Poul Anderson - Flandry 09 - A Circus of Hells

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A CIRCUS OF HELLS

Poul Anderson

[31 jan 2003—scanned by Wickman99]

[07 feb 2003—proofed for #bookz]

The story is of a lost treasure guarded by curious monsters, and of captivity in a wilderness, and of a

chase through reefs and shoals that could wreck a ship. There is a beautiful girl in it, a magician, a spy or

two, and the rivalry of empires. So of course—Flandry was later tempted to say—it begins with a

coincidence.

However, the likelihood that he would meet Tachwyr the Dark was not fantastically low. They were

in the same profession, which had them moving through a number of the same places; and they also

shared the adventurous-ness of youth. To be sure, once imperialism is practiced on an interstellar scale,

navies grow in size until the odds are huge against any given pair of their members happening on each

other. Nevertheless, many such encounters were taking place, as was inevitable on one of the rare

occasions when a Merseian warship visited a Terran planet. A life which included no improbable events

would be the real statistical impossibility.

The planet was Irumclaw, some 200 light-years from Sol in that march of the human realm which

faced Betelgeuse. Lieutenant (j.g.) Dominic Flandry had been posted there not long before, with much

wailing and gnashing of teeth until he learned that even so dismal a clod had its compensations. The

Merseian vessel was the cruiser Brythioch, on a swing through the buffer region of unclaimed, mostly

unknown suns between the spaces ruled in the names of Emperor and Roidhun. Neither government

would have allowed any craft belonging to its rival, capable of spouting nuclear fire, any appreciable

distance into its territory. But border authorities could, at discretion, accept a "goodwill visit." It broke the

monotony and gave a slight hope of observing the kind of trivia which, fitted together, now and then

revealed a fact the opposition would have preferred to keep secret.

In this case Merseia profited, at least initially.

Official hospitality was exchanged. Besides protocol, the humans were motivated, whether they knew

it or not, to enjoy the delicate frisson that came from holding converse with those who—beneath every

diplomatic phrase—were the enemy. Flandry did know it; he had seen more of life than the average

twenty-one-year-old. He was sure the liberty parties down in Old Town were being offered quite a few

drinks, and other amenities in certain cases.

Well, why not? They had been long in the deeps between the stars. If they were straight back from

here, they must travel a good 140 light-years—about ten standard days at top hyperspeed, but still an

abyss whose immensity and strangeness wore down the hardiest spirit—before they could raise the

outermost of the worlds they called their own. They needed a few hours of small-scale living, be their

hosts never so hostile.

Which we aren't anyway, Flandry thought. We should be, but we aren't, most of us. He grinned.

Including me. Though he would have liked to join the fun; he couldn't. The junior officers of Irumclaw

Base must hold the customary reception for their opposite numbers from the ship. (Their seniors gave

another in a separate building. The Merseians, variously bemused or amused by the rigid Terran concept

of rank, conformed. They set more store by ceremony and tradition, even that of aliens, than latter-day

humans did.) While some of the visitors spoke Anglic, it turned out that Flandry was the only man on this

planet who knew Eriau. The mess hall had no connection to the linguistic computer and there was no time

to jury-rig one. His translations would be needed more than his physical presence.

Not that the latter was any disgrace, he reflected rather smugly. He was tall and lithe and wore his

dress uniform with panache and had become a favorite among the girls downhill. Despite this, he

remained well liked by the younger men, if not always by his superiors.

He entered at the appointed evening hour. Under Commander Abdullah's fishy eye, he saluted the

Emperor's portrait not with his usual vague wave but with a snap that well-nigh dislocated his shoulder.

And a heel click to boot, he reminded himself. Several persons being in line ahead of him, he had a

minute for taking stock. Its tables removed except for one bearing refreshments—and its chairs, in

deference to the guests—the room stretched dreary. Pictures of former personnel, trophies and citations

for former accomplishments, seemed to make its walls just the more depressing. An animation showed a

park on Terra, trees nodding, in the background the skyward leap of a rich family's residential tower and

airborne vehicles glittering like diamond dust; but it reminded him too well of how far he was from those

dear comforts. He preferred the darkness in the real window. It was open and a breeze gusted through,

warm, laden with unearthly odors.

