor decided to finish out the season, making the show's first stand at Ossinid, a burg of about twenty-five thousand. To give the performers time to polish up their acts at the slightly lighter gravity, only the evening performance was scheduled.

Rat Man Jack, the show's route man, stood in the midway in front of The Amazing Ozamund's spieler, while the barker looked at the willowy, robe-clad Ahngarians crowding the entrances to the various sideshows. "Lookit 'em, Rat Man. I've sold out every show for Ozzie, and the other spielers are getting straw houses too. But, they come in, sit, watch the show, get up and go out. Never saw anything like it. Not a single clap, not even an appreciative nod. They just sit like so much granite. I tell you, it's about to drive Ozzie into his cups."

Rat Man nodded. "The ticket sellers at the front entrance have been out of blues for an hour, and the advance sold off the last reserved seat a week before the show arrived." He studied a few of the Ahngarians emerging from the freak show, then turned toward the spieler. "Motor Mouth, you've been looking at them all day. Do they seem just a little hostile? Like they might be planning something if the show doesn't measure up to what they expected?"

Motor Mouth shrugged, then shook his head. "No. They just don't do anything. I almost wish they'd start throwing garbage, just to get a reaction. It's spooky, that's what." Motor Mouth turned to his left and noted that The Amazing Ozamund's audience was letting out. "Well, back to the job." He lifted his bamboo cane, cocked his straw skimmer over his right eye, and proceeded with the ballyhoo. "Laydeeeez and gentlemen, inside this tent, brought to amaze you with feats of magic at great expense, The Amazing Ozamund, who will astound you with..."

Rat Man stepped away from the stand, and in seconds a line of fresh customers were buying tickets to attend the magic show. Rat Man shook his head, then noticed the Governor and Boss Canvasman walking in his direction. The three moved to the side of the midway, between two tents, then stopped.

O'Hara looked over his shoulder to make certain that no one would overhear them, then he turned and faced Rat Man. "Have you learned anything?"

"No. But, I have a feeling. I don't know—there's just something wrong."

O'Hara nodded at the Boss Canvasman. "After the show, instead of sending the menagerie and cookhouse on ahead, I'm keeping everyone here. Duckfoot's warned the Irish brigade."

Duckfoot looked at the Governor. "What about that Larvune character, the Monarch's representative?"

"I couldn't get through to him about the problem. I explained it, but he just kept saying what's the difficulty?" O'Hara shrugged. "Anyway, he said he'd send someone, just in case."

Rat Man felt something brush his leg. He looked down to see a balding man in formal dress suit crawling out from under the sidewall of The Amazing Ozamund's tent. Rat Man reached down and pulled the fellow to his feet. It was The Amazing Ozamund. "Ozzie, what're you doing?"

The magician looked from Rat Man, to Duckfoot, to O'Hara, then back to Rat Man. There was a wildness in his eyes. "Nothing, Rat Man. Nothing! Those rubes just squat on the benches staring at me! No applause, no Ahhh's, no Ooooo's! Right now I'd give my holdback for a Bronx cheer—"

O'Hara grabbed Ozzie's arm. "What are you doing out here?"

Ozzie barked out a short, bitter laugh. "Right now, Mr. John, I'm doing a disappearing act, and that's just what I intend to do: disappear!"

The Governor pointed at the tent. "You get back in there, Ozzie. Those people paid their money to see your act, and that's exactly what you are going to show them."

"Mr. John, you just don't know what it's like! You just don't—"

"You get in there, Ozzie, or I'll grab one of Duckfoot's four-foot tent stakes and give your act a new wrinkle!"

Ozzie frowned, wrung his hands, took a deep breath, then nodded. "Very well." He nodded again. "Very well." Ozzie stooped down and went back under the sidewall.

The Governor nodded at Duckfoot. "Check the back and make sure Ozzie doesn't get lost."

As Duckfoot went around the corner of the tent, Rat Man shrugged and held out his hands. "I'm sorry, Mr. John. If I'd known it would be like this, I would have steered the show away from this stand. But, there just wasn't any indication."

The Governor frowned and scratched the back of his neck. "No shakedowns, no permit problems?"

Rat Man shook his head. "The General Contracting Agent said he never had an easier time, and the squarers arranged for banners and posters with some of the best hits I've ever seen. I don't get it."

A bugle sounded, and O'Hara perked up his ears. "Five minutes to the main show." He looked up at the darkening sky. "It'll be dark before the show's done. I hope that Ahngarian from the Palace shows up before too long." O'Hara turned to go.

"Mr. John, what do you want me to do?"

O'Hara stopped, rubbed his chin, then dropped his hand to his

side. "You might as well get one of Duckfoot's toothpicks and stand by with the Irish brigade. May need you."

Rat Man stood in the dark along with the canvasmen and razorbacks, and the performers who had concluded their acts. Everyone sported one of the Boss Canvasman's toothpicks, the four-foot, hardwood tent stakes. A clown in makeup approached the group, picked a tent stake from a wagon, then walked over to Rat Man. The clown was muttering under his breath.

Rat Man nodded toward the main top. "Easy laughing house, Cholly?"

The clown glowered then shook his head. "I've played to faster towners, and that's a fact." The clown rested the stake against his legs and held out his hands. They were shaking. "Lookit this, Rat Man. Just look!" Cholly lowered his hands. "It was awful, that audience, quiet as death, staring down at you from the blues. They don't even blink!" The clown smacked the stake against his left palm. "I hope they do start something, Rat Man. Have I got a case to work off!"

"What about the others?"

Cholly shook his head. "A couple of Joeys are in Clown Alley right now—crying! Stenny, the tramp clown that works the come-in before the start of the show, tried to blow his brains out." Cholly shrugged. "Stenny couldn't find anything in the Alley but a water gun. We got the Bones watching him."

Rat Man sighed. "I never saw anything like it."

"You know how Sam always tells the customers to pipe down before the Riettas do their pyramid on the high-wire?"

"Yes."

"It was already so dead Sam didn't bother, but the quiet was so thick, Paul—the old man himself—got so nervous he almost fell off the wire." Cholly smacked the stake into his palm. "Just let 'em start something!"

They all heard the orchestra's switch in tempo, and Duckfoot stopped in front of them, swinging one of his own toothpicks. "All of you. The windjammers're wrapping it up, so be ready."

Rat Man moved forward. "Duckfoot, that guy from the Palace ever show up?"

The Boss Canvasman nodded. "Showed up a few minutes ago." He pointed toward the lights of the main entrance. "Went in there with the Governor." Duckfoot listened to the tune. "Okay, this is it."

Everyone hefted their stakes and tensed. The music concluded, followed by dead silence. Rat Man felt the sweat beading on his forehead. Then the sounds of many feet moving out of the blues, the regular customer seats. The Governor emerged from the main entrance with an Ahngarian, waved good-by, then turned to the armed circus people waiting in the dark. "All you people move on into the main top—and leave those toothpicks behind." Everyone exchanged confused looks. "Go on! Move it! We don't have all night."

