by Steve Perry
But that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy it while it was here.
He looked back and saw that she was still staring at him.
Her eyes so clear and green; Summer Eyes.
Just don’t smile, he prayed. If you smile at me now, I’m done for.
She smiled.
So did Morgan.
Just shoot me now, he thought.
58
* * *
That morning would go down in their personal histories as the Day the I-Bots Learned the Meaning of the Phrase “Saved by the Bell,” for as they all stood there trying to come up with a feasible excuse to explain what Zac had overheard, the phone rang.
“I’ll be right back,” Zac said. “And then we’ll have ourselves a chat.”
The moment he left the room everyone’s shoulders slumped in relief.
“Oh, let’s enjoy these next few moments,” said Itazura. “They’ll probably be our last moments alive.”
Stonewall was already at the computer, typing away, bringing up record files.
“What are you doing?” asked Psy–4.
“Saving our butts.”
He found what he was looking for, then quickly grabbed Radiant’s hand.
Myriad levels of informational energy passed between them.
“Looks like he’s going to propose,” whispered Itazura to Singer.
Do you ever turn it off?
“Jealous?”
In your dreams, Funny-Boy.
Radiant let go of Stonewall’s hand and turned toward the others. “Just follow my lead when Zac returns.”
“Why your lead?” asked Psy–4.
“Because the rest of you are lousy liars, that’s why!” She then tossed her hair to the side, fluffed it a little, leaned against the console, and plastered on her most dazzling smile.
“Shouldn’t you be topless and laying across the hood of a sports car?”
“Stuff it, Itzy,” replied Radiant through clenched teeth, her smile never faltering. “Here comes Zac.”
“Don’t I get a last cigarette?”
You don’t smoke, replied Singer.
“No,” said Itazura. “But this suddenly seems like a good time to start.”
“Killaine?”
“Hi, Zachary. I’m just calling to let you know that I’ve accepted the job.”
“I thought you might. We’ve never had any dealings with circuses before.”
“It’s a carnival, Zachary.”
He shrugged. “I get ’em mixed up.”
“Having never been to either in your life, I can understand that.”
“How are you getting along with Mr. Morgan?”
Silence.
“Killaine?”
“Oh, Zac, he’s such a wonderful man. I’ve never met anyone like him.”
“Oh?”
“I can’t thank you enough for making me come here.”
“No problem, I figured that—do you realize you just called me ‘Zac’?”
“Hm? I did? Sorry, I guess I wasn’t paying attention.”
“How many other team members will you need?”
“Oh, I can handle him just fine.”
“Handle who? Killaine? Hello, Earth to Killaine, do you read?”
“Hm? Oh, sorry, Zac. Um, he’ll need at least two more besides me. I’ll be out here for the rest of the day.”
“Why?”
“He needs to train me.”
Zac put a hand on his hip like an annoyed father. “For what?”
“I’ll explain everything when I get home tonight. Have to go now. ’Bye!”
Zac stared at the receiver for a few seconds before hanging up.
Zac—twice she’d called him Zac.
And he wasn’t quite so out of touch with certain natural processes that he couldn’t discern what was happening to her.
He’d just spoken to a woman who was ga-ga over a guy.
From Radiant, he would’ve expected something like this.
But Killaine?
Zac gave a short, low whistle. “That Mr. Morgan must be quite a guy.”
Then he turned and headed back to the control room.
* * *
As soon as Zac entered the room, Radiant walked up to him and stood her ground.
“You had no right to eavesdrop like that!”
“It wasn’t my intention to eavesdrop,” said Zac calmly. “I needed to check a couple of equations that I’ve been toying with in my head and decided to use the computer. It is here for everyone’s use, after all.”
“But you hardly ever use it.”
“Which suddenly means that I don’t have the right to?”
“I didn’t say that, all I meant was—”
“Whoa!” said Zac, holding up a hand. “Just hold it right there. I didn’t mean to overhear your conversation, and I apologize if any of you feel that I’ve invaded your privacy, but the fact remains that I did overhear part of it, and what I heard was a bit on the alarming side, the events of the last few days considered, and I feel that I’m within my rights to demand an explanation.”
“He sure does talk purdy, don’t he?” said Itazura.
Everyone glared at him.
“I’ll be quiet. Look, here I am, being quiet.”
“So you want to know what we were talking about, is that it?” said Radiant.
“I’ve already answered that question.”
“Fine,” she said, spinning around on huffed heels and stomping over to the computer. “We were discussing this!” She pointed to the monitor.
Zac came over and looked at the screen.
“My . . . birthday? It’s not for another five weeks.”
“And a good thing, too. We were discussing your present—which, I might add, is something you’ve wanted for a long, long time. We were trying to figure where to buy it so that Annabelle couldn’t trace the sale. Not that it matters now, Mr. Nibby, because if you heard that much of the conversation, then you know that we’re getting you a—”
“I didn’t hear that part,” said Zac.
Radiant gave her head a little jerk, tossing her hair to the other side of her neck. “No, no, you don’t have to spare our feelings.”
