The Leewit stared admiringly at him. "How does it work? How does your skin go like that?"
That broke the ice. He bowed and winked. "I'm Mannicholo the chameleon man," he said with a grin. "Half-lizard, half-man, that's me. The strangest creature in the Universe!"
"I bet I could do it," said the Leewit firmly, "if I knew the trick. Go on, tell me how it really works. Please?" She cocked her head and tried to look cherubic.
"Trade secret, dearie." Mannicholo chuckled, revealing rainbow striped teeth.
"He's tattooed with various temperature-sensitive crystals," explained the blue cockscombed man superciliously. "And he has tiny bits of reflective stuff imbedded in his dermis. As the crystals get warm they change color, and that color radiates heat better so they change color back again." Then he ducked, folding himself under the swing of Mannicholo's arm, with almost boneless ease. "And he hates me telling people."
"I'll fold you into shapes even you can't get into, Timblay," growled Mannicholo.
"Impossible," said the man with the blue cockscomb, bowing to them. "As you may have gathered from my compatriot Mannicholo, I am Timblay, otherwise known as the Incredible Folding Man." He looked around the control room. There were parts of one of the panels artistically strewn about, along with an array of tools. "You do seem to have something of a problem."
"Main drive firing sequencer won't work," said Vezzarn, having gotten up from the nova gun controls. "We had a massive lightning strike just as we were trying to touch down. It fried that, and fried our communicator."
"Ah. That can happen here," said Timblay, understandingly. "This your first trip to Vaudevillia?"
Pausert nodded. He noted that Timblay had eased over to the fuel gauges. He flicked a glance down at them before asking, casually. "Repairable?"
"With a few spares we're not carrying," said Hulik. She pointed to the electronic components on the floor. "We've tried cannibalizing other stuff, but so far it hasn't worked."
"Ah. Well, maybe we can help each other. Exchange things, as it were."
"We have allweather cloaks to offer. Very good line. Remarkably effective . . ."
"I'm sure the outside crews will buy some," said Timblay smoothly. "But that doesn't really get around your problem, does it? You've got a fried communicator and drive sequencer, and here you are stuck on a planet where you just can't buy spare parts. No, I'm afraid we can't sell them to you, not even in exchange for your truly magnificent allweather cloaks. But . . ."
He smiled, all teeth. "We can perhaps still reach an accommodation with each other. Help each other out. Get you off this damp spot and benefit us, too."
"What do you mean?" asked Pausert suspiciously.
"Well, this ship is useless to you. It's not going anywhere. You're stuck on one of the wettest planets in the Galaxy. Now, in exchange for the ship—which we'll use as a store—and some short-time labor contracts, we'll take you to another world with a spaceport."
Pausert was surprised to see the glistening-skinned Mannicholo, who was standing behind Timblay, shake his head warningly. Well, when it came down to it, Pausert had absolutely no intent of agreeing too easily anyway. And, while he was a reasonably skilled trader, he had a past-master in his crew. Goth could get the better of anyone.
"It doesn't sound like much of a bargain to me," said Pausert. "We're just short a few electronic components. We're armed. We've got a locally valuable cargo and we've still got our laterals firing. We'll be able to start moving around on them. Find a fuel seller and arrange for the parts we need for the communicator at least. After that we'll have to fight off customers. Sooner or later we'll get the spares we need. No, I don't think you've got a deal. Now, if you'd like to give us a lift back to Pidoon—for a small fee, of course—I'm sure we'd be grateful."
Timblay waved his hand dismissively. "I don't think we'd be very interested. Pidoon's not on the itinerary. But why don't you come and talk to Master Himbo? Maybe he can reach a more mutually equitable deal with you. We'll transport your craft there . . ."
Pausert shook his head. "We'll come, but under our own steam. I'm not having you claim salvage on the Evening Bird."
Timblay pinched his narrow mouth. "Up to every trick in the book, are we, Captain . . ."
"Aron. From Mulm."
"Well, Captain Aron. I see you have damage around your main airlock."
"You aren't the first would-be salvagers," admitted Captain Pausert.