Rat Man dropped his stake, and the others did the same. He joined the Governor as O'Hara led the procession into the big top. "Mr. John, what is it?"

"Rat Man, you won't believe it until you see it."

As they came to the lowest tier of seats, Rat Man Jack could see that the stone-faced Ahngarians still occupied the ends and one side of the blues, while the ones who had been sitting in the opposite side of blues had come down and were standing in the twin rings and around the hippodrome. O'Hara pointed to the unoccupied seats. "Up there."

They moved up into the seats, and Rat Man noticed that many of the performers were already seated, including Stenny the tramp clown. As soon as all the circus people were seated, the top again became as quiet as death. Rat Man jabbed O'Hara in the ribs with his elbow. "What's going on?"

"Shhh!" O'Hara pointed at the center of the tent. "Just watch."

The Ahngarians standing around the hippodrome track turned to their lefts, four in each rank, then began swaying as those in the center of the tent began singing. The canvas swelled with the bell-clear voices, as the ranks surrounding them whirled off into a complicated series of dance steps. Soon, open places between the dancers and singers filled with Ahngarians performing complex, as well as astounding, feats of balance, with one pyramid successfully making its sixth tier. The song changed, and the dancers pulled red, blue, orange, and yellow scarves from their robes and began waving and whirling them in graceful swoops and loops, and all in unison. This spectacle of song, dance, and tumbling lasted for twenty-five minutes, then those in the center of the tent formed up and moved out into the night. As the Ahngarians in the blues opposite the circus people began moving down to the center of the tent, O'Hara checked his watch, then looked at Rat Man. "We're a hit, Rat Man! We have made it!"

"What're you talking about, Mr. John?"

"All four groups will each do twenty-five minutes. In Ahngarian terms, that is a thundering well done. You see, when our people were performing, they were silent so they wouldn't miss anything. What you're looking at now is the applause." The Governor folded his arms and smiled. "I think we're going to do very well this season; very well, indeed."

As the show worked its way across the surface of Ahngar, the customer performances grew longer and the main top held larger crowds, until two- and three-day stands were necessary to meet the demand. By the time the show had hit Darrasine, there were many young Ahngarian hands to help spread canvas to get free passes to the show. At the stand in Yolus, a blowdown that came up in a flash, and left just as suddenly, left the main top canvas in tatters and splintered two of the three center poles. Within a week the local merchants replaced the old rag with a light, strong fabric, and the center poles with local sticks about twice as strong as the Douglas Fir poles the show had been using. Even with the show playing in the open, the customer performances continued to grow longer.

As the days on Ahngar passed, everyone noticed a change in the Governor. Hours at a time he would spend locked in the office wagon. Several times the show moved from one stand to the next with O'Hara still in the wagon. On those rare moments when he would allow someone else inside, they would find the Governor's desk piled with papers, books, plans, charts.

After leaving Abityn, the Patch happened to meet O'Hara rushing back to the office wagon from the cookhouse. The Governor, deep in thought, didn't notice the fixer. "Mr. John?"

O'Hara stopped, looked around with a frown on his face, then let his gaze stop on the Patch. After a moment his eyebrows went up. "Oh. It's you."

The Patch frowned. "Of course it's me! Mr. John, you better tell me what's going on. If we're in trouble, I should know about it."

The Governor shook his head. "We're not in trouble."

"Well, what's going on? What have you been doing in the office wagon all this time?"

O'Hara looked at the office wagon, then turned and looked at the show's main top. A strange look came over his face. "Patch, my whole life has been spent trying to keep a show alive; first, helping my father, now alone." The fixer saw the corners of O'Hara's eyes crinkle. "But, it's not just keeping the show going. The circus itself is almost extinct." The Governor raised an eyebrow. "Do you know what Annie Oakleys are?"

"The shooter?"

"That's what they're named after, but what are they?"

Patch shrugged. "What?"

"Comps."

Patch wrinkled up his brow and held out a hand. "Comps? Free tickets? What's that got to do with Annie Oakley?"

"Annie Oakley used to have a card thrown up and she'd shoot the ace out of it, just like the comps are punched. Do you know what else comps were called?"

"No."

"Ganesfake, ducats, snow-see, Patch, we're losing all that. Even though we have a show going, we're losing the circus." The Governor nodded, turned, and headed toward the office wagon.

Patch called after him. "But, Mr. John, what are you doing in the wagon?"

"Saving the circus," he answered, then went up the steps and disappeared into the wagon.

Jingles McGurk, treasurer, pulled his long, thin nose from his ledgers long enough to peer from his desk in the office wagon to the Governor's. O'Hara was shoulder high in plans and odd scraps of paper. Jingles cleared his throat to get O'Hara's attention. When that failed, he coughed. His other options closed, he spoke up. "Mr. John?"

"What?" O'Hara's eyes never left his work.

"Mr. John, it appears as though we have cleared the show of its liabilities."

O'Hara glanced up, then returned to his papers. "You sound almost disappointed, Jingles." The Governor smiled. "But that's why I hired a pessimist for the books. Better I should have money and not believe it than not have money and think I am rolling in coin." He looked up. "Think we'll make a profit over the liabilities?"

Jingles raised his right eyebrow and shrugged in resignation. "It's barely possible." "Terrific."

Jingles shook his head and stuck his nose back into the ledger.

Dormmadadda, Valtiia, Dhast—one after another the show played to capacity crowds as the date for the Monarch's birthday drew near. The show's route turned toward Almandiia, Ahngar's capital city, and at Stinja on Almandiia's outskirts, one of the young Ahngarian's spreading canvas appeared on the lot with four hulking brutes who appeared to be bodyguards. As the young Ahngarian joined the others in the line up at the lap of the thick flat roll of the center section, Duckfoot nodded and the roughnecks and Ahngarians reached to open the first fold. While they were so occupied, the Boss Canvasman moved over to the four silent bodyguards. Their black short-robes and belts did little to hide their powerful bodies, and as Duckfoot approached, they turned their smooth, leather-capped heads in his direction. He nodded, then cocked his head toward the line up and ordered the next fold run out. Looking back, Duckfoot smiled. "Is the lad something special?"

The guards looked uncomfortably at each other, then one of them frowned at Duckfoot. "Is no thing special."

Duckfoot pursed his lips, then held out a hand. "Then, might I ask what you folks are doing here?"

The three guards who hadn't spoken turned to the one who had, then they jabbered among themselves in Ahngarian. While they were so occupied, Duckfoot signaled for the next runout. He turned back and the guard who had spoken to him spoke again.

"Would inquire to join entertainment."

Duckfoot grinned. "You want to join the show?" The guard nodded. Duckfoot rubbed his chin and held back his head. "Well, I sort of screen acts for Sticks Arlo—he's our Director of Performers. What's your act?"

