City of Baraboo

FIFTEEN

It was the beginning of the 2144 season (Earth Time) and O'Hara's Greater Shows' third season in the circus starship City of Baraboo. Never had Divver-Sehin Tho a passing thought of being employed by humans, and a circus was beyond his experience. He was a reasonably secure language clerk in the Bureau of Regret in Aargow, capital of the planet Pendiia. The Democratists had been in office less than three years, replacing a monarchy that had been in place for twelve centuries. Divver had fought in the revolution on the Democratist side, but as the wheels of reform reduced the Bureau of Regret to a loosely supervised chaos, he found himself half wishing for the return of the monarchy.

It was in such a frame of mind, aided by a hysterical division supervisor the day before attempting to maintain his pre-revolutionary position by creating endless work, that Divver found himself at odd moments reading the help-wanted ads in the news chips. It was not that he was thinking seriously about leaving his position; he simply wanted to assure himself that the choice was still his. It was on the first day of his vacation, and he was occupied with the want ads, when one listing caught his eye: "Call! Call! Call! Where are you Billy Pratt? Jowles McGee, stay where you are. State lowest salary in first letter. Need one to work the route book. Must read, write English, experience in history useful. Apply in person to O'Hara's Greater Shows, Westhoven."

Divver frowned. The human entertainment company had put down on Pendiia some months before, but he had never seen the show. Since he was familiar with the Earth tongue called English, had a smattering of history, and an overwhelming curiosity, he decided to journey to the municipality of Westhoven and see what could be seen.

As he put up the rented scooter and came on the lot at Westhoven, the number of humans on the lot began making him nervous. Earth had supported the old monarchy in the revolution until the Ninth Quadrant forces intervened to let the Pendiians settle their own politics.

In the center of the lot was spread a huge canvas structure supported by poles and tied down by endless lengths of rope. Human painters were touching up the red paint and gold leaf on numerous wagons with brightly colored, spoked wheels. Performers practiced between several smaller canvas structures—a juggler, a woman who appeared to be tying herself into a knot, a few tumblers—when a human mountain clad in rough work-alls and a sloped-front hat stood up from untangling some rope and turned in Divver's direction. "Help you?"

"Why, yes." Divver looked at the note he had made from the news chip. "Where do I apply for a position?"

The big man's eyebrows went up, then he shifted the stub of a cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. Lowering his brows again, he pointed with his thumb over his shoulder. "Back in the treasury wagon."

Divver looked in the indicated direction and saw a forest of brightly painted wagons. "Which would be the treasury wagon?"

The big man rubbed his chin, squinted, raised one eyebrow, then poked the Pendiian in the ribs with a finger shaped much like a knockwurst. "You wouldn't be that shakedown artist with the sweet tooth, would you?"

Divver backed away, rubbing his ribs. "I'm certain I have no idea to what you are referring!"

The big man rubbed his chin some more, then nodded. "You speak that stuff pretty good." He held out a hand the size of a soup plate. "I'm called Duckfoot. Boss Canvasman."

Divver had seen the curious human ritual before. He lifted his arm and placed his hand against the human's. In a moment, the Pendiian's hand disappeared as it underwent a friendly mangle. "My name is ... ah! ... Divver-Sehin Tho."

Duckfoot nodded as the Pendiian counted, then flexed his fingers. "Divver-Sayheen... well, that won't last long. Are you going to work the route book?"

"I'm looking into the position."

Duckfoot cocked his head back toward the wagons. "Come on, I'll take you to see the Governor." The pair crossed the lot until they stood before a white and gold wagon with a caged window set into the side. Duckfoot mounted the stairs leading to the door and opened it. "Mr. John. First of May out here."

The door opened all of the way exposing a rotund, but very tall, human dressed in loud-checked coat and trousers. He was hairless on top, but sported white, well-trimmed facial hair. He looked down at Divver, then motioned with his hand toward the interior of the wagon. "Come in and find a spot to squat. Be with you in a minute." He turned and went into the wagon.

Divver nodded at the Boss Canvasman as the large man came down the stairs. "Thank you." Duckfoot waved a hand and moved off toward his pile of rope. Divver swallowed, walked up the stairs and entered the wagon. Four desks crammed the interior along with cabinets and tape files. Every portion of wall space not taken up with furniture, bulletins, or windows was hung with brightly colored paintings of fierce animals, strangely painted humans, and a white and gold spaceship decorated with strange patterns. In the rear of the wagon, the white-bearded man was seated in a comfortable chair facing a tall, thin human dressed in a black suit. Divver found a chair and sat down.

The bearded human nodded at the thin one. "Go ahead, Patch."

"Well, Mr. John, I appreciate the offer, but I'm getting a little old for the road. On the Baraboo between planets isn't bad, but trouping on the surface is wearing me down."

Mr. John shook his head. "Hate to lose you. You're the best fixer in the business."

"Was, Mr. John. Was." The thin man shook his head. "I hate to go off and leave you with Arnheim & Boon on the warpath, but retirement is the only thing left in the cards for me."

"Are you certain everything is worked out?"

The Patch nodded. "Easiest fix I ever put in." He shrugged and held out his hands. "These guys are real punks."

Mr. John clasped his hands over his belly amd smiled. "Sure you won't miss the show?"

"I'll miss it, but I think the work will be interesting. It's no circus, but there's plenty need for a fixer."

O'Hara stood and held out his hand. "Good luck, and send a note along when you can."