The Merseians were a more welcome sight, if only as proof that a universe did exist beyond

Irumclaw. Forty of them stood in a row, enduring repeated introductions with the stoicism appropriate to

a warrior race.

They resembled especially large men … somewhat. A number of their faces might have been called

good-looking in a craggy fashion; their hands each had four fingers and a thumb; the proportions and

articulations of most body parts were fairly anthropoid. But the posture was forward-leaning, balanced

by a heavy tail. The feet, revealed by sandals, were splayed, webbed, and clawed. The skin was hairless

and looked faintly scaled; depending on sub-species, its color ranged from the pale green which was

commonest through golden brown to ebony. The head had two convoluted bony orifices where man's

has external ears. A ridge of serrations ran from its top, down the spine to the end of the tail.

Most of this anatomy was concealed by their uniforms: baggy tunic, snug breeches, black with silver

trim and insignia. The latter showed family connections and status as well as rank and service. The

Merseians had politely disarmed themselves, in that none carried a pistol at his wide belt; the Terrans, in

turn, had refrained from asking them to remove their great knuckleduster-handled war knives.

It wasn't the differences between them and men that caused trouble, Flandry knew. It was the

similarities—in planets of origin and thus in planets desired; in the energy of warm-blooded animals, the

instincts of ancestors who hunted, the legacies of pride and war—

"Afal Ymen, may I present Lieutenant Flandry," Abdullah intoned. The young man bowed to the

huge form, whose owner corresponded approximately to a commander, and received a nod of the ridged

and shining pate. He proceeded, exchanging names and bows with every subordinate Merseian and

wondering, as they doubtless did too, when the farce would end and the drinking begin.

"Lieutenant Flandry."

"Mei Tachwyr."

They stopped, and stared, and both mouths fell open.

Flandry recovered first, perhaps because he became aware that he was holding up the parade. "Uh,

this is a, uh, pleasant surprise," he stammered in Anglic. More of his wits returned. He made a formal

Eriau salutation: "Greeting and good fortune to you, Tachwyr of the Vach Rueth."

"And … may you be in health and strength, Dominic Flandry … of Terra," the Merseian replied.

For another moment their eyes clashed, black against gray, before the man continued down the line.

After a while he got over his astonishment. Albeit unexpected, the happenstance that he and Tachwyr

had met again did not look especially important. Nonetheless, he went robotlike through the motions of

sociability and of being an interpreter. His gaze and mind kept straying toward his former acquaintance.

And Tachwyr himself was too young to mask entirely the fact that he was as anxious to get together with

Flandry.

Their chance came in a couple of hours, when they managed to dodge out of their respective groups

and seek the refreshment table. Flandry gestured. "May I pour for you?" he asked. "I fear that except for

the telloch, we've run out of things native to your planet."

"I regret to say you have been had," Tachwyr answered. "It is a dreadful brand. But I like

your—what is it called?—skoksh?"

"That makes two of us." Flandry filled glasses for them. He had already had several whiskies and

would have preferred this one over ice. However, he wasn't about to look sissified in front of a Merseian.

"Ah … cheers," Tachwyr said, lifting his tumbler. His throat and palate gave the Anglic word an

accent for which there were no Anglic words.

Flandry could form Merseian speech better if not perfectly. "Tor ychwei." With both hands he

extended his glass so that the other might take the first sip.

Tachwyr followed it with half of his own in a single gulp. "Arrach!" Relaxed a little, he cocked his

head and smiled; but under the shelf of brow ridge, his glance held very steady on the human. "Well," he

said, "what brings you here?"

"I was assigned. For a Terran year, worse luck. And you?"

"The same, to my present ship. I see you are now in the Intelligence Corps."

"Like yourself."

Tachwyr the Dark—his skin was a slightly deeper green than is usual around the Wilwidh

Ocean—could not altogether suppress a scowl. "I started in that branch," he said. "You were a flyer

when you came to Merseia." He paused. "Were you not?"

"Oh, yes," Flandry said. "I transferred later."

"At Commander Abrams' instigation?"

Flandry nodded. "Mostly. He's a captain now, by the way."

"So I have heard. We … take an interest in him."