The guards jabbered among themselves again and Duckfoot took the opportunity to order the next runout. He turned back and the guard bowed. "Our act." The first guard grabbed the hands of the second guard and hoisted him up in one fluid motion to his shoulders. The third guard placed his foot into the outstretched hands of the first guard and was hoisted up to the waiting hands of the second guard, who in turn hoisted number three upon his shoulders. The stunt was repeated with the fourth guard until, feet on shoulders, the four guards formed a fairly tough-looking pillar. Duckfoot stood before the first guard and nodded. "Not bad, but if you're going to impress Sticks, you need something more." The first guard frowned. "More?" Duckfoot nodded. "What's your big finish?" "Big finish?"

"The thing you do to wind up the act." The first guard studied the Boss Canvasman for a moment, then smiled. "Big finish." He reached out two strong arms, grabbed Duckfoot around the waist, then lifted him to guard number two. Number two grabbed the Boss Canvasman under the armpits, threw him up and caught him by the waist and held him up to guard number three. The Boss Canvasman's language during this interlude has yet to be cleared for the printed page.

The Governor walked by the idle canvas gang and crew of young Ahngarians, his head buried in a sheet of plans. He stopped, looked up and noticed the lack of action. He held up his head toward one of the canvasmen. "Goofy Joe, why isn't the canvas being spread? Where's Duckfoot?"

About fifty arms pointed at a spot behind and above O'Hara, and he turned to see a grinning Ahngarian. The Governor raised his eyes, found another Ahngarian, then followed the trail until he found the Boss Canvasman teetering on top of the fourth Ahngarian's shoulders. "Duckfoot, what're you doing?"

"I'm... I'm auditioning an act, Mr. John."

"Well, quit fooling around and get this show put up."

"First thing ... Mr. John."

O'Hara shook his head, looked back at his plans, then looked up at the first guard. "By the way, you boys aren't bad. If you're at liberty, why don't you see the Director of Performers?"

The guard nodded. "Our thanks."

"You better put Duckfoot on the lot. He's got work to do." The Governor turned, put his head back into his plans and walked off. The first guard shouted an order and the fourth guard lifted the Boss Canvasman by his ankles, held him forward, then dropped him. Duckfoot's descending scream was cut short as guard number one caught him and lowered him to the ground. The guards jumped off of their perches, then stood in a line facing the Boss Canvasman. Duckfoot glared at them, wiped the sweat from his face with the palm of his hand, then turned toward the canvas as he heard laughter. He lifted a ham-sized fist at the rolling canvasmen. "You..." Well, it is only necessary to recount that the canvas was spread in record time. The four guards left with the young Ahngarian after Duckfoot had issued the lad his free pass.

The next day the show moved indoors to the Royal Hall in Almandiia for the Monarch's birthday command performance. The troupers sprung their braces putting on a special effort, which was complemented by the display of naff riding put on by His Highness Erkev IV. As the Boss Canvasman stood at the performers' entrance to the Great Hall, he noticed the four guards standing behind him. As the Monarch put the cross between a bull and an alligator through its paces, Duckfoot turned and spoke to guard number one. "I see you didn't put your act in the show." The guard nodded. "We not at liberty." Duckfoot nodded. "Where's the little guy?" The guard frowned. "We sworn not tell." Duckfoot shrugged, then turned to watch as Erkev IV wrapped up his act. The Monarch led off his mount to the lusty applause and cheers of the troupers seated in the stands of the great hall. The hall quieted, then a tiny clown sped by Duckfoot's left in a blur of standing somersaults. The clown came to a stop in the center of the hall, bowed toward the Monarch, then faced the troupers in the stands and began an acrobatic comedy routine that had the Joeys in the stands taking notes. Duckfoot turned to see the four guards watching the small clown. "That's the lad you bozos were guarding at the lot in Stinja."

The number-one guard nodded. "Surprise for the Monarch and your company." "Who is he?"

"Ahssiel, Crown Prince of Ahngar."

Duckfoot looked back at the Prince for a moment. "Not bad." The guard frowned. "Is excellent!" Duckfoot nodded. "That's what I said."

With the conclusion of the command performance, the season on Ahngar closed. The Governor left the show playing a fixed stand at the Royal Hall to capacity crowds. He took transportation to Earth bringing with him Jingles McGurk, Sticks Arlo, the Patch, and an armload of plans.

FOUR

Karl Arnheim took the chip rack from his accountant, placed it on his desk, then looked up at the Governor. "Now, what may I do for you, Mr. O'Hara? I caution you in advance that A&BCE will not let you out of our agreement."

O'Hara smiled and flipped a memory chip onto Arnheim's desk. "Just wanted to show you this."

Arnheim picked up the chip with his right thumb and forefinger, frowned at it, then returned his glance to the Governor. "What is it?"

"The show's books for the season on Ahngar."

"We have no interest in your show; why would I want to look at this?"

O'Hara smiled even wider. "I have a proposition to offer and you should look at that first. I think you'll be surprised."

Arnheim shrugged, placed the chip into his desk reader, and studied the figures that appeared on his screen. He sat up, indexed for another part of the chip, raised his brows, and returned his glance to O'Hara. "This has been audited?"

O'Hara leaned forward and pressed the code for the verification of authenticity. The machine's screen remained blank for a moment, then flashed: "Audited by Fortiscule & Emmis, Accountants, Inc., New York. Chip comparison with copy on file: Identical. Verified."

Karl Arnheim nodded. "I admit I am surprised. You have, according to these figures, discharged all of the show's outstanding debts and have cleared close to a million and a half credits. Very impressive, but what has this to do with A&BCE?"

"I want you to build me a starship"—he pulled a wad of papers and several loose memory chips from his coat pocket—"according to these specifications."

Amheim took the papers, opened them, then raised his eyebrows as he looked at the diagrams. "You had a good season, John, but not that good. Have you any idea what a ship such as this would cost?"

"About eighty million credits."

Karl Arnheim nodded. "And where are you going to get that kind of money?"

"You." O'Hara folded his arms. "I want you to swap me the ship for an eighty-percent interest in the new show." He unfolded one arm and pointed at the loose chips on Arnheim's desk. "Those are cost figures and projections on the new, expanded show. If you'll loan me the money, I'll be able to pay it off at ten-percent interest within five years. But, if you take the eighty percent, you will net about thirty-five-percent return on your investment every year. How does that sound?"

Arnheim rubbed his chin, then shook his head. "As impressive as this sounds, you must realize that A&BCE has no desire to be in the circus business. As to loaning you the money by financing the construction, well..." He held out his hands. "... How could I face my stockholders, especially with your record? Eighty million is a lot of credits."

"I'm not asking you to loan me the credits on the basis of my record, my honor, or my anything. Check out those projections—"

"John, you know as well as I do that circuses are disaster prone. What if—" Arnheim stopped as he noticed his accountant trying to get his attention. "What is it, Milt?" "Karl, if we could talk alone for a moment?" "Of course." He faced O'Hara. "If you would excuse us for a moment John?"