The thin man shook Mr. John's hand, then he turned and left the wagon. Divver stood up and approached the bearded man's desk. "My name is Divver-Sehin Tho. I've come about the advertisement."

The Governor looked off into the distance for a moment, then turned his eyes in Divver's direction. His eyes were bright blue under shaggy, white brows. "Divver-Sehin Tho. Well, that won't last long. Know English, do you?"

"Yes..." The "Pendiian looked toward the door, then back at the Governor. "If you don't mind my asking, just what is a fixer?"

"Legal adjuster. Keeps us out from under permits, coppers, local politicos. I don't know if I'll ever be able to replace him." He leaned forward and stroked his short-cropped white beard. "Know anything about the law, how to spread sugar where it does the most good?"

The Pendiian shrugged. "Not a thing. I came about the advertisement. You wanted someone who could read, write, and speak English. This is my function in the Bureau of Regret."

"Hmmm." The Governor leaned back in his chair. "What's your name again?"

"Divver-Sehin Tho."

"Ummm." The Governor stroked his beard again. "See here, Divver, what I had in mind was a... man. A human."

"That seems pretty narrow-minded. A goodly number of the creatures I saw out there on the lot hardly look human!"

O'Hara laughed, then nodded. "We do come in a variety of sizes and shapes."

"I had particular reference to the one with two heads."

"Oh, Na-Na is with the kid show. All the same, she's human." The Governor leaned forward. "What I need is someone to keep the route book for the show. O'Hara's Greater Shows was the first circus to take to the star road. Now, even though that was only two years ago, there must be thirty companies flying around right now calling themselves circuses. Most of them come from non-Earth planets, but even the ones from Earth are nothing but flying gadget shows." The Governor stabbed a finger in Divver's direction. "I don't ever want this company to forget what a real circus is."

Divver held out his hands. "What has this to do with your route book?"

The Governor leaned back in his chair, spread open his coat, and stuck his thumbs behind thick, yellow suspenders. "Now, Spivvy, a route book is a show's log of the season. It works just like a ship's log. It has daily entries that tell where we are, what's happening, and what kind of shape we're in." O'Hara pulled one of his thumbs out from under a suspender and used the forefinger on the same hand to point at Divver. "But, I want more out of my route book man... or creature. I want to keep the book just like a running history. I need someone to write the history that this show will make. How does that sound?"

Divver rubbed his bumpy chin, then held out a hand. "I'm curious to know what happened to the former occupant of this position."

"Killed. In a clem on Masstone at the end of last season." O'Hara frowned. "I've been keeping it since, but I'm not doing the job the way I want." He studied the Pendiian, then nodded. "You Pendiians have good eyesight, I hear."

Divver frowned, lowered his voice, and leaned forward. "I must tell you that I have grave doubts about this position."

"What kind of doubts?"

"Among others, I fought against humans during the Revolution. Would I be placed in a position where I might be subjected to hostility?"

The Governor laughed and shook his head. "No. Place your mind at rest, Skivver. The purpose of a show is to entertain, not be political. See, we have to appeal to everyone, and so we stay out of politics." O'Hara snapped his yellow suspenders. "That's one principle that's set in concrete." He grabbed a coat lapel with each hand and looked through his shaggy brows at the ceiling. "An alien working the route book..." He nodded. "... that just might be the ticket." The Governor looked at Divver. "You'd be putting down the kind of detail a trouper would take for granted, and that's just the kind of stuff I don't want to lose—"

The door opened and the Boss Canvasman stuck in his head. "Mr. John, my gang is back from the polls. I'm putting them on the spool wagons for the rest of the day."

"All the repairs on the old rag completed? I don't want anything to hold up tomorrow's opening."

"All done. Is the road clear yet?"

O'Hara shook his head. "Seen that fellow with the sweet tooth on the lot?"

"Yeah. He's been rubbering around the lot for the past few minutes." Duckfoot turned his head and looked over his shoulder. "Here he comes now." The Boss Canvasman stood in the doorway until a voice spoke up with a thick Pendiian accent.

"I am here to see the owner."

Duckfoot stepped aside and held out a hand in O'Hara's direction. "There is himself." Duckfoot left laughing, then the Pendiian climbed the steps and walked inside.

The Pendiian looked at Divver, frowned, then performed the shallow quarter-bow indicating the greeting of a superior to an inferior. Divver barely cocked his head in return. The newcomer studied Divver a moment longer. "I am Mizan-Nie Crav, code-enforcement officer for the municipality of Westhoven."

"Divver-Sehin Tho."

Crav turned to O'Hara, then looked back at Diwer. "Might I ask why you are here?"

"You might." Divver's steam was up. A haze over the subject of sugar and Crav's sweet tooth began lifting. Crav was holding up the show's permits until credits exchanged hands. Divver suspected that Crav was wondering whether the Pendiian in O'Hara's wagon was an investigator.

"Then, why are you here?"

"It is none of your concern."

O'Hara chuckled. "Now, now, Skivvy, that's no way to talk to a high municipal official." The Governor turned and faced Crav. "Skivvy here is applying for a job. What's on your mind, Crab?"

"That's Crav, Mister O'Hara." The officer folded his arms and looked down his lumpy nose at the Governor. "I see by the posters and banners stuck and hung all over the town that you intend to conduct your parade and opening show as scheduled."

O'Hara nodded "True. Very observant." The Governor turned to Divver. "I always said you Pendiians have sharp eyes." He looked back at Crav.

"Mister O'Hara, I thought we had an understanding."