After the Starkad affair, Flandry thought, you would. Between us, Max Abrams and I wrecked a

scheme concocted by none less than Brechdan Ironrede, Protector of the Roidhun's Grand

Council.

How much do you know about that, Tachwyr? You were only put to showing me around and

trying to pump me, when Abrams and I were on your world as part of the Hauksberg mission. And

the truth about Starkad was never made public; no one concerned could afford to let it come out.

You do remember us, though, Tachwyr. If nothing else, you must have gathered that we were

instrumental in causing Merseia quite a bit of trouble. It bothers you to have found me here.

Better get off the subject. "You remain through tomorrow? I admit Irumclaw has less to offer than

Merseia, but I'd like to return part of the courtesy you gave me."

Again Tachwyr was slow to speak. "Thank you, negative. I have already arranged to tour the area

with shipmates." The Eriau phrasing implied a commitment which no honorable male would break.

Flandry reflected that a male would not ordinarily bind himself so strongly to something so minor.

What the devil? the human thought. Maybe they aim to sample our well-known Terran

decadence and he doesn't want me to realize their well-known Merseian virtue can slack off that

much. "Stay in a party," he warned. "Some of those bars are almost as dangerous as the stuff they

serve."

Tachwyr uttered the throaty laugh of his species, settled down on the tripod of feet and tail, and

started yarning. Flandry matched him. They enjoyed themselves until the man was called away to

interpret a tedious conversation between two engineer officers.

Such was the prologue. He had practically forgotten it when the adventure began. That was on a

certain night about eight months later.

Soon after the red-orange sun had set, he left the naval compound and walked downhill. No one paid

him any heed. A former commandant had tried to discourage his young men from seeking the

occasionally lethal corruptions of Old Town. He had declared a large part of it off limits. Meeting

considerable of the expense out of his own pocket, he had started an on-base recreation center which

was to include facilities for sports, arts, and crafts as well as honest gambling and medically certified girls!

But the bosses below knew how to use money and influence. The commandant was transferred to a still

more bleak and insignificant outpost. His successor dismantled what had been built, informed the men

jovially that what they did off duty was their business, and was said to be drawing a nice extra income.

Flandry sauntered in elegance. The comet gleaming on either shoulder was so new that you might

have looked for diffidence from him. But his bonnet was tilted more rakishly on his seal-brown hair than a

strict interpretation of rules would have allowed; his frame was draped in a fantastic glittergold version of

dress tunic and snowy trousers tucked into handmade beefleather half-boots; the cloak that fluttered

behind him glowed with phosphorescent patterns through the chill dusk; and while he strolled, he sang a

folk ballad concerning the improbable adventures of a Highland tinker.

It made a good cover for the fact that he was not out for pleasure.

Beyond the compound walls, the homes of the wealthy loomed amidst grandly downsweeping private

parks. In a way, Flandry thought, they epitomized man's trajectory. Once the settlement had been

sufficiently large and prosperous, and sufficiently within the Imperial sphere, to attract not only merchants

but aristocrats. Old Town had bustled with culture as well as commerce—provincial, no doubt, this far

from Terra; nevertheless, live and genuine, worthy of the respectful emulation of the autochthons.

Tonight Irumclaw lay like a piece of wreckage at the edge of the receding tide of empire. What

mansions were not standing hollow had become the property of oafs, and showed it. (The oafs were not

to be scoffed at. Several of them directed large organizations devoted to preying on the spacemen who

visited and the Navy men who guarded what transshipment facilities remained in use.) Outside the treaty

port boundaries, barbarism rolled forward as the natives abandoned civilization with a perhaps justifiable

contempt.

Past the residential section, workshops and warehouses hulked black in the night, and Flandry moved

alert with a hand near the needle gun under his tunic. Robberies and murders had happened here.

Lacking the police to clean out this area, assuming he wanted to, the commandant had settled for advising

men on liberty not to go through alone.

Flandry had been shocked to learn that when he first arrived. "We could do it ourselves—establish

regular patrols—if he'd order it. Doesn't he care? What kind of chief is he?"

His protest had been delivered in private to another scout, Lieutenant Commander Eisenschmitt. The

latter, having been around for a while, shrugged. "The kind that any place like this gets," he answered.