O'Hara noticed the door opening behind him. "Sure. Remember to check out those chips."

Arnheim nodded and O'Hara turned and left the room, the door closing silently behind him. Standing in the outer office, a slender man dressed in an ill-fitting suit waited. "Any luck, Mr. John?"

O'Hara shrugged. "Don't know yet. That polecat accountant, Milt Stone, wanted a private skull session. Assuming we get the ship, how long would it take you to scrape up the acts and additional troupers?"

Sticks Arlo, O'Hara's Director of Performers, shook his head, then rolled up his eyes to look at the ceiling. "My guess is a month—six weeks at the outside."

O'Hara nodded. "Good. It'll take A&BCE's orbiting shipyard about three months to build the ship, if they get right on it. In making up the designs I made certain the designers incorporated A&BCE's standard components wherever possible. What about the additional animals?"

"The Boss Animal Man is beating the brush right now. He says the official line is a definite no on transporting any animals off Earth. The unofficial line is: money talks."

The door to Arnheim's office opened and the accountant emerged carrying the papers and chips. "Mr. O'Hara?"

The Governor frowned. "Yes?"

"We will have to examine all this very carefully before drawing up any papers, but it looks as though you have yourself a ship. Have you a name for it yet?"

O'Hara stood stunned for a moment, then he slapped Sticks on the arm and repeated the gesture on the accountant's arm. "Name? You bet I have a name. It's to be called the City of Baraboo."

"What a curious name? Does it have a meaning?"

O'Hara slapped the accountant on the back. "I'll say it does! Baraboo, Wisconsin, is where the Big One was born. Big Bertha—Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey Combined Shows—the biggest circus the Earth ever saw. And when the City of Baraboo takes to the star road, it will have a show half again as big as RB&BB!"

The accountant nodded and edged off. "Well, you'll want something in writing pretty fast, then, and so I'd best get to work."

Sticks pushed the outer office door open and held it for the Governor. "Mr. John, I never heard you say you had a name for the ship."

O'Hara stepped through the open door. "Just thought of it. City of Baraboo. I like the sound of that."

"It's okay."

"Okay?!"

"I mean we do have a few other things to think about right now—like putting together the biggest circus this world has ever seen, and paying for it until we can begin trouping."

O'Hara rubbed his chin. "Hmmm." He faced Sticks, nodded, then cocked his head toward the elevators. "I guess we better get to it then."

FIVE

In a room like a million other budget, no-frills, nursing-home units, an old man in his bed picked up his bowl of fiber-rich nutritionally amplified oatmeal, held it over the floor, inverted it, and let it fall. Nurse Bunnis opened the door and poked in her head. Immediately her painted smile cracked the layers of powder on her cheeks. "Now, now, Mister Bolin, have we dropped our oatmeal again?"

"No." Abner Bolin folded his thin arms.

Nurse Bunnis propelled her fundament into the room and looked beside the bed. "What is this, Mister Bolin? We have too dropped our oatmeal."

"No. I dropped my oatmeal. Your oatmeal is already another layer of lard on that spare tire of yours."

The nurse shook her head. "My, my, but aren't we cross today? Now I'll send a girl in to clean up the mess, then I'll feed you myself. I know those old fingers of yours aren't what they used to be."

"Stuff it in your ear, ratbag! You get close enough to stick that foul slop in my mouth, and I'll bite off your big, fat nose!"

Nurse Bunnis continued shaking her head as she reached under her arm, withdrew a newspaper, and placed it on the old man's lap. "Here's your Billboard, Mister Bolin."

He picked up the paper, opened it, and held it in front of his face. "Umph."

Nurse Bunnis tapped her toe on the floor and folded her arms. "Mister Bolin, if you insist on being cranky, I'll have to call the doctor."

Bolin lowered the paper and peered over the top. "You want me to tell you where else you can stuff it, ratbag?"

The nurse held her arms at her sides, turned red, then stormed to the door. She opened it, then faced the old man in the bed. "I don't see why you spend your whole allowance on that stupid newspaper. You're too old, and anyway there aren't any circuses anymore. Why don't you let me cancel your subscription? That way you could buy one of those paper-cutting games that so many of the patients are finding popular—"

A wrinkled hand reached out from behind the opened newspaper, grabbed the stainless-steel water pitcher, and flung it in the general direction of the door. Nurse Bunnis, from frequent practice, was into the hallway with the door closed behind her before impact. As the pitcher hit the door and clattered to the floor, Abner Bolin lowered the paper to his lap, slid down on his mattress, and lowered his head to his pillow. He felt the tears tempt his eyes, but he fought them back.

"Damned old ratbag." He let his head fall to the right and he stared at the blank, featureless wall. He saw a fading image of his old self, his motley of red and yellow satin, his red cap and bells. There was Peru Abner, dancing and falling on the shavings, the golden blasts of laughter in his ears. The calliope stomping out the steam music that sent bagpipes running home to mother, fingers stuck in tender ears. He shook his head and looked back at the door. Today is today, he thought, and prepared himself for the next round with Nurse Bunnis. While he waited, he picked up his paper and began reading.

Doctor Haag, frowning through a beard and mustache, came to a halt in front of the door and turned toward Nurse Bunnis. "I cannot be bothered by every one of these old flumes that refuses to gum his oatmeal."

"Doctor, Mister Bolin became violent."

"Humph!" He turned and pushed open the door. "Well, where is he?"

Nurse Bunnis stepped into the room. The mussed bed was empty, the closet door was open, and the newspaper was scattered on the floor. As the doctor pulled his head out of the closet, Nurse Bunnis puffed her way up from the floor carrying a sheet of newsprint. "Doctor Haag!"

"The closet's empty. Have you found something?"

"Look." With a pudgy finger she pointed toward an ad line. It read: "Peru Abner, where are you?"

"What does that mean?"

Nurse Bunnis smiled. "He told me. It means that a show is looking for him." She read the ad's headline, then frowned. "This O'Hara's Greater Shows auditioning in New York is Where he'll be going. Should we... report him?"

Haag shook his head. "He's not a prisoner, and we can use the bed." He turned and left the room. Nurse Bunnis reread the ad, came to the line "Peru Abner, where are you?" then she crumpled up the paper and held it against her ample breast. She thought a moment, then nodded.

"Good for you, Mister Bolin. Good for you."

Chu Ti Ping entered her superior's office, carrying an armload of quota reports. Lu Ki Wang, production-control officer for Nanking Industries, had been falling behind in his paperwork. She frowned as she noticed the office, was empty. The walls were different as well. The photograph of Chairman Fan hung in its customary place, but the others—the pictures of Lu balancing the plates on the sticks, and the ones of those round-eyes in peculiar costumes—were gone. Turning to his desk, she saw a pile of empty picture frames and a newspaper. She looked more closely at the periodical and saw that it was in English, and that something was circled in red. Chu Ti Ping prided herself on her English skills and she walked around the desk to read the marked portion. It read: "Luke the Gook, where are you?"

