Barry Longyear - City of Baraboo

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Portions of this work have appeared in Issac Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine and Asimov's SF

Adventure Magazine

This Berkley book contains the complete

text of the original hardcover edition.

It has been completely reset in a type face

designed for easy reading, and was printed

from new film.

CITY OF BARABOO

A