"We don't rate attention at GHQ, so naturally we're sent the hacks, boobs, and petty crooks. Good

senior officers are too badly needed elsewhere. When Irumclaw does get one it's an accident, and he

doesn't stay long."

"Damn it, man, we're on the border!" Flandry pointed out the window of the room where they sat. It

had been dark then, too. Betelgeuse glowed bloody-brilliant among the hosts of stars where no writ ran.

"Beyond there—Merseia!"

"Yeh. And the gatortails expanding in all directions except when we bar the way. I know. But this is

the far edge of nowhere … in the eyes of an Imperial government that can't see past its perfume-sniffing

nose. You're fresh from Terra, Dom. You ought to understand better than me. I expect we'll pull out of

Irumclaw entirely inside another generation."

"No! Can't be! Why, that'd leave this whole flank exposed for six parsecs inward. We'd have no way

of protecting its commerce … of, of staying around in any force—"

"Uh-huh." Eisenschmitt nodded. "On the other hand, the local commerce isn't too profitable any more,

less each year. And think of the saving to the Imperial treasury if we end operations. The Emperor should

be able to build a dozen new palaces complete with harems."

Flandry had not been able to agree at the time. He was too lately out of a fighting unit and a

subsequent school where competence was demanded. Over the months, though, he saw things for

himself and drew his own sad conclusions.

There were times when he would have welcomed a set-to with a bandit. But it had not befallen, nor

did it on this errand into Old Town.

The district grew around him, crumbling buildings left over from pioneer days, many of them simply

the original beehive-shaped adobes of the natives slightly remodeled for other life forms. Streets and

alleys twisted about under shimmering glowsigns. Traffic was mainly pedestrian, but noise beat on the

eardrums, clatter, shuffle, clop, clangor, raucous attempts at music, a hundred different languages, once in

a while a muffled scream or a bellow of rage. The smells were equally strong, body odors, garbage,

smoke, incense, dope. Humans predominated, but many autochthons were present and space travelers

of numerous different breeds circulated among them.

Outside a particular joyhouse, otherwise undistinguished from the rest, an Irumclavian used a

vocalizer to chant in Anglic: "Come one, come all, come in, no cover, no minimum. Every type of

amusement, pleasure, and thrill. No game too exotic, no stakes too high or low. Continuous sophisticated

entertainment. Delicious food and drink, stimulants, narcotics, hallucinogens, emphasizers, to your order,

to your taste, to your purse. Every sex and every technique of seventeen, yes, seventeen intelligent

species ready to serve your desires, and this does not count racial, mutational, and biosculp variations.

Come one, come all—" Flandry went in. He chanced to brush against two or three of the creature's

arms. The blue integument felt cold in the winter air.

The entrance hall was hot and stuffy. An outsize human in a gaudy uniform said, "Welcome, sir. What

is your wish?" while keeping eyes upon him that were like chips of obsidian.

"Are you Lem?" Flandry responded.

"Uh, yeh. and you—?"

"I am expected."

"Urh. Take the gravshaft to the top, that's the sixth floor, go left down the hall to a door numbered

666, stand in front of the scan and wait. When it opens, go up the stairs."

"Six-six-six?" murmured Flandry, who had read more than was common in his service. "Is Citizen

Ammon a humorist, do you think?"

"No names!" Lem dropped a hand to the stunner at his hip. "On your way, kid."

Flandry obeyed, even to letting himself be frisked and leaving his gun at the checkstand. He was glad

when Door 666 admitted him; that was the sado-maso level, and he had glimpsed things.

The office which he entered, and which sealed itself behind him, recalled Terra in its size and opulence

and in the animation of a rose garden which graced a wall. Or so it seemed; then he looked closer and

saw the shabbiness of the old furnishings, the garishness of the new. No other human save Leon Ammon

was present. A Gorzunian mercenary stood like a shaggy statue in one corner. When Flandry turned his

back, the being's musky scent continued to remind him that if he didn't behave he could be plucked into

small pieces.

"G'evening," said the man behind the desk. He was grossly fat, hairless, sweating, not especially clean,

although his scarlet tunic was of the finest. His voice was high and scratchy. "You know who I am, right?

Sit down. Cigar? Brandy?"

Flandry accepted everything offered. It was of prime quality too. He said so.