Outside of Staunton, Virginia, parents dragging their runny-nosed brats to their riding lessons found the stable closed and both horses and trainers missing. In South Wales, four miners—all brothers—failed to report to their shift. A check of their home found it empty. In the United Republic of Germany at a sanatorium for the incurably obese, a patient who had reached a weight of 249kg after a year of treatment suddenly disappeared, along with an astounding quantity of sausages. In Ottawa, the CBC announced the cancellation of a much loved children's program, "Captain Billy and his Performing Dogs." Las Vegas police announced that they were still searching for nightclub mime Anton Etren who walked off of the stage in the middle of a performance after a drunk in the audience began singing.

In Moscow, guard sergeant Atsinch Gorelov stood sweating before the Commandant of the new Peoples Rehabilitation Facility. The Commandant peered at Gorelov from under heavy black brows. "What do you mean Kolya has escaped?"

Gorelov held out his palms. "Comrade Commandant—"

"Stand at attention!"

Gorelov slapped his hands to his sides. "Comrade Commandant, prisoner Sasha Kolya was not in his isolation cell at evening call."

"Not in his cell? How can it be that he was not in his cell? Did one of you vegetables leave his door open?"

"No, Comrade Commandant. The prisoner's door was locked."

"And, nothing was recorded on the automatic surveillance board?"

Gorelov licked his lips. "It shows the prisoner going to bed with the covers over his head. When he did not stand for the evening call, a guard went in to investigate. The prisoner's shape under the blanket was formed by wads of newspaper."

"Newspaper?"

"Yes, Comrade Commandant. It was in his mail this morning. I have it in the outer office." The Commandant nodded and Gorelov rushed to the door, opened it, then took the paper from the guard private, standing at the entrance. Gorelov slammed the door, rushed back to the Commandant's desk and held out the paper. It was crumpled, but the sheets had been flattened and placed in their proper order. The Commandant leafed through the publication, but overlooked the line "Slippery Sash, where are you?"

World Eco-Watch announced a slight decline in the elephant population of the Indian Preserve, as well as minor decreases of a few other species in both Indian and African preserves, due most likely to the unseasonal drought.

In Albany, the Governor of New York walked into his press secretary's office and found the press secretary missing. On the man's desk the Governor found a hastily scribbled letter of resignation and a newspaper with the following line marked: "Quack, Quack, where are you?"

SIX

Jon Norden looked out of the view bubble of the lounge at the starship held in the null field of the orbiting shipyard's framework. Ant-sized workers swarmed around the struts to the Bellenger pods, securing them to the ship's body. "Quite a sight, isn't it?"

Jon turned and saw the yard boss holding out a steaming cup of coffee. "Thanks." He looked back at the ship. "I've never seen the gangs work together so well. When I was jockeying those pods into place—you know how tricky that is—it was as though we could do no wrong. Know what I mean, Jake?"

The yard boss nodded. "I never saw components put together so fast. We're so far ahead of schedule, I'm afraid that unless that battleship deal comes through, I'll have to lay some of you guys off."

Jon snorted. "Just you try it, Jake."

"Just kidding. Tell me, Jon..." The yard boss rubbed his chin. "Why are the gangs so enthusiastic about this one? We've built bigger ships. Remember the Otazi?"

Jon sipped at his coffee. "The City of Baraboo is different, Jake. It's funny, since the Baraboo has the same design as an attack transport, with all those heavy cargo shuttles. But, it's a circus ship. This ship will never be used for killing. Not that I'm a pacifist—I couldn't work here if I was. But... I don't know."

"I think I know what you're getting at."

"Jake, have the work orders for the special fittings been approved yet? Except for running up a few nuts and doing the shakedown, she's about ready to go."

The yard boss shook his head. "No. We have the parts made; all that's left is installing them. Must be some foulup down in the main office."

"Aren't we doing an attack transport soon? The company could have saved a bundle if we'd done this, ship and the transport at the same time."

Jake shrugged. "As far as I know the deal's either been postponed or it fell through. The head office is getting a lot of static from the government over doing business with the Nuumiian Empire. The union was about to take a position against it, too. I don't think A&BCE wanted the bad press."

Jon looked back at the City of Baraboo. "Jake, I want to rotate downstairs early. Okay?"

"Sure. It's your paycheck. With nothing but the fittings left, I won't need you. Trouble at home?"

Jon studied the ship as he shook his head. "I'm not certain."

John J. O'Hara punched his treasurer in the shoulder. "Jingles, it's all downhill from here!"

Jingles McGurk looked at the Governor with a sour expression. "If you call nothing in the bank going downhill, Mr. John. The money we're getting from the show on Ahngar is only letting us break even."

"Isn't that good?"

"What about the small matter of paying off the City of Baraboo?"

"Pooh! Onee we hit the star road with the new show, we'll have that crate paid off in five years." O'Hara turned to his rented office door. "Jingles, you should see the acts we'll have! They're coming from everywhere. You remember Waco Whacko?"

"Sure. The guy with the pythons." Jingles shivered.

"He's been teaching school on a planet named Ssendiss, but he's on his way here with twenty snakes you wouldn't believe. That's what they have on Ssendiss—snakes, they run the place. But, what an act!"

Jingles shook his head. "I better get down to the bank. They're a little nervous about those checks we don't have covered."

"They'll be covered. I never saw such a chilly bunch!"

Jingles smiled. "You are still young, Mr. John, for an old man."

As Jingles turned and walked off, O'Hara frowned, shrugged, then opened his door. Seated at the Governor's paper and plan littered desk was a young man. He was leaning back in the Governor's chair and had his feet on the Governor's desk. "You must be John O'Hara."

"I am, and who in the hell might you be, and why are your feet on my desk?"

The young man removed his feet and sat forward, elbows resting on the desk. "My name is Jon Norden. I'm with the A&BCE shipyard."

O'Hara pursed his lips, then sat down in a chair facing his own desk. "Is there trouble?"

"If you call losing your ship trouble."

O'Hara stood. "Explain yourself."

Jon looked up at him. "I'll bet you a million credits against a handful of bolts that you don't hold title to the City of Baraboo."

"Not until I pay for it, I don't."

"And, when will you pay for it?"

O'Hara snorted. "I can't see how this is any of your business, sonny!"

"I'll tell you this much, grandpaw: unless you plunk down eighty million credits, cash on the barrelhead, you are going to lose your ship. A&BCE, using your reasons for a cover, are building an attack transport for the Nuumiian Empire. The plan is to sell them the ship, get the cash in hand, and be done with it before either the government, the people of Earth, or my union know about it. When they are presented with an accomplished fact, everyone will shrug and go home, and A&BCE will be ahead to the tune of a lot of credits. How does that grab you, grandpaw?"