“It’s all ruined now,” said Psy–4.
“And we were so careful,” mumbled Stonewall.
Zac looked at Itazura.
“I’m being quiet, remember?”
Zac looked at Singer.
I have no choice but to be quiet.
Zac shook his head and turned around. “I should’ve just stayed in bed.”
He closed the door behind him.
Once again, there was a mass shoulder-slump of relief.
“That was close,” said Psy–4.
Stonewall shook his head. “I hate lying, I hate it, I hate it, I hate it!”
Itazura put a hand on his shoulder. “But how do you really feel about it, Stoner?”
Radiant made certain the door was closed all the way, then turned toward the rest. “It isn’t a lie if, for his birthday, we do get him that thing he’s been wanting for a long time.”
What, exactly, is that? inquired Singer.
“I haven’t got the slightest idea,” said Radiant. “But there’s got to be something.”
Itazura laughed. “Tune in next week for the exciting conclusion of the Great Birthday Brouhaha, same Bat-Time, same Bat-Channel.”
“Can I please smack him now?” asked Stonewall.
“Not if I beat you to him first,” replied Psy–4.
They all looked at one another, then laughed.
59
* * *
Morgan’s own booth—a straightforward water race game—was located at the far end of the midway. He was more than happy to show Killaine how his game was played.
“Here,” he said, handing her a squirt gun. “Be careful, it’s loaded.”
“Very funny,” she said.
“One of the ways that you can spot a potential flat store is to watch a
nd see how complicated the game is. The more complicated the rules of a game, the higher the chances that it’s probably rigged in some way.
“This game,” he said, standing a little to the left behind her, “is really simple. A customer plunks down a quarter, picks out a squirt gun from the rack, and aims at the clown’s mouth at the back of the booth. Go on.”
Killaine began to take a classic shooter’s stance but was stopped when Morgan reached over and put a hand on her forearm.
“No, no, no,” he said. “I mean, I know why you’d position yourself like that—”
“Training,” she replied.
“Right. Thing is, humor me here. Pretend that you’re just an average, everyday schmo here to have a good time. The type of person who only sees guns fired on television.”
Killaine nodded her head, relaxed her stand, and used only one hand to hold the gun and point it at the clown face.
“Thank you,” said Morgan. “Now, all you have to do is squirt enough water into the clown’s mouth to fill the balloon under his neck.” He leaned in and whispered in her ear. “Once it’s full of water, it’s shaped like a bow tie.”
Killaine took a couple of shots, and was surprised that it wasn’t easier to hit the mouth.
“A lot of people are surprised by that,” said Morgan. “That’s because they make the mistake of assuming that water will shoot like a bullet—in a straight line. But water arcs, as you have seen.”
“That hardly seems fair!”
“Ah-ah,” said Morgan waving a finger, “I never said it was easy, but it is fair. I can’t change the laws of physics.”
“So how does a person win?”
“Like this.” He took the gun from her hand, pointed it at the clown’s mouth, and gave the trigger six slow, steady squeezes, filling the bow-tie balloon and bursting it.
“There,” he said, handing the gun back to her. “No rigging, no hidden tubes in the clown to redirect the water, nothing but good, clean, honest fun.”
“You never have any problems?”
“Oh, yeah. Occasionally I get the odd assho—uh, jerk who just can’t resist turning the squirt gun on me.”
“That’s so rude.”
“It’s also dangerous.” He pointed over the edge of the booth to the series of electric wires that ran along the length of the floor. “At night all the booth lights are on—even the clown faces are lit up. Somebody gets carried away with the water and the operator—in this case, moi—is Mr. Crispy Toast.”
Killaine looked at the squirt gun, then the innocent clown face. “I never stopped to think that something this simple could be so dangerous.”
“Only if the players abuse the situation, and that doesn’t happen very often.” He held up one of his metal arm-crutches. “Much as I hate to admit it, most folks who play my game get one look at my back and these crutches and—bingo!—such courtesy you’ve never seen.”
“Okay, Danny, you’ve shown me how an honest game is played. Give me an example of how a rigged game goes down.”
“‘Goes down’? Where’d you pick up that little phrase, reruns of Hill Street Blues?”
Killaine gave a short, shocked laugh. “You’re making fun of me.”
“Maybe a little.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re awfully cute when you’re trying to look outraged.”
“Watch yourself, Morgan. I’ve been known to have a nasty temper.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
A smile. “You’d better.”
A bigger smile from him. “I’m shaking already.”
Lots of smiling at each other.
Part of Killaine’s mind reminded her that, had she been watching this take place from a distance—say, in a really syrupy love story on television, this would be the part where she would pretend to start vomiting.
“Over there,” said Morgan, pointing to a booth across the midway; this one featured a simple three-balls-in-the-basket game.
“Looks innocent enough,” said Killaine, looking at the prizes and the slanted table in the back where three large wicker baskets sat.
“Come on,” he said, and started across toward the booth.
When they arrived, Morgan introduced Killaine to a large man named Herbert, the game operator (and the man he’d given the finger to a while earlier, though he didn’t tell her that part), and explained to him who she was.