O'Hara held out his hands and shrugged. "What can I do, Crag? Those tackspitters and bannermen are just plain thick. I've explained bribes, crooks, and such to them time and again, but they just don't seem to get it."

Crav squinted. "As I said before, O'Hara: There will be no parade and no show unless... certain conditions are met." The officer turned, marched to the door, then faced the Governor. "Set one foot on a Westhoven street or let one cuslomer into your tent, and I'll arrest the lot of you!"

As Crav left, O'Hara chuckled and turned toward Divver. "Now, where were we?"

Divver turned his head from the door, frowning. "That creature! He is demanding money! He should be reported to the Bureau of Regret—"

The Governor held up his hands. "Hold your bosses. Crav is being handled. We were saying...?"

Divver shrugged. "You were explaining the nonpolitical nature of the circus when the Duckfoot fellow interrupted to inform you that his crew had just returned from the polls. Are humans voting in the municipal election?"

O'Hara raised his brows and pursed his lips. "They've been here long enough to establish residency. Shouldn't they?"

"What you said about the show being nonpolitical."

"Oh, that. Well, I can't stop my people from voting, can I?" O'Hara shrugged. "Besides, all three of Westhoven's candidates were out here offering handsome prices for troupers' votes."

Divver stood. "Buying votes! That's... disgraceful! To suffer a revolution to—"

O'Hara held up his hands. "Calm down, Skivvy. Calm down. It's nothing to get upset over." Divver resumed his seat. "If you troupe with this show, you'll see worse things out of politicos than that."

Divver folded his arms and snorted. "Do you know whose credits will buy the election?"

"Why, let's see. Each candidate promised five credits for showing up and voting. That's fifteen, and an easier fifteen is hard to come by. So they pick up their fifteen, then take advantage of the secret ballot."

Divver stood again, clasped his hands behind his back, and began pacing before the Governor's desk. "An outrage, that's what it is. The revolution less than three years old, and corruption run rampant! Bribes, vote-buying..." He stopped and faced O'Hara. "I must report this! All of this—"

The Governor shook his head. "No. We take care of shakedown artists in our own way. We never call copper." O'Hara shrugged. "Besides, it would take forever to square things away through the coppers; it's faster to let Patch handle it."

Diwer sat down. "What can he do? I don't see—"

"It's like when we put into orbit around Masstone last season. Now, our nut's pretty heavy, and—"

"Nut?"

O'Hara shook his head and raised his brows. "My, but aren't you a First of May? The nut is our daily cost of operation. See, what with paying off the Baraboo—that's our ship—fuel for the shuttles, wages, supplies, permit fees, taxes, maintenance, property, and so on, it figures out to forty-nine-thousand credits a day. That's our nut."

"I see."

"Well, once we put into orbit and put down the show planetside, you can see why we have to start playing to two straw houses right off."

"Full houses?"

"That's what I said. Anyway, once we put down on Masstone, the shakedown artists dropped on us and wouldn't let us open unless we spread the sugar." O'Hara leaned forward and pointed a thick finger. "Now, I can see helping an underpaid civil servant make ends meet now and again, but shakedowns are a different matter. We don't give in to 'em. It's the principle of the thing."

Divver decided that the Governor was a man of principles. "What did you do?"

"Patch caught up with our advertising shuttle and had the lithographers make up some new paper." O'Hara pulled his beard, shook his head, and chuckled. "See, we'd been advertising the show on Masstone for weeks, and the gillies were looking forward to seeing us. Patch sent out the brigade loaded with hods of posters all over the big towns and had the mediagents work the papers and stations with readers—press releases. Well, all they said was that there would be no show because of permit difficulties." The Governor slapped his knee. "In the space of a week, Masstone almost had a revolution on its hands and the authorities were begging us to put on the show, and no charges for the permits. Well, we sat back and thought about it, know what I mean?"

"I'm not sure. You didn't take the permits?"

O'Hara nodded. "We took 'em, after they paid us two hundred thousand credits to take 'em."

"You mean..."

"We shook them down."

The Governor studied the Pendiian, waiting for his reaction. All Divver could do was nod. "I see why you will miss Mister Patch."

O'Hara nodded. "Oh, I could tell you a thousand stories about Patch. I have the call out for another fixer—Billy Pratt—but I don't know if I can get him."

The wagon door opened and in walked a dapper fellow dressed in a red coat with black collar, black trousers tucked into shiny black boots. "Governor, I've brought the rest of the performers back from the polls. Are you finished with the parade order?"

O'Hara pushed some papers around on his desk, then pulled one out and handed it to the man, then turned toward Divver. "This is Sarasota Sam, the Circus Equestrian Director. Sam, meet Skivvy-Seein Toe."

He stood and let Sarasota Sam crush his fingers. "My name is Divver-Sehin Tho."

Sam smiled. "Well, that won't last long."

"Skivvy's taking the route book."

"I'm considering it."

Sam held up the paper and turned toward O'Hara. "I'd better get together with the property man about this."

O'Hara nodded and Sam left the wagon. Diwer faced the Governor. "If I did take the position, what would I be paid?"

"Eighty a week—that's seven Earth days—bed and board. Holdback is ten a week and you get it at the end of the season if you can cut it."

By the time the Pendiian had returned to his living unit, had put in a night's sleep, and had thought about it, the entire prospect of wandering around the Quadrant like a nomad with a collection of peculiar beings seemed foolish. This feeling was underlined by the pay, which was half of his take at the Bureau. Divver could imagine himself in the Patch's position—old, worn-out, and cast adrift on a strange planet when he couldn't "cut it" anymore. In addition, it appeared that the "English" the Governor wanted hadn't been covered in Divver's education.