O'Hara resumed his seat. "How do you know this?"

"I work at the yard. Right now the Baraboo is the stock frame for an attack transport. All those special fittings to turn it into a circus ship have not been installed. I did a little nosing around, though, and came up with something interesting. All those fittings necessary to turn that ship into a war vessel are waiting at the yard. My guess is that after selling it, the military fittings will be placed aboard and installed en route to Nuumiia."

"But A&BCE has an agreement with me!"

Jon nodded. "You deliver eighty million credits, and they deliver one ship. But you haven't paid anything yet, have you? I don't think A&BCE ever expected you to. But, building a circus ship is still a good cover story for building a warship." Jon leaned back in the chair. "What are you going to do?"

"Are you at liberty, sonny?"

"Am I in need of a job? I guess I will be after this. What did you have in mind?"

"That ship will need a crew."

Jon shook his head. "Don't you think you ought to get together with a lawyer—or an army of lawyers? You can't stop A&BCE with—"

"Now's my time to teach you something, sonny. We don't squawk copper. We'll handle it ourselves. Now, are you interested in that job?"

SEVEN

Jon Norden sat slouched in a chair watching the Patch burn up the hotel room rug with his pacing. The thin black-clad man clasped his hands behind his back, unclasped them and folded them over his chest, stopped, shook his head, then held out his hands. "I wonder if Mr. John ever stopped to think how much he asks of me?"

Jon smiled and shrugged. "I'm new here myself." "Bah!" Patch dropped his arms to his sides, then resumed his pacing. The thin man held his hands at the sides of his head, scowled, muttered an oath or two, then stopped in front of the room's paper-littered coffee table. He picked up the agreement O'Hara had made with A&BCE, glanced at it, then picked up the uncompleted registry certificate. He threw them back onto the table. "Bah!" He paced for a while longer, then stopped and faced Jon. "You see, Mr. Norden, the Governor has a dream. Humph! A dream. He isn't content making a living at running a show; he's got to make a route out of the entire Quadrant—maybe the Galaxy! And to do that, he wants to take on one of the biggest corporations on Earth, not to mention the biggest military force in the Quadrant." He held out his hands and shook them, "No! He wants me to take them on!" He frowned at Jon. "What are you doing here?"

"Mr. O'Hara said that I should help you however I can."

"Help? Help? What kind of help?"

Jon shrugged. "He said the ship will need a crew. I'm a fully ticketed ship's engineer."

"A crew? Doesn't the man know that he has to have a ship before he needs a crew? What does he plan to do—pirate the Baraboo?"

"It could be done."

"Eh?"

"I said it could be done. The crew at the yard could man the ship. We even have a shuttle pilot up there, Willy Coogan. He's got a master's ticket."

Patch sat down on the couch behind the coffee table and rubbed his chin. "Would they?"

"Would they what?"

"Pirate the ship."

Jon laughed, then shook his head. "Hey, I was kidding."

"But, would they do it? Could you get them to do it?"

"I don't know about you, buddy, but I don't plan to live out the rest of my days on one of the penal colonies. The Quadrant Admiralty Office would drop on us like a ton of steel."

The Patch leaned back in the couch, crossed his legs, and folded his arms. "Mere detail, my boy. Mere detail. If I could guarantee that no one goes to jail, could you get a crew to pirate—excuse me, to take possession of that ship?"

Jon frowned, studied his strange companion for a moment, then nodded. "It's possible. My union never has been hot on the idea of slapping up ships for the Nuumiians. But, how are you going to keep us out of jail?"

The Patch leaned forward, pawed at the papers on the coffee table, then pulled out a sheaf of papers from the pile. "Let's see what this show has for entertainment, first."

Jon squirmed uneasily in his chair for a moment, then leaned forward and held out his hands. "Wouldn't it be a better idea to get a lawyer working on this?"

The Patch looked up, glared over the top of the papers at Jon, then looked back at the papers. "Humph!"

Karl Arnheim looked at the hooded figure of the Nuumiian Ambassador seated in the chair opposite his. Even though the hood shadowed the figure's face, Arnheim could see those cold, dark eyes examining him as though he were a bug. The Ambassador held out an arm in Arnheim's direction, and the gray sleeve of the Nuumiian's robe slid back exposing a blue-green, four-fingered hand. "And, Mr. Arnheim, when may we expect delivery on the attack transport?"

"Six days, Ambassador Sum. Orders to install the fittings have been given, and the test run still needs to be done, but after that, it's yours. Is your crew ready?"

The Ambassador waved his hand, indicating the affirmative. "The crew is on one of our cruisers waiting in neutral space. You understand, Mr. Arnheim, that your crew must bring the ship outside the Solar Identification Zone?"

"Yes—"

Arnheim's office door hissed open. His secretary, face flushed and brow furrowed, entered at a half-run. "Mr. Arnheim, you—"

Arnheim stood. "What is the meaning of this behavior, Janice?"

The secretary nodded her head at the Ambassador, then turned to Arnheim. "I am sorry, but you should look at this right away!" She extended her arm, and in her hand was a sheet of white paper, and a slip of yellow paper.

Arnheim bowed to Ambassador Sum. "Please excuse me." He turned to the papers, and as he read, his eyebrows elevated with each sweep of his eyes. "Is this someone's idea of humor?"

Ambassador Sum stood. "If you would care to be alone, Mr. Arnheim..."

Arnheim held out a hand. "No... no, Ambassador Sum. This concerns you, as well. O'Hara... he has presented me with a check for eighty million credits." Arnheim waved the white sheet of paper. "He has assumed title to the ship, and has registered it." He turned to his secretary. "The printing on this check—it's still wet!"

Ambassador Sum placed his hands inside his sleeves. "I thought you said that this O'Hara couldn't possibly raise the money in such short order."

Arnheim frowned. "He can't. Look, the check is drawn on the First National Bank of the City of Baraboo. That's the name of the ship." Arnheim gave his head a curt nod. "They won't get away with this!" He reached out a hand to energize his communicator, but before his finger touched the button, the screen came to life. It was the superintendent of the A&BCE orbiting shipyard. "Yates! Just the man I wanted to see. About that ship—"

The man on the screen shook his head. "It's gone, Mr. Arnheim."

"Gone?"

"Gone."

"What do you mean, Yates? How can it be gone?"

"One of the shuttles we sent down two days ago for fuel and supplies returned a few hours ago. There was a man—his name was Wellington; tall, skinny guy—anyway, he presented the proper registration papers. Then his crew unloaded and released the ship. They docked the shuttle to the ship, took on the crew and yardworkers, then left—"

"The yardworkers? You mean he's got my yard gang, too?"

"Yes, Mr. Arnheim. I would have called sooner, but the communications up here have been tampered with—"

"Shut up for a second, Yates!" Arnheim frowned, looked down for a second, then looked back at the screen. "Yates, the other nine shuttles—where are they?"