“’Bout danged time you got on this,” said Herbert.
“I trust you’ll be able to keep this to yourself?”
“Anything for you, m’friend.”
“Karen wants to see a rip-off played out.” Morgan took two dollars from his pocket and slapped them down on the counter. “Ready?”
“Ready,” replied Herbert, who then launched into a well-memorized pitch: “Step right up, roll right up, ladies and gents, all it costs you is two dollars American for a chance to win any of the fabulous prizes you see displayed on the shelves behind me—not so close, friend, this area’s for the paying customers, thank you. It sounds too easy, you say? Two dollars for a chance at that portable CD player? Why, sir, you say, that’s insane! Well, mebbe it is, but I’m here to tell you that this is a carnival, folks, and what’s a carnival without a little craziness? Why, it’s like . . .”
“He loves going through his Pitch,” whispered Morgan to Killaine.
“He’s good at it.”
“You bet. Herbert’s been a carny all his life.”
“. . .just two dollars American! All you gotta do is put three balls into one of the bushel baskets you see behind me. Piece of cake. Here, watch me!”
Herbert tossed one of the softballs—underhanded—into the basket.
“Yessir, folks, it’s that easy. Who’ll dare to give it a try? How’s about you, sir? Win a prize for your lovely lady?”
Morgan slid his money forward.
“Nosir,” said Herbert, waving a hand, “nosir, I don’t expect you to take my word for it, too many folks in this here world want to take advantage of a trusting soul like yourself. Tell’ya what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna give, free of charge, because I’m an honest fellow and you look like one smart cookie, I’m gonna let you take a free practice shot!” And with that, he tossed Morgan a Softball identical to the one he’d thrown into the basket. “Go on, sir, lob one in that basket for the lovely lady!”
Morgan tossed the ball—overhand—into the same basket as Herbert’s.
“Outstanding! Outstanding!” cried Herbert. “Folks, we got ourselves a nat-choo-ral here! A prodigy! Here you go, sir! Here’s your three balls!”
He handed three softballs to Morgan, removed the other balls from the basket, and stood to the side.
Morgan tossed all three balls.
Only one of them stayed in the basket; the other two went in, then bounced out.
“Okay,” he said, turning toward Killaine. “How’d he do it?”
“Do what?”
“How’d Herbert rig the game?”
“He didn’t.”
Herbert laughed. “Yeah, I did.”
Killaine thought about it for a moment. “Then you’ve got an . . . an outside man working something from behind the booth. A pedal or something that pushes the balls back out.”
“Nope.”
She looked at Morgan. “Okay, I give.”
“Sure you don’t want to try and figure it out before we tell you?”
“I’m sure. Whatever he did, he did right in front of my eyes while I was standing here.”
“Yes, that he did.”
“I didn’t see him do it—by the way, Herbert, whatever you did, it was very impressive.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” said the large man, tipping his hat.
“Talk it through,” said Morgan. “You’d be surprised at how easy it is to figure.”
“Well, he started with his Pitch—”
“Distracting as hell, isn’t it?”
“I thought it was kind of exciting to li
sten to.”
Morgan nodded his head. “Like I said, distracting. That’s the first element of the ploy—your Pitch. The louder, wordier, and faster the pitch, the more exciting it comes across to the crowd. People are so busy enjoying the operator’s showmanship, they don’t think to concentrate on anything else.”
“Add to that,” said Herbert, “that if there were customers standing here already playing, the Pitch is doubly distracting to them.”
“Because,” added Morgan, “once you approach the booth, you’re looking at one of three things: Herbert, the prizes, and the baskets.”
“Not the softballs?” asked Killaine.
“No,” replied Herbert. “Almost nobody thinks to look at the balls right off.”
“So it’s something to do with switching balls?”
“No,” said Morgan. “The ball Herbert tossed in the bushel basket is the same kind I tossed in right after.”
Killaine rubbed her eyes. “Okay, so the Pitch is the first element of the ploy?”
Morgan picked up three more balls. “Second element is the Enticement—in this case, it was my free practice shot.”
“But remember,” said Herbert, “that a customer is more likely to accept an Enticement if he or she thinks they’ve been challenged. Now, watch.” Herbert tossed a softball—underhanded, once again—into the bushel basket. “Okay, what’s wrong with this picture?”
“Nothing that I can think of,” replied Killaine. “Unless the method of tossing the ball has—”
“—not a thing,” said Morgan.
She thought about it for a moment, then shook her head. “Okay, I give.”
“Look at me,” said Morgan.
“With pleasure.”
A little more of that smiling stuff between them.
Then Morgan said: “See where I’m standing?”
“At the counter.”
“See where Herbert’s standing?”
“Inside the booth—oh.”
“By Jove,” said Morgan in a pitiful Rex Harrison imitation, “I do believe she’s got it!”
“The distance,” whispered Killaine.
“Right!” shouted Morgan, snatching up her hand and giving it a quick kiss. “With his arm fully extended, Herbert’s three feet closer to the basket than I am.”