The Venture proceeded to follow the lifter to the lattice showboat on the last dregs of fuel in her laterals. In the gray, driving rain, the showboat loomed like a small dark mountain. The lattice skeleton of triangular hull-metal girders was covered over, not with the bright synthasilk of Pausert's memories, but a utilitarian black. A small yellow digger was busy trenching and a work team was repairing a small exposed section of the lattice. The showboat looked very workaday ordinary, except . . .
It was very, very big. Had it been a solid hull-metal thing it would have dwarfed a fair number of battle-dreadnaughts—and cost a small fortune in fuel to fly. As it was, the round, plump half dome, ringed with attendant smaller half-domes, could take crowds of thousands—and fly between planets at minimal cost.
The Venture set down in front of the entry portal. Here on their home-world, with no customers to draw, the showboat hadn't bothered to clad the two towers and arch in bright bunting and flags. Instead, a guard with a disrupter cannon huddled in the small metal box above the rippling array of colors that formed fifteen-foot-high red-and-gold ornate letters.
Petey, Byrum & Keep
THE GREATEST SHOW IN THE GALAXY
"Clumping awesome!" said the Leewit.
CHAPTER 11
Vezzarn stayed to man the guns. Mere fabric and I-beams would be a poor defense against the unpredictable might of the nova guns. Yes, they could be taken hostage, but the captain had made sure he'd said loudly, in earshot of their two escorts: "Vezzarn, if they try to take us captive just blow the lattice apart until they let us free. They're in a weaker position than we are."
"We've got guns on Petey B too, you know," snapped Timblay. "More than a match for those antiquated novas."
Pausert snorted. "At this range? Vezzarn's only got to hit a couple of I-beams and the whole thing would fall over. And we're not threatening, it's just better being careful, eh?" Mannicholo definitely gave him a wink and a glance of amusement at Timblay.
They formed a very small procession coming in, out of the rain, into the great cavernous interior. "Where are all the levels? Where are all the stalls?" demanded the Leewit.
"Don't put them up here on Vaudevillia, little 'un," said Mannicholo, with a wry grin. "The stages"—he pointed to several stages hung on girders higher up in the structure—"are there for rehearsals and practices. But what's the use in setting out the bleachers for no one to sit on?"
"But . . ." The Leewit blinked a tear away, showing she was not as old, or as tough, as she pretended to be. "I thought it would be like . . . like I'd seen it. Oh, look!" She pointed. Across the space, various of the show's animals were being exercised. "Telebars! Cute!"
Mannicholo chuckled. "You should try mucking out their cages!"
"They'll probably get a chance to," said Timblay sourly, and strode off ahead.
The rotund, color-shifting man spat. "Never mind him, he's just sour because he never suckered you. Miserable fellow. He's an 'artiste,' " he said sarcastically. "Doesn't like working with mere freak show folk like me. You'll be all right dealing with Himbo Petey. He's mean but fair. Timblay would have tied you into a manual labor contract for the circus section if he could. That's the hardest work. Any of you have an act? That's best money."
"We weren't planning on joining the show. We just wanted a lift off-world," said Hulik.
Mannicholo grinned, making colors dance and sparkle across his cheeks. "That's the only way off Vaudevillia, honey. And Himbo will never agree to a one-stop hitch."
* * *
The sh
owboat boss was a small, dapper man with a little goatee and a pair of elegantly curled mustachios that Pausert secretly envied. He plainly loved his own appearance, and had several full-length mirrors in his office. He paced as he spoke, and paused occasionally to admire himself, especially when he made dramatic gestures.
"But no one," he said calmly, "is a passenger on the Greatest Show in the Galaxy. In fact no one does just one job. I myself am ringmaster, I do a magic show in the sideshows, I am the accountant and chief navigator, and I play certain roles in the thespian section. I also stand in on the harpsicordium from time-to-time. Even our leading lady—and Dame Ethulassia is an exacting woman—controls the costumery. We simply can't afford passengers. We'll take your ship along, but she'll also have to work her passage. Props is in desperate need of more storage space. You can have her back when your contracts expire—provided you replace her with a space-tight hulk of similar size. But if you want off Vaudevillia, it's as part of the troupe or not at all."