"You'll do better than this if you stick by me," Ammon replied. His smile went no deeper than his lips.

"You haven't told about the invitation my man whispered to you the other night?"

"No, sir, of course not."

"Wouldn't bother me if you did. Nothing illegal about inviting a young chap for a drink and a gab.

Right? But you could be in trouble yourself. Mighty bad trouble, and not just with your commanding

officer."

Flandry had his suspicions about the origin of many of the subjects on the floor below. Consenting

adults … after brain-channeling and surgical disguise … He studied the tip of his cigar. "I don't imagine

you'd've asked me here, sir, if you thought I needed threatening," he said.

"No. I like your looks, Dominic," Ammon said. "Have ever since you started coming to Old Town for

your fun. A lot of escapades, but organized like military maneuvers, right? You're cool and tough and

close-mouthed. I had a check done on your background."

Flandry expanded his suspicions. Various incidents, when he had been leaned on one way or another,

began to look like engineered testing of his reactions. "Wasn't much to find out, was there?' he said. "I'm

only a j.g., routinely fresh-minted after serving here for two months. Former flyboy, reassigned to

Intelligence, sent back to Terra for training in it and then to Irumclaw for scouting duty."

"I can't really compute that," Ammon said. "If they aim to make you a spy, why have you spend a

year flitting in and out of this system?"

"I need practice in surveillance, especially of planets that are poorly known. And the no-man's-land

yonder needs watching. Our Merseian chums could build an advanced base there, for instance, or start

some other kettle boiling, unbeknownst to us, if we didn't keep scoutboats sweeping around." Maybe

they have anyway.

"Yes, I got that answer before when I asked, and it still sounds to me like a waste of talent. But it got

you to Irumclaw, and I did notice you and had you studied. I learned more than stands on any public

record, boy. The whole Starkad business pivoted on you."

Shocked, Flandry wondered how deeply the rot had eaten, if the agent of a medium-scale vice boss

on a tenth-rate frontier planet could obtain such information.

"Well, your tour'll soon be up," Ammon said. "Precious little to show for it, right? Right. How'd you

like to turn a profit before you leave? A mighty nice profit, I promise you." He rubbed his hands. "Mighty

nice."

"Depends," Flandry said. If he'd been investigated as thoroughly as it appeared, there was no use in

pretending he had private financial resources, or that he didn't require them if he was to advance his

career as far as he hoped. "The Imperium has my oath."

"Sure, sure. I wouldn't ask you to do anything against His Majesty. I'm a citizen myself, right? No, I'll

tell you exactly what I want done, if you'll keep it confidential."

"It'd doubtless not do me any good to blab, the way you'll tell me."

Ammon giggled. "Right! Right! You're a sharp one, Dominic. Handsome, too," he added exploringly.

"I'll settle for the sharpness now and buy the handsomeness later," Flandry said. As a matter of fact,

while he enjoyed being gray-eyed, he considered his face unduly long and thin, and planned to get it

remodeled when he could afford the best.

Ammon sighed and returned to business. "All I want is for you to survey a planet for me. You can do

it on your next scouting trip. Report back, privately, of course, and it's worth a flat million, in small bills or

whatever shape you prefer." He reached into his desk and extracted a packet. "If you take the job, here's

a hundred thousand on account." A million! Ye gods and demons! Flandry fought to keep his mask. No

enormous fortune, really. But enough for that necessary nest-feathering—the special equipment,

the social contacts—no more wretched budgeting of my pleasure on furlough—A distant part of

him noted with approval how cool his tone stayed. "I have to carry out my assignment."

"I know, I know. I'm not asking you to skimp it. I told you I'm a loyal citizen. But if you jogged off

your track awhile—it shouldn't cost more than a couple of weeks extra—"

"Cost me my scalp if anyone found out," Flandry said.

Ammon nodded. "That's how I'll know I can trust you to keep quiet. And you'll trust me, because

suborning an Imperial officer is a capital offense—anyhow, it usually is when it involves a matter like this,

that's not going to get mentioned to the authorities or the tax assessors."

"Why not send your personal vessel to look?"