The image on the screen shrugged. "As far as I know, Mr. Arnheim, they're still downstairs being loaded."

Without signing off, Arnheim punched off the screen, punched in a code, and waited for an answer. The screen came to life. The image on the screen smiled. "Eastern Regional Spaceport. May I help you?"

"Give me the freight terminal." He turned to the Ambassador. "O'Hara has his bunch at a hotel near Eastern Regional—"

"Freight terminal."

Arnheim turned back to see a nondescript image. "I want to see the manager."

"You're looking at him."

"I am Karl Arnheim. Those shuttles from the A&BCE yard—"

"Oh, you're Karl Arnheim!" The image smiled. "Well, sir, let me tell you that I never saw a smoother operation. Those shuttles touched down and were loaded in an hour and a half. Those circus people certainly have loading down to a science—"

"The shuttles; where are they?"

"Why... they left over an hour ago—"

Arnheim punched off the screen, punched in another code and waited. "Ambassador Sum, is your vessel prepared to chase down the Baraboo?"

"It is."

An image appeared on the screen. "Ninth Quadrant Admiralty Office."

"This is Karl Arnheim. I've had a ship pirated. I will need a Judgments Officer at Eastern Regional in ten minutes. Transportation is already arranged."

"Yes, Mr. Amheim. Will you need an enforcement company?"

Arnheim looked at Ambassador Sum. The Ambassador motioned for Arnheim to cut the sound. Arnheim did so. "It would be better, Mr. Arnheim, that if there is killing to be done, it be done by the Quadrant authorities."

Arnheim looked back at the screen and cut on the sound. "Yes. I'll have all the necessary papers with me." He cut off the screen and turned to the Ambassador. "Half of O'Hara's show is still on Ahngar. That's where he'll be headed."

"You are coming as well, Mr. Arnheim?"

Arnheim barked out a short laugh. "No one—and I mean no one—is going to stick me with an eighty-million-credit rubber check! I am going!"

As the shuttle streaked to make orbit with the Baraboo, Patch, and the newly christened Pirate Jon Norden, moved to the pilot's compartment. The Governor was sitting in the co-pilot's seat staring at a tiny viewscreen. He looked up from the viewscreen as they entered. His eyes were red-rimmed. The Patch frowned. "Is something wrong, Mr. John?"

O'Hara turned back to the screen and pointed at it. It showed Earth. "Before we loaded I took a little trip to where the old Madison Square Garden used to stand. Do you know why some of the performers and roughnecks call the main entrance to a lot the Eighth Avenue side, and the other sides are named after streets? The old Garden was flanked by Eighth and Ninth Avenues and by Fifty and Forty-ninth streets. Eighth Avenue was the main entrance side. RB&BB used to start off their season there before going under canvas and hitting the road. Circus people just got used to calling lot sides after the streets surrounding the Garden." The Governor shook his head. "RB&BB is gone, and so's the Garden." He turned his head and faced the Patch and Pirate Jon. "The streets are still there, but that's all."

O'Hara turned back to the viewscreen. "When I was a kid and my father was the Governor, he used to have the vans drop off the horses and wagons about ten miles from the stand. The Governor would ride up front in his buggy, and right behind would be the Boss Hostler driving the first wagon. It was the grabber—a cage wagon. In it was Mousy Dunn, our wildman, and a beautiful, huge, Siberian tiger that used to sleep with Mousy. But when they were in the cage, Mousy would crouch at one end and the tiger at the other, hissing and growling at each other, and wrestling between tunes.

"After the attention-getter would be more cage wagons pulled by eight-horse teams, then the show wagons. They were mounted with mirrors and were painted with pictures of clowns and animals and trimmed with whorls of gold carvings. Then, tail-and-trunk, came the bulls. At one time we had twenty of them. Then, more show wagons and the horse piano would bring up the rear. After the steam music would come the kids. It was... as though the passing of the wagons caused the soil to generate a parade of kids. It didn't matter where we were. The vans would unload the wagons in the emptiest countryside you ever saw, and in minutes the road behind would be filled with waving hands, laughing faces, and eyes filled with sparkle. ..."

O'Hara rubbed at his eyes, then looked back at the viewscreen. "Earth no longer has a circus, and the circus no longer has Earth. I can't help feeling that they're both a little less because of it."

The Patch felt the tears blur his vision, and he looked out of the forward viewplate at the bright dot in the black of space that would soon expand to become the City of Baraboo. Patch nodded. He had ridden those wagons behind the old Governor and his apple-cheeked son. He looked back at O'Hara and nodded to himself. He was beginning to see what the Governor meant about saving the circus.

EIGHT

The Nuumiian battle cruiser sped into orbit around Ahngar, after its week long chase, and in seconds its skin bristled with guns and sensors. The City of Baraboo was immediately located in a fixed orbit, the Nuumiian ship matched the Baraboo, then launched a shuttle. On board the shuttle, Judgments Officer Ali looked from Karl Arnheim's bright-red, simmering face, to the death-cold demeanor of the Nuumiian Ambassador. Captain Green, commander of the enforcement company, entered the compartment, nodded toward Arnheim and the Ambassador, then turned to Ali. "All set."

Ali nodded. "They appear cooperative, but keep your troops on their toes. We don't know what to expect from them," he nodded toward the Nuumiian, "nor from them."

The Nuumiian co-pilot of the shuttle opened the forward compartment hatch and stepped in. He bowed toward the Ambassador, jabbered in Nuumiian, then turned and left. Sum announced to them all. "We are about to dock. The co-pilot informs me that we'll be using the after compartment exit."

Ali felt the shuttle lurch a bit, then he heard port locks slamming home. He slapped Green on the shoulder. "We're docked; let's go."

They moved into the after compartment and stood by the exit door at the head of Captain Green's thirty-man enforcement company. Each man was in combat armor and sported an array of destructive weapons. As soon as the port light showed safelight, Green threw the dogs on the door, spun the wheel and pulled open the door. The Baraboo's port was already open. Standing in the brightly lit airlock was a tall, thin man dressed in black. "Welcome to the City of Baraboo. My name is Arthur Burnside Wellington. I am the legal adjuster for O'Hara's Greater Shows."

Arnheim pushed his way through the men, then stopped and pointed a finger at the Patch. "That's him! The one who pirated the ship. What are you waiting for? Arrest him!"

The Patch raised his eyebrows. "Why, Mr. Arnheim, how good of you to come. I must compliment you on the Baraboo's performance. Your company did an excellent job, and everybody says so—"

Arnheim's finger shook as he screamed at the Judgments Officer. "Arrest him!"

Ali nodded at Green, who in turn had a couple of his troops escort Arnheim a few feet away to cool off. The Judgement Officer then turned back to the Patch. "It appears, Mr. Wellington, that there is some doubt concerning the title to this vessel."