Pausert shrugged, hiding his thoughts. A space-tight vessel . . . Even a derelict from a scrap merchant was going to cost at least a hundred thousand maels. They could manage that, easily enough, if they could draw on their funds; but, as the experience on Pidoon had revealed, right now they couldn't. That was a lot of money to try to earn, otherwise.
And then they'd still have to refuel and to repair the Venture. They'd have to earn as much as they possibly could. "We're multi-skilled too. For instance my niece Dani here does great stage magic, and is a skilled negotiator, Master Petey. She'll dicker with you about our worth and how long we'll travel with you and at what rate."
Himbo Petey was plainly amused. "Amateur stage magic isn't good enough for the Greatest Show in the Galaxy, Captain Aron. I dare say the thespians will want you for crowd scenes and the animal trainers will want you for grooming and mucking out. The lady with the pointed ears and the doggie"—Pul growled—"aren't even weird enough for the freak show."
Goth sat down cross-legged on the office floor, clapping her hands. A ball of flames suddenly balanced on the upstretched fingertips of each hand. She flicked them and they leapt from hand to hand. Captain Pausert knew that it was just a light-shift, but it certainly was very impressive. Then she clapped her hands again. The balls disappeared in midair. On her palms rested a paperweight from the showboat boss' desk.
Himbo Petey grinned. "I take it back! That's very good. The flame-balls are a neat one. Great distraction! I almost didn't see you slip my paperweight from your sleeve, and I am a professional. Can you juggle more than two flame-balls? How do you get them to go out when you clap?"
Goth shook her head. "Trade secret. But timing is pretty important."
"Ah!" Himbo nodded. "Misdirection! Excellent! We'll get you a stall of your own or include you into one of the bigger shows. Do any of the rest of you have acts?"
"He called me a doggie. Can I bite him, Hantis? Just once?"
"Ha! A ventriloquist! A good one, too. We don't have a talking dog act at the moment. Any more talents?"
Pul stalked forward. "You're a dead man, churl."
"Now, Pul," said Hantis. "He's never met a grik-dog before." She gave the showboat boss an enigmatic smile. "I believe we are strange enough for your so-called freak show after all."
At this point the door was flung open. A woman with a vast, upstanding coif of brassy hair paused in the doorway, making a grand entrance. It was plainly something she did often and well. "Himbo!" Her voice was a rich contralto, so strong it seemed to make the walls vibrate.
He sighed. "Yes, Ethulassia. You'll get some of them. You've told me you need them, oh, several hundred times already. You'll get even more staff, though the thespian section gets far more resources than its financial contribution justifies."
It was plainly a well-rehearsed argument. And by the way she was drawing breath, about to become a loud one.
Pausert began to rell vatch. Things could get worse, after all. The witches all stiffened. Hello, Big Dream Thing! This is a fun place, this!
He hardly heard Dame Ethulassia's salvo. Something about adding quality and real worth to a tawdry show, and drawing punters to the stalls that they would never visit otherwise.
He cleared his throat as Himbo puffed himself up for the return volley, and stepped between them. "I, um, have an act, too. When we came to Vaudevillia we thought we might join one of the shows."
He sent a quick thought at the little silver-eyed vatch. This will be far more fun if you actually help me.
All right, Big Dream Thing.
Both the Showmaster and the Leading Lady stopped, perhaps surprised that anyone would dare to interrupt them. But with that little mischievous destructive vatch around . . . it was a case of ride the Dire-beast or be devoured by it. In a moment of madness, Pausert had chosen to ride the thing. Now, as the two most powerful figures on the showboat stared at him, he wondered if he might not have been better off letting the vatchlet just do its worst.
Dame Ethulassia surveyed him rather like a housewife choosing a piece of meat from a butcher's counter. She looked him up and down very slowly. Pausert felt himself blushing. She raised a perfectly curved eyebrow.
Then, her expression seemed to soften considerably. "And just who are you, sweetie?" she purred, giving him the benefit of the full out-thrust expansion of her frontage.