Ammon laid aside his mannerisms. "I haven't got one. If I hired a civilian, what hold would I have on

him? Especially an Old Town type. I'd likely end up with an extra mouth in my throat, once the word got

around what's to be had out there. Let's admit it, even on this miserable crudball I'm not so big."

He leaned forward. "I want to become big," he said. It smoldered in eyes and voice; he shook with

the intensity of it. "Once I know, from you, that the thing's worthwhile, I'll sink everything I own and can

borrow into building up a reliable outfit. We'll work secretly for the first several years, sell through

complicated channels, sock away the profits. Then maybe I'll surface, doctor the story, start paying

taxes, move to Terra—maybe buy my way to a patent of nobility, maybe go into politics, I don't know,

but I'll be big. Do you understand?"

Far too well, Flandry thought.

Ammon dabbed at his glistening forehead. "It wouldn't hurt you, having a big friend," he said. "Right?"

Associate, please, Flandry thought. Perhaps that, if I must. Never friend.

Aloud: "I suppose I could cook my log, record how trouble with the boat caused delay. She's fast but

superannuated, and inspections are lackadaisical. But you haven't yet told me, sir, what the bloody

dripping hell this is all about."

"I will, I will." Ammon mastered his emotions. "It's a lost treasure, that's what it is. Listen. Five

hundred years ago, the Polesotechnic League had a base here. You've heard?"

Flandry, who had similarly tamed his excitement into alertness, nodded wistfully. He would much

rather have lived in the high and spacious days of the trader princes, when no distance and no deed

looked too vast for man, than in this twilight of empire. "It got clobbered during the Troubles, didn't it?"

he said.

"Right. However, a few underground installations survived. Not in good shape. Not safe to go into.

Tunnels apt to collapse, full of nightskulks—you know. Now I thought those vaults might be useful

for—Never mind. I had them explored. A microfile turned up. It gave the coordinates and galactic orbit

of a planetary system out in what's now no-man's-land. Martian Minerals, Inc., was mining one of the

worlds. They weren't publicizing the fact; you remember what rivalries got to be like toward the end of

the League era. That's the main reason why knowledge of this system was completely lost. But it was

quite a place for a while."

"Rich in heavy metals," Flandry pounced.

Ammon blinked. "How did you guess?"

"Nothing else would be worth exploiting by a minerals outfit, at such a distance from the centers of

civilization. Yes." A renewed eagerness surged in Flandry. "A young, metal-rich star, corresponding

planets, on one of them a robotic base … It was robotic, wasn't it? High-grade central

computer—consciousness grade, I'll bet—directing machines that prospected, mined, refined, stored,

and loaded the ships when they called. Probably manufactured spare parts for them too, and did needful

work on them, besides expanding its own facilities. You see, I don't suppose a world with that

concentration of violently poisonous elements in its ground would attract people to a manned base. Easier

and cheaper in the long run to automate everything."

"Right. Right." Ammon's chins quivered with his nodding. "A moon, actually, of a planet bigger than

Jupiter. More massive, that is—a thousand Terras—though the file does say its gravity condensed it to a

smaller size. The moon itself, Wayland they named it, Wayland has about three percent the mass of Terra

but half the surface pull. It's that dense."

Mean specific gravity circa eleven, Flandry calculated. Uranium, thorium—probably still some

neptunium and plutonium—and osmium, platinum, rare metals simply waiting to be scooped out

—my God! My greed!

From behind his hard-held coolness he drawled: "A million doesn't seem extravagant pay for opening

that kind of opportunity to you."

"It's plenty for a look-see," Ammon said. "That's all I want of you, a report on Wayland. I'm taking

the risks, not you.

"First off, I'm risking you'll go report our talk, trying for a reward and a quick transfer elsewhere

before my people can get to you. Well, I don't think that's a very big risk. You're too ambitious and too

used to twisting regulations around to suit yourself. And too smart, I hope. If you think for a minute, you'll

see how I could fix it to get any possible charges against me dropped. But maybe I've misjudged you.

"Then, supposing you play true, the place could turn out to be no good. I'll be short a million, for

nothing. More than a million, actually. There's the hire of a partner; reliable ones don't come cheap. And

supplies for him; and transporting them to a spot where you can pick them and him up after you've taken

off; and—oh, no, boy, you consider yourself lucky I'm this generous."