Despite the meaninglessness of his position at the Bureau, and the tarnish gathering on the glory of the revolution, Divver had made up his mind to expect less from life and return to the Bureau at the end of his vacation. He chanced, then, to read this morning news chips. When the Pendiian had stopped laughing and had recovered enough to rise from his prone position on the floor, he had made up his mind to take the route book. Diwer-Sehin Tho would follow the red wagons on their route to strange, unpredictable worlds.

The news story was a simple account of the Westhoven municipal election. The three candidates on the ballot had been defeated by a surprise write-in campaign. The picture next to the story showed the aging winner dressed in black coat and trousers, his large watery eyes looking back at the reader. The circus would get its permit, Westhoven would get its parade, and the fixer, Patch, had found something to occupy his retirement years—being mayor of Westhoven. As the Patch had said, it isn't the circus, but there's plenty need for a fixer.

SIXTEEN

At the conclusion of his third night with O'Hara's Greater Shows, Divver-Sehin Tho pulled himself into the office wagon while it was being loaded on the shuttle to be moved to the next stand. He sat at his desk, located across the aisle from the treasurer's workplace, heaved a tired sigh, then lifted his pen and began his work.

Route Book, O'Hara's Greater Shows May 1st, 2144

The Governor insists that the route book use Earth time designations, which means having to ask the date, since no one has provided me with a date table. I asked why Earth time, when every other institution in the Quadrant uses Galactic Standard. He says that if we don't use Earth time, we won't know when to lay up at the off season. I offered to keep track in Galactic, but he thinks calling a "First of May"—a first-season trouper—a 12 point 04 shreds the designation of meaning and romance.

It distresses me to see myself falling so easily into the lingo—circus talk. Climbing ropes are "tapes," the lot entrance is the "Front Door," or "8th Avenue Side"; performers are "kinkers" or "spangle pratts." Perhaps that last refers to the location of costume sequins—perhaps not.

Much of the language appears designed to bunk the customers, while at the same time maintaining a peculiar brand of integrity among the circus people. To the patrons (rubes, gillies, guys, towners) Zelda's establishment is "Madam Zelda, Fortune Teller extraordinary, palm reader and medium, will probe the past and the future using the vast array of Dark Powers at her command." To the show people, it's called a "mitt joint." The "Emporium of Pink Lemonade" is the "juice joint," and after witnessing the beverage's manufacture, I have sworn to shrivel up and blow away in the heat before letting a drop pass my lips. Nonetheless, the gillies imbibe it by the vat. Weasel, the fellow who has the juice joint privilege, explained that the slices of lemon on top of the evil brew are called "floaters," and he boasted that his property lemon would last through the entire season.

Thus far we have been keeping up with our paper (we're on schedule), we've had one blow down (wind storm), and two clems (fights with towners). The horse piano (calliope, pronounced CA-LY-O-PEE by all English-speaking peoples, but CAL-EE-OPE by show people) has been repaired, and our ears are once again assaulted by the horrible strains of Doctor Weem's steam music. The Governor wants everything in perfect order when we put in to Vistunya after our Wallabee tour. Thus spake John J. O'Hara:

"You have to understand, Warts [my new name], the circus has to appeal to all sexes, all ages, all races, all brands of religion, morality, and politics. Those foks on Vistunya are upset about dirt—they think it's perverse, dirty, depraved. We could run the entire company around the hippodrome stark naked, and as long as they were clean, no one would be offended. But dirt? Never. We have to keep those things in mind when we're picking our route."

"Do you pick the route?"

"No. Rat Man Jack Savage is our route man. He's about a year ahead of us. He keeps in touch through the general agent and he tells us what to watch out for as far as local taboos. So, remember: if the gillies consider it politics, smut, racism, or religion, we don't do it. It's the principle of the thing. That's how we're keeping the traditions of the old circus alive, Warts: principles."

"Governor, it seems to me that my people back on Pendiia would consider Patch's fix in Westhoven to be politics. What about that?"

O'Hara raised one white eyebrow at me, pursed his lips, shrugged, and held out his hands. "Well, Warts... you gotta be flexible."

Circus names, although terribly uncomplimentary, never are occasions for offense. The names derive from a physical peculiarity, former association, or incident. My own name of Warts is due to the usual bumps found on a Pendiian. Duckfoot Tarzak has a distinctive walk, while Quack Quack, the mediagent, has a distinctive voice. Goofy Joe's name was attached for obscure reasons, since I found the canvasman to be at least as intelligent as the show's usual run of roughnecks. In any event, it was Goofy Joe who related the tale of how Stretch got his name.

Goofy Joe Tells His Tale

I couldn't say this if we was back with the main top. This is one story that Duckfoot doesn't go out of his way to hear. First, there's something you have to know about the Boss Canvasman. Duckfoot Tarzak's people come from Poland. That's why the center poles on the big top have those funny names: Paddyowski, Wassakooski, and such. When we have the bulls hooked to the block and tackles pulling the baling rings up those sixty-foot sticks, Duckfoot calls out "Go ahead on Paddyowski... hold Paddy... go ahead on Wassakooski... hold Kooski..." until all six rings are peaked, raising the old rag. But, see, you have to be on the lot awhile to learn those names, and Stretch didn't know them.