Pausert felt himself blush some more. "Captain Aron, at your service." No sooner had he said this than Pausert wished he'd chosen some other phrase.
" 'Service,' is it? That sounds intriguing. You've got talent, I can see. You've felt the Call of the Stage, haven't you?" She had very red lips. And long nails that matched.
By the look on her face, Goth didn't think much of Dame Ethulassia.
That could get even worse than the little vatch on the rampage. "Oh, yes, I have often wanted to be on the stage, but my real skills are in, in escapology."
At the moment, he wished he could escape from here. Ethulassia seemed be some sort of magician, herself—The Incredible Expanding Bosom—and Goth's expression had gone from sour to that blank-faced look which meant she was already plotting and scheming in ways that Pausert really didn't want to think about.
"I do some stage magic too," Pausert said hurriedly. He pointed at the two girls. "With my nieces as assistants."
The Leewit stuck her tongue out at him. "I'm a clown. I don't assist."
The showboat boss had plainly recognized Pausert's intervention for what it was, even if he thought Pausert was saving him from the leading lady and not vatch-trouble. After all, as a stage magician himself, Himbo knew the importance of distraction. He shifted his cigar. "Well, show us something, then."
"Er. I'll need some props . . ."
Himbo stepped across and opened a locker. It was a large walk-in locker, meticulously arrayed with everything a conjurer might desire. "What can I offer you? Forcecuffs? Strong rope? Chains? A lockable chest?
"I . . . I'll skip the chest. I'll take the ropes, forcecuffs and chains. You, sir, and the good lady, would you be good enough to tie my hands and feet—attach the cuffs as well—and then wrap the chains around me and padlock them? And then put the keys in your pocket."
He sat down on the office floor and offered his hands and feet. Himbo and Ethulassia tied and chained Captain Pausert up, with considerable showmanship—and a speculative gleam in the Leading Lady's eyes which made him still more uneasy. Goth's face now had that utterly blank expression which meant the little witch's brain had gone into overdrive. It was a pretty fiendish brain, when it wanted to be.
Himbo displayed the ten feet of rope carefully, engaging in a little tug of war with the Leading Lady. Ethulassia clicked the locks closed and then challenged Hantis to open them, displaying that they were indeed locked as they appeared to be. And Himbo insisted on tying his hands behind him. "There is no science to escaping if they're in front of you," he said cheerfully. Then he wrapped rope around Pausert's chest in some seven or eight turns.
&nbs
p; Captain Pausert thought having his hands behind him was a poor idea. But he couldn't exactly say so and he wasn't too concerned about it, anyway. The little vatch had proved able to undo forcecuffs and locks before.
"Now . . . if you could just drape two of those allweather cloaks over me, Dani."
He was covered from head to toe in voluminous allweather cloaks. And, sure enough, the keys for the locks and the forcecuffs were in his hands a moment later, thanks to Goth's teleportation skills . . .
The little vatch was giggling furiously. And so, Pausert realized, was everyone else. Well, he'd show them. Even if the vatch was not going to cooperate he had the keys. Now . . .
Pausert began realizing that having the key in your hand was not the same as actually being able to get it into the lock of a forcecuff behind your back. Especially when your hands were tied. He strained. And twisted his hands . . . And finally got the key to the keyhole . . .
It didn't fit. It must fit the one on his feet. With difficulty he managed to exchange keys. He was concentrating fiercely by this time, and was hardly aware of the laughter. It was only when he'd just managed to reach the lock the second time—and the key somehow twitched out of his fingers with more vatchy laughter—that he realized that while the rest of him was stifling and hot, his back and hands were cold. By the breeze blowing on their sweatiness, they weren't covered up!
No wonder everyone was laughing. Cringing with embarrassment, with no thought except to get out of there, Captain Pausert stood up, clumsily, as a man whose hands are manacled behind his back will, the hot allweather cloaks falling away. It was only when he was on his feet, that Captain Pausert realized that his feet were no longer manacled. Or tied. Or even chained.
The Wizard of Karres Page 10