"Wait a minute," Flandry said. "A partner?"

Ammon leered. "You don't think I'd let you travel alone, do you? Really, dear boy! What'd prevent

your telling me Wayland's worthless when it isn't, coming back later as a civilian, and 'happening' on it?"

"I presume if I give you a negative report, you'll … request … I submit to a narcoquiz. And if I didn't

report to you at all, you'd know I had found a prize."

"Well, what if you told them you'd gotten off course somehow and found the system by accident?

You could hope for a reward. I can tell you you'd be disappointed. Why should the bureaucrats care,

when there'd be nothing in it for them but extra work? I'd lay long odds they'd classify your 'discovery' an

Imperial secret and forbid you under criminal penalties ever to mention it anywhere. You might guess

differently, though. No insult to you, Dominic. I believe in insurance, that's all. Right?

"So my agent will ride along, and give you the navigational data after you're safely away in space, and

never leave your side till you've returned and told me personally what you found. Afterward, as a witness

to your behavior on active duty, a witness who'll testify under hypnoprobe if need be, why, he'll keep on

being my insurance against any change of heart you might suffer."

Flandry blew a smoke ring. "As you wish," he conceded. "It'll be pretty cozy, two in a Comet, but I

can rig an extra bunk and—Let's discuss this further, shall we? I think I will take the job, if certain

conditions can be met."

Ammon would have bristled were he able. The Gorzunian sensed his irritation and growled.

"Conditions? From you?"

Flandry waved his cigar. "Nothing unreasonable, sir," he said airily. "For the most part, precautions

that I'm sure you will agree are sensible and may already have thought of for yourself. And that agent you

mentioned. Not 'he', please. It could get fatally irritating, living cheek by unwashed jowl with some goon

for weeks. I know you can find a capable and at the same time amiable human female. Right? Right."

He had everything he could do to maintain that surface calm. Beneath it, his pulse racketed—and not

simply because of the money, the risk, the enjoyment. He had come here on a hunch, doubtless

generated by equal parts of curiosity and boredom. He had stayed with the idea that, if the project

seemed too hazardous, he could indeed betray Ammon and apply for duty that would keep him beyond

range of assassins. Now abruptly a vision was coming to him, hazy, uncertain, and gigantic.

III

Djana was hard to shock. But when the apartment door had closed behind her and she saw what

waited, her "No!" broke free as a near scream.

"Do not be alarmed," said the squatting shape. A vocalizer converted the buzzes and whistles from its

lower beak into recognizable Anglic syllables. "You have nothing to fear and much to gain."

"You—a man called me—"

"A dummy. It is not desirable that Ammon know you have met me in private, and surely he has put a

monitor onto you."

Djana felt surreptitiously behind her. As expected, the door did not respond; it had been set to lock

itself. She clutched her large ornamental purse. A stun pistol lay inside. Her past had seen contingencies.

Bracing herself and wetting her lips, she said, "I don't. Not with xenos—" and in haste, fearing offense

might be taken, "I mean nonhuman sophonts. It isn't right."

"I suspect a large enough sum would change your mind," the other said. "You have a reputation for

avarice. However, I plan a different kind of proposition." It moved slowly closer, a lumpy gray body on

four thin legs which brought the head at its middle about level with her waist. One tentacle sent the single

loose garment swirling about in a sinuous gesture. Another clutched the vocalizer in boneless fingers. The

instrument was being used with considerable skill; it actually achieved an ingratiating note. "You must

know about me in your turn. I am only Rax, harmless old Rax, the solitary representative of my species

on this world. I assure you my reproductive pattern is sufficiently unlike yours that I find your assumption

comical."

Djana eased a bit. She had in fact noticed the creature during the three years she herself had been on

Irumclaw. A casual inquiry and answer crossed her recollection, yes, Rax was a dealer in drugs, legal or

illegal, from … where was it? Nobody knew or cared. The planet had some or other unpronounceable

name and orbited in distant parts. Probably Rax had had to make a hurried departure for reasons of

health, and had drifted about until it stranded at last on this tolerant shore. Such cases were tiresomely

common.