I guess it was our third or fourth stand on Occham. and there was cherry pie all around. The reason we were shorthanded was a blowdown that splintered two of the center poles on the main top and busted up a few of the sports on the guying out gang. Duckfoot was taking on some new roughnecks, and Stretch was one of the ones he hired. If you look at Stretch, you know why the Boss Canvasman took him on. Big, strapping, good-looking fellow, and as green a First of May as you ever saw.

Stretch—or Ansel as he was called then—he was put in Fatty Bugg's crew, and even though Fatty was a bit in his cups, everything was going fine. The poles were up, the canvas spread and laced, and side poles were up. Fatty took Ansel, a bull, and an elephant man under and hooked onto Cho-pan, that's the number-three pole. With a crew on each stick, Duckfoot hollers out "Go ahead on Paddyowski," and the bull on the number-one stick pulls up the baling ring fifteen feet. "Hold Paddy... go ahead on Wassakooski... hold Kooski." About then, Fatty Bugg slapped Ansel on the shoulder and told him to take over. Then Fatty stumbles away from the stick a few feet and goes to sleep.

"Go ahead on Cho-pan!" calls Duckfoot, but nothing happens. "Cho-pan, go ahead," he calls again, but nothing happens. Duckfoot sticks his head under the edge and in the dark sees the bull hooked to the number-three stick. He points at it and yells "Wake up, and go ahead!" Ansel gives the elephant man the high sign, and the bull moves out. Up goes the baling ring about fifteen feet, and Duckfoot calls out "Hold Cho-pan!" But, the ring keeps going up, and he calls out again "Hold Cho-pan!"

Well, the ring is about thirty feet up Cho-pan, and Duckfoot runs under the rag and tells Ansel's elephant man to hold up, then he turns to Ansel. "You deaf? I called hold on this stick! Where's Fatty?"

"There." Ansel pointed.

Duckfoot stomps over, kicks Fatty in the leg. "Hit the treasury wagon, Fatty, and collect your pay." Then he goes to the sidepoles and calls for Blue Pete to take over Ansel's bull. "What about me?" asks Ansel, and Duckfoot turns and rubs his chin as he studies the boy.

"The quarter poles go up next and we have the wrong size. You go find the Boss Hostler and get the pole stretcher." Ansel runs off, Duckfoot shakes his head, then goes back to calling up the rings.

Well, the Boss Hostler sent Ansel to the Boss Porter, who sent him to the loading runs, where one of the razorbacks sent him off to the property man. Just about then, I guess, Ansel realized that the only thing that was getting stretched was his leg.

Well, we had about half the quarter poles up when Ansel drives up in a cat pulling a flatbed wagon. On the wagon is this huge crate, and lettered on its side it says "Little Eureka Pole Stretcher." Duckfoot comes up as Ansel's getting down from the cat and points at the crate.

"Here's the pole stretcher, Duckfoot. Had a devil of a time finding it."

Duckfoot frowns, then walks up to the crate. Just then howls and screams come from inside and the whole thing starts to rock and shake. Out of the top of the crate comes this huge black hairy hand, each finger tipped with a knife-sized claw. It grabs around a bit, then goes back inside. Duckfoot turns to Ansel and says "What's that?"

"That's your pole stretcher, Duckfoot. Go ahead and open it up and you'll see a pole get stretched good and proper."

Well, Duckfoot taps his foot on the lot, folds his arms and glowers at the kid for a while, then he nods. "Good job, but... seems like all the poles around here are just the size I want them. Take it back."

Ansel hops back on the cat, and off he goes. Ever since then, he's been called Stretch. Go over to the Boss Animal Man sometime and ask him to show you a picture of that four-ton clawbeast the show picked up on Hessif's Planet. The thing was too vicious and had to be destroyed, but while it was in the menagerie, its name was "Little Eureka." No one ever did figure out how Stretch got it in that crate.

May 2nd, 2144

Tonight we tore down the show at Vortnagg on Pendiia, loaded and made ship for the next stand, which will be the fourth planet in the Gurav system, called Wallabee. The Governor had me leave with the last shuttle to enable my observation of the tear-down process. I confess I was not quick enough on my toes to see the entire operation. I felt safe in thinking that I would be able to enjoy the finish of the performance, but that was not to be. Before half the customers were out of the main top, being hustled through the entrance by impatient ushers, elephants and roughnecks began piling through the performer's entrance.

I was hustled out with the rest and was stunned to see the animal top—containing the menagerie—the cookhouse, dressing top, sideshow, all gone. By the time I made it back into the main top, the customers were gone and three hundred canvasmen, prop-men, ring makers, side wall men, electricians, and rigging men were stripping the inside. The folding plank platforms that serve as seats were being hydraulically collapsed into the backs of waiting vans, while the performer's rigging and stages were being detached, pulled apart, and digested by more wagons. Lights began going off as the electricians removed the heavy light arrays; meanwhile the elephants—bulls—were being directed to unseat the quarter poles supporting the middle of the top between the peak and the sidewalls. Before they were finished, it was black inside, and I moved out fast, having no desire to be trampled underfoot.

I stood to one side of the former main entrance, after the last of the wagons and bulls had exited, and heard the Boss Canvasman say "Let 'er go!" A blast of air mixed with all of the smells of the circus rushed from under the tent, almost carrying the six men who ran from beneath the collapsing fabric. Even before the huge sea of canvas had settled to the lot, canvasmen jumped on it and began unlacing the sections. In moments, the huge sections were folded, rolled, and stored upon the spool wagons. The six sticks—center poles—of the main top were lowered, while countless stakes were pulled up by tractors and loaded into more wagons.