The Patch frowned, then shook his head. "I can't imagine what that could be. The agreement stated that good title would revert to John J. O'Hara upon full payment for the Baraboo." He reached into his coat pocket. "I have a notarized statement here that payment was presented to the offices of A&BCE and accepted by them."

Ali smiled. "There seems to be some doubt as to the check's worth."

"Doubt!" Arnheim pulled free, then came to a stop next to Ali. "It's not even a legal check. There is no such thing as the First National Bank of the City of Baraboo, and if there is, it's not legal. What nation's laws is it incorporated under?"

The Patch shrugged. "Why, our own, of course. The Baraboo is a self-registered vessel, which means that on board we are only bound to follow our own laws. We incorporated our own bank."

"Ridiculous!" Arnheim turned to Ali. "Tell him! Tell him, and then arrest the entire lot of pirates!"

Ali shrugged. "There is such a law, Mr. Arnheim. It was devised quite a number of decades ago to eliminate the complications of national allegiance to a planet or country that a ship sees only rarely. If they have a bank, there is no reason to believe it isn't legal."

Arnheim pulled a folder from his pocket, then pulled a yellow slip of paper from it. "What about this check, then? If it's no good, then you don't have title!"

The Patch rubbed his chin. "Have you tried to cash it?"

"Of course not!"

The Patch shrugged. "Well, there you are. If you would deposit that check, your banker would have sent it to the central clearinghouse, then on to us, and you would have had your money. We can't be blamed if you fail to follow normal business practices."

Ali looked at Arnheim. "Well, Mr. Arnheim?"

"If I had waited for this check to clear, who knows where they would have been when it bounced?"

"Until such time as it bounces, Mr. Arnheim, I'm afraid there is nothing I can do."

Arnheim tapped his toe, then nodded. "Very well." He turned to the Patch. "Show me where this Bank of Baraboo is. I would, like to cash a check."

The Patch looked at his watch, then shook his head. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Arnheim, but it's after three and the bank is closed."

Ali folded his arms. "Perhaps, Mr. Wellington, this time the bank could make an exception?"

The Patch read what was in the Judgments Officer's eyes, then smiled. "Of course. If you gentlemen would follow me?" He turned, went through the inside door to the airlock, then walked a few paces until he came to a door marked "First National Bank of the City of Baraboo" in crayon. The door hissed open, and the Patch, Arnheim, Ali, Sum, and Captain Green entered. The room was bare, except for a folding table and a chair. On the table was a cheap tin cash box. The Patch pulled out the chair, sat down, folded his arms, and smiled at Amheim. "May I help you, sir?"

Arnheim threw the check onto the table. "Cash this!"

The Patch looked at the check, turned it over, then put it on the table and pushed it toward Arnheim. Arnheim turned to Ali. "You see? He refused to cash it."

The Patch cleared his throat. "Sir, you forgot to endorse the check."

Arnheim slowly pulled a pen from pocket, stooped over, endorsed the check, then pushed it back. "Now, cash it!"

The Patch studied the check. "My, my, but that's quite a sum. Are you certain you wouldn't prefer a draft that you can deposit back on Earth?"

"Cash it."

"Would you care to open a savings account with us? Our interest rates are very good—"

"Cash it... now!"

The Patch pulled the cash box in front of him, then looked up at Arnheim. "It's a set of dishes with each new account, sir—"

"Ca ... ca ..." Arnheim blew air in and out a few times. "Right now. Right now. Cash it."

The Patch shrugged then opened the box. With his left hand he reached into the box and withdrew a handful of credit notes. "I hope millions are all right, sir. We don't carry anything smaller. One, two, three..."

Arnheim picked up one of the million credit notes and stared at it open-mouthed. Then he held it out to Ali. "This is an obvious forgery!"

"... seven, eight, nine, ten..."

The Judgments Officer took the bill and examined it. His hands started to shake, and he handed it back. "I assure you, Mr. Arnheim, it's quite genuine."

Arnheim watched in horror as Patch continued counting. "... fifteen, sixteen, seventeen..."

"It can't be!"

Ali shrugged. "It is." The Judgments Officer smiled. "Sorry."

Ambassador Sum stepped forward. "Officer Ali, does this mean that Mr. Arnheim will not gain possession of the ship?"

"As long as there are seventy-nine pieces of paper to match that one, he won't." Ali studied the Nuumiian. "I would advise you to do nothing foolish."

"... fifty-one, fifty-two, fifty-three..." They all watched as the Patch went through and wound up the count. "... seventy-eight, seventy-nine, and eighty. There you are sir. Are you certain we can't interest you in one of our rainy-day accounts?"

Arnheim scooped up the bills, counted them twice, then stuffed them into his coat pocket. "You tell O'Hara that he hasn't seen the last of this!"

The Patch smiled. "Oh, then you will open an account with us? Perhaps one of our sunshine accounts? Christmas club?"

Arnheim appeared to be headed for a fit and Ali had two troopers escort the man from the room. He remained behind as the others returned to the shuttle. "Mr. Wellington?"

The Patch closed the box, looked up and nodded. "Yes?"

"Just between you and me, where did you get the eighty million?"

"Perhaps you would like to meet the president of the First National Bank of the City of Baraboo." A door at the back of the compartment opened and in stepped a very small person in a clown suit and makeup. Ali studied the figure for a moment, then realized that the bone structure under the makeup wasn't human. "May I present His Royal Highness, Prince Ahssiel, Heir to the Crown of Erkev IV, Monarch of all Ahngar. He is also one of the Joeys in Clown Alley. His father is First National's largest and—I can safely say—only depositor. Your Highness, this is Officer Ali of the Ninth Quadrant Admiralty Office."

The Prince bowed, then stood up. "I am pleased to meet you."

Ali looked at the Patch, then back at the Prince. "Your Highness, could you explain how these people ever talked your father into giving them eighty million credits?"

The Prince shook his head. "No. It is a deposit, and I am here to look after my father's money. I am the president. My father said that it is a good trade for a future monarch to learn." The Prince nodded toward the Patch. "And after Mr. Patch explained the scheme to the Monarch, my father also said that a voyage with Mr. Patch would be both an unusual and valuable education."

The Patch frowned, folded his arms and snorted. "Your Highness, I'd hardly call it a scheme."

"Excuse me. I remember now." The Prince smiled at Ali. "It is not a scheme; it is a fix. But the best part is that I will study with Peru Abner Bolin, the greatest clown in all the Universe!" The Prince turned toward the Patch. "May I go now, Mr. Patch?"

The Patch nodded. "Remember, your father said not to clown around too much." The Prince nodded and left running.

Ali nodded, then leaned on the table. "So, you're a circus fixer." The Patch nodded. "Well, fix this: how am I going to make it back to Earth without laughing in Arnheim's face every time I see him?"

The fixer rubbed his chin. "If it was me, I'd stay in my cabin." And he did.