And who could remember all the races in the Terran Empire? Nobody: not when its bounds, unclear

though they were, defined a rough globe 400 light-years across. That volume contained an estimated four

million suns, most with attendants. Maybe half had been visited once or more, by ships which might have

picked up incidental native recruits. And the hundred thousand or so worlds which enjoyed a degree of

repeated contact with men—often sporadic—and owed a degree of allegiance to the Imperium—often

purely nominal—were too many for a brain to keep track of.

Djana's eyes flickered. The apartment was furnished for a human, in abominable taste. He must be the

one who had called her. Now he was gone. Though an inner door stood closed, she never doubted she

was alone with Rax. Silence pressed on her, no more relieved by dull traffic sounds from outside than the

gloom in the windows was by a few street lights. She grew conscious of her own perfume. Too damn

sweet, she thought.

"Do be seated." Rax edged closer yet, with an awkwardness that suggested weight on its original

planet was significantly lower than Irumclaw's 0.96 g. Did it keep a field generator at home … if it had

any concept akin to "home"?

She drew a long breath, tossed her head so the tresses flew back over her shoulders, and donned a

cocky grin. "I've a living to make," she said.

"Yes, yes." Rax's lower left tentacle groped ropily in a pouch and stretched forth holding a bill. "Here.

Twice your regular hourly recompense, I am told. You need but listen, and what you hear should point

the way to earning very much more."

"We-e-ell … " She slipped the money into her purse, found a chair, drew forth a cigarette and inhaled

it into lighting. Her visceral sensations she identified as part fear—this must be a scheme against Ammon,

who played rough—and part excitement—a chance to make some real credit? Maybe enough to quit

this wretched hustle for good?

Rax placed itself before her. She had no way of reading expressions on that face.

"I will tell you what information is possessed by those whom I represent," the vocalizer said. The

spoken language, constructed with pronunciation, vocabulary, and grammar in a one-one relationship to

Anglic, rose and fell eerily behind the little transponder. "A junior lieutenant, Dominic Flandry, was

observed speaking several times in private with Leon Ammon."

Now why should that interest them especially? she wondered, then lost her thought in her

concentration on the words.

"Investigation revealed Ammon's people had come upon something in the course of excavating in this

vicinity. Its nature is known just to him and a few trusted confidants. We suspect that others who saw

were paid to undergo memory erasure anent the matter, except for one presumably stubborn person

whose corpse was found in Mother Chickenfoot's Lane. Subsequently you too have been closeted with

Ammon and, later, with Flandry."

"Well," Djana said, "he—"

"Pure coincidence is implausible," Rax declared, "especially when he could ill afford you on a junior

lieutenant's pay. It is also known that Ammon has quietly purchased certain spacecraft supplies and

engaged a disreputable interplanetary ferrier to take them to the outermost member of this system and

leave them there at a specific place, in a cave marked by a small radio beacon that will self-activate when

a vessel passes near."

Suddenly Djana realized why Skipper Orsini had sought her out and been lavish shortly after his

return. Rax's outfit had bribed him.

"I can't imagine what you're getting at," she said. A draft of smoke swirled and bit in her lungs.

"You can," Rax retorted. "Dominic Flandry is a scout-boat pilot. He will soon depart on his next

scheduled mission. Ammon must have engaged him to do something extra in the course of it. Since the

cargo delivered to Planet Eight included impellers and similar gear, the job evidently involves study of a

world somewhere in the wilderness. Ammon's discovery was therefore, in all probability, an old record

of its existence and possible high value. You are to be his observer. Knowing Flandry's predilections, one

is not surprised that he should insist on a companion like you. It follows that you two have been getting

acquainted, to make certain you can endure being cooped together for weeks in a small boat.

"Orsini will flit you to Eight. Flandry will surreptitiously land there, pick up you and the supplies, and

proceed into interstellar space. Returning, you two will reverse the whole process, and meet in Ammon's

office to report."

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ACIRCUSOFHELLSPoulAnderson[31jan2003—scannedbyWickman99][07feb2003—proofedfor#bookz]IThestoryisofalosttreasureguardedbycuriousmonsters,andofcaptivityinawilderness,andofachasethroughreefsandshoalsthatcouldwreckaship.Thereisabeautifulgirlinit,amagician,aspyortwo,andtherivalryofempires.Soofcourse—Fland...

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