It seemed that a city had vanished, and as I stood in the empty lot watching scraps of paper being pushed by the gentle breeze, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned and saw a rugged, black face. "I bet that's the first time for you, isn't it?"

I nodded. "I've never seen anything like it—"

He held up a hand, then pointed it at the departing wagons. "You better get going. Those wagons will be loaded and the shuttles gone in another twenty minutes."

"Aren't you coming?"

He shook his head. "I'm Tick Tock, the twenty-four-hour man. I have to stay behind to clean up the lot and make sure the city is happy with the way we leave the place."

I looked at the wagons. "But, how will you get to the ship?"

"I don't. I jump ahead of the ship to prepare the next lot. Been with Mr. John nine years, now, and I've never seen the show." He pointed again at the wagons, and I ran. I made the Number Ten shuttle just as the sixty-foot center-pole wagon was being pulled inside.

I had no time to gawk at the City of Baraboo. No sooner had the shuttle docked and made fast to the exterior of the hull than I was hustled off and directed to report to Mr. John's quarters. I was carried by the stream of traffic, and by chance managed to make it. The door was open, and I entered. My entrance was acknowledged by the Governor raising one eyebrow, giving me a quick glance, then returning his gaze to the papers on his desk. Two men were in the compartment, standing next to the desk, and when Duckfoot and another man pushed in behind him, the six of us appeared to crowd the tiny room.

The Governor sat up and nodded at Duckfoot. "Close the door. Fill the Boss Hostler and Boss Porter in after we talk." Duckfoot turned, pressed a switch, and faced O'Hara as the door hissed shut.

"What's up, Mr. John?"

The Governor looked at me. "Warts, this is Rat Man Jack, our route man, and Stretch Dirak. Stretch manages the advance car." He indicated the two men standing next to his desk. "You know Duckfoot; the fellow who came in with him is Bald Willy, pilot and Boss Crewman of the Baraboo." He pointed at me. "This is Warts." I ignored the reference to my nonhuman skin and nodded at the others. The Governor nodded at Rat Man. "Tell them."

Rat Man Jack faced the rest of us. "Two things: there's a civil war brewing on Wallabee; and the Abe Show is going to try running day-and-date with us there to try and split the circus crowd."

Duckfoot issued a low whistle, then shook his head. "Rat Man, is there any chance that the civil war will begin shooting while we're on the skin?"

Rat Man shrugged. "No one can be certain, but things are pretty tense." He turned to O'Hara. "What about the Abe Show? If Arnheim & Boon knew about the political situation, maybe they'd call off the duel to another time."

The Governor smiled and closed his eyes. "They know." His eyes opened again. "They get their information from the same places that we get ours. I think that Arnheim knew first about the possible rebellion, and then decided that it might be to his advantage in his war with us."

The Rat Man held out his hands. "Well, do we blow the planet and find greener grass, or do we slug it out?"

The Governor bowed his head for an instant, then came up with fire in his eye. "We play Wallabee, as scheduled. The route, contracts, advertising—everything—is already done. We'd have to delay for a month or more to alter the route now, and that would give Karl Arnheim just what he wants, and without bruising one knuckle." He turned to the Boss Canvasman. "Duckfoot, can you peel off a couple of dozen of your roughnecks and give them to Stretch? I want to beef up the advance's opposition brigade."

Duckfoot nodded. "There'll be cherry pie all around, but we can handle it."

"Good." Mr. John faced me. "Warts, I want you to go with the advance."

"Me?"

"Yes, you. A good bit of the action will be on the advertising car, and I want you to get it all down. I'll take notes on the show so you won't fall behind." He turned to Bald Willy. The City of Baraboo has to be protected at all costs. I don't put it past Arnheim to try and pull something on board."

Bald Willy nodded. "Don't worry, Mr. John. No one knows this tub better than I do."

The Governor nodded, then raised his eyebrows. "And, don't you forget that this ship was built by Arnheim & Boon Conglomerated Enterprises." He turned back to his papers. "That's it."

As we left the compartment, the one called Stretch, a huge, powerful-looking man, grabbed my arm and began pulling me along in his wake. "Wait, I have to pick up my things!"

"No time, Warts. No time. In the advance that's all you have time for: no time."

SEVENTEEN

May 3rd, 2144

The advance is the advertising arm of the show. It is housed, between planets, in a quad-shuttle commando raider named the Blitzkrieg. The shuttles are named Cannon Ball, Thunder Bird, Battle Bolt, and War Eagle, I am told, after the advertising cars used by the now extinct RB&BB Show. The belligerence of the names might lead one to conclude that the advance's role is of a combative nature. In such a case, one would be right.

Before the City of Baraboo had left orbit, the fi/te's last shuttle, War Eagle, was up from the surface of Pendiia with Tick Tock, the twenty-four-hour man. No sooner had Number Four docked, than the Blitz streaked out ahead of the Baraboo toward Wallabee. What happened next might be called an executive meeting or strategy session in an advertising firm, but on the Blitz we gathered for a Council of War.

In the tiny wardroom, there was Stretch Dirak, the four "car" managers, Fisty Bill Ris—the boss of the opposition brigade, and myself. Stretch greeted everyone, then sat down behind the wardroom table. We all took our seats around the table, then Stretch began. "The Abe Show intends to pull day-and-date with us on Wallabee, so you all know what that means for us. There'll be over billing of our paper, opposition, and depending on how far ahead of us their advance is, the squarers might have difficulty in securing poster space, banner permits—"

Wall-Eyes Oscar, manager of the Cannon Ball, held up a hand, then dropped it on the table. "Stretch, are we going to run the order the way we did on Masstone?"

"For you it'll be the same. I hate to leave you naked, Wall-Eyes, but I figure the Abe Show opposition to hit the last three cars. That's where the paper is." He turned to Fisty Bill. "Fisty, I want twenty roughnecks in Thunder Bird, twenty in Battle Bolt, and the remaining sixty in War Eagle.

The manager of the Thunder Bird shook his head. "Stretch, you know they're going to be waiting for us, and when we start putting up our paper—or over billing theirs—we're going to get opposition. Twenty isn't going to be enough. With my crew and bill-posters, tackspitters, that leaves me with less than eighty men."

Stretch nodded. "I'm going to use War Eagle as a flying attack and reserve brigade." He turned to Six-Chins Ivan, manager of the War Eagle. "In addition to the brigade, you'll still handle the checkers up and the twenty-four-hour man, but most of the time you'll be in the air looking for trouble. If you don't find it, start it," He looked around the table. "I'll be moving between all four cars, and remember to keep the radio net complete at all times. The Governor wants clean victory with each opposition, and I don't ever want the Abe Show to forget that they tangled with

Later, Stretch and I worked the Blitz's research files on Wallabee. Unfortunately, they were pretty skimpy, it being a new stand for the show. The Nithads, the dominant race on the planet, are stooped-over creatures with an overall egg shape. Their backs are armored with a thick, segmented shell, but they do have bipedal locomotion. Their arms and hands extend from under the shell. There are two arms per Nithad, and two opposing fingers per hand.

Since Wallabee is the nearest habitable planet to Pendiia, the history of the planet had been touched on during my education, and I had been following several trends in the interplanetary section of the news chips. The race had a written history over twenty thousand of their years long, and during that period, no wars, revolutions, or even riots had been recorded, leading to such expressions as "having the heart of a Nithad" to denote a peaceful, nonviolent person, and "having the courage of a Nithad" to denote a coward.

Nevertheless, the ruling class of the Nithads had followed a pattern as old as life itself, thought itself threatened, then proceeded to eliminate the opposition by a variety of oppressive measures, including the confinement of political prisoners, elimination of local elections (even though the ruling class had the only qualified candidates), and the total elimination of communications freedom. Following the pattern, the ruling class was outnumbered, and the Wallabee Liberation Front grew into a powerful force almost overnight. Organized rebellion so far had only involved boycotts of ruling-class merchants and compulsory ceremonies, but it had been reported to the Ninth Quadrant Commission on Interplanetary Political Stability (9QCIPS) that the rebels had obtained a quantity of weapons from the Nuumiian Empire. Open hostilities were considered only a matter of time. It was into this atmosphere that O'Hara's Greater Shows and the Abe Show planned to wage their own war.

EIGHTEEN

May 7th, 2144

The Blitzkrieg makes orbit around Wallabee. Stretch assigns me to the number-two car, the Thunder Bird, managed by Razor Red Stampo. The Thunder Bird follows the Cannon Ball by four days. This enables the mediagents and squarers to prepare the way. Cannon Ball makes certain readers are issued to the mass media, and that permission for space to put up paper and banners is obtained. Wall-Eyes Oscar reports back to the Blitz that, although the Abe Show already has paper up, there has been no trouble in obtaining permission for our own displays. Stretch decides to go down to the first stand with the Thunder Bird.

May 11th, 2144

Garatha, on Wallabee. When the Thunder Bird arrived this morning, we found the city papered with the Abe Show's bills. Razor loads down the billposters with hods of newly printed paper and sends them out to cover the enemy paper. Stretch has been walking through the city and has come back with a puzzled expression on his face.

"The Abe Show's paper is the only advertising I've seen in Garatha. The Enemy's hits on buildings is impressive but I don't see where the Nithads advertise. Have to think on it."

Opposition in Garatha. The billposters covering up Abe Show paper on Viula Street have called in for help. A force of ten Abe Show roughnecks has cornered three of our men. Stretch and Razor mount up the twenty-man opposition brigade on cycles and head for the spot. By the time we arrive, half our paper has been recovered. Razor sends out the brigade, and it wades into the Abe Show's opposition. Duckfoot's toothpicks, the four-foot tent stakes, make short work of the Abe Show toughs, and they retire.

While Razor recovers the Abe Show paper, Stretch watches the Nithads that had gathered to watch the fight, none of them are looking at either the Abe Show paper or ours. Instead, after watching the fight, they stooped forwards and wandered off. Stretch examined the buildings around us, looked back at the few Nithad that remained, then hopped on a cycle and sped off toward the Thunder Bird. When I arrived an hour later, Stretch was deep in conversation with the Thunder Bird's lithographer. They were bending over a layout of a poster, and when I peeked around Stretch's arm, I saw that it was our usual poster, except all the type was reversed. Instead of reading the posters from the top down, they had to be read from the bottom up. I could tell that, even though the posters were printed in the Nithad tongue.

In two hours we had the new posters and Stretch called in the billposters and issued new paper and instructions. We were not to cover the Abe Show's paper on the buildings. Let them have the vertical surfaces, he told them. Our posters were to be pasted onto the sidewalks. The Nithad habitually looks down because of his armored back and stooped-over position. Hence, the place he will see the most is the sidewalk. The billposters gathered up their hods of paper and vanished into the city. I, myself, saw an elderly Nithad come to a poster, examine it carefully as he traversed its surface, then rush on to the next poster, all the time ignoring the Abe Show paper covering the wall of the building to the fellow's left.

May 15th, 2144

The Governor has reported back to us that opening night was a sellout, while the Abe Show performed at barely a quarter of its capacity. Almost at the same moment, the Abe Show opposition began contesting our domination of the sidewalks. The War Eagle was kept busy. There was hardly a town, large or small, that did not see a battle between opposition brigades. Paper covered paper, then was itself recovered then overbilled again. Gangs of stake-swinging roughnecks prowled the cities being billed, and it was a rare stand that did not leave half a dozen or more men laid up in the local hospital with mashed faces, broken limbs, or cracked skulls.

May 19th, 2144

We have gotten word that the Quadrant Commission (9QCIPS) has warned both O'Hara and the Abe Show to knock off the war. The Commission fears that our performances will trigger an uprising on Wallabee. Since the layers of posters on some of the sidewalks, in some cases, were thick enough to impede traffic, the Commission's warning appeared to have little effect. At Stoat-ludop, for reasons unknown, the Abe Show offered no opposition, but jumped ahead to the next stand.

NINETEEN

May 24th, 2144

I was with the Battle Bolt, the number-three car, covering over the paper the Abe Show had over billed that was put down by the Thunder Bird. The news from the grapevine was encouraging. The Abe Show was finding day-and-date with the Old One (that's what we called O'Hara's Show) an economic disaster. The Nithads may have been oppressed and preoccupied with their plans for revolution, but they could still tell the difference between a real circus and a traveling gadget show.

When the Battle Bolt's crew reached Hymnicon, we found our paper on the sidwalks untouched, and assumed that the Abe Show had either given up or had jumped ahead as before. Both turned out to be in error.

At night, midway through the show, the Battle Bolt got word that the Abe Show was sending their opposition brigade against the show itself. Of course we were fighting mad, since it ran against circus ethics to fight at the stand, unless the combatants happened to be towners. One show does not attack another show at the stand, because there is the possibility of customers getting hurt. Nevertheless, the word came in, and the War Eagle picked up our opposition brigade after picking up the brigade from the Thunder Bird.

The full brigade streaked back toward the stand, and by the time we circled the area, we could see the Irish Brigade tangling with the Abe Show's opposition. In between and scattered all around were Nithads coming out of the show. We put down on the edge of the lot, grabbed our stakes, then piled out of the doors and joined the battle. We could see several of the Abe Show people heading for the main top and menagerie with torches. The canvas itself was inflammable, but, between the seats in the maintop and the straw in the animal top, there was reason enough to trample the Nithads that got in the way to get at the firebugs.

Opposition Brigade ethics authorizes only that amount of force necessary to make one's side victorious. Therefore, when the fists and stakes start swinging, there is a degree of restraint involved. Sending the opposition to the hospital is acceptable, whereas sending them to the morgue is not. At the battle of Garatha, there were no such restraints. Circus people do not sabotage one another, particularly if it might endanger the patrons. Since the Abe Show had thrown the rule book out of the window, we did the same.

Bodies dropped as blood-soaked stakes whipped through the night, landing upon skulls and breakable legs. The baggage horse top erupted in flame, and as the animal men led out the Perches and rosinbacks through the fire, the rest of us threw ourselves against the Abe Show's roughnecks. In seconds, performers, office workers—the Governor himself—was on the lot busting skulls. Here and there a Nithad would be caught by a backswing or kicked out of the way by someone anxious to get into the thick of the brawl. Eventually, the egg-shaped creatures were huddled under their armor, looking like so many loaves of bread on the lot.

I had just finished thumping an obnoxious character when an Abe Show toothpick caught me between the eyes. When I woke up to the sound of my own bells, the opposition had retired and the Nithad patrons were coming out of their shells and scurrying off of the lot. I saw the Governor being helped to his wagon by two canvasmen, and would have helped, except that I passed out again.

May 25th, 2144

About to return to the advance, head bandaged nicely, when the grapevine reports that we've been kicked off the planet! The Abe Show has already left, but the Quadrant Commission insists that we are a poor influence on a people trying to avoid open rebellion. The show is torn down, loaded and sent upstairs to the City of Baraboo.

May 27th, 2144

I was feeling pretty glum as I walked past the Governor's quarters. I heard laughter coming from within, and being in such a condition that I could stand a good laugh, I knocked on O'Hara's door.

"Come in! Come in!"

I pressed the door panel, it hissed open, I stepped in, and it hissed shut behind me. Stretch Dirak was seated across from the Governor at his desk, and both of them were drying their eyes. "What's so funny?"

The governor handed me a flimsy upon which was written a radio message. I read it and was instantly confused. The Nithad—both ruling class and liberation front—had called off the revolution and had vowed to resort to peaceful means in the resolution of the issues that divided them. It appeared that the Nithad's total lack of war for the preceding twenty thousand years had not prepared them for the kind of conflict they had witnessed between the two shows. After witnessing it, both sides had decided that there had to be a better way, and immediate negotiations had begun. The flimsy was from the Ninth Quadrant Commission, and it concluded by calling the Abe Show and O'Hara's Greater Shows "Agents of reason and peace."

I looked at the Governor. "Does this mean that we'll be able to finish off our stands on Wallabee?"

"No." He laughed, then landed me another flimsy. "I went directly to the Wallabee Ruling Council and asked. This is their reply."

I took the sheet of paper and read it. It read, in part: "... we must refuse. There is only so much of your 'peace and reason' that a planet such as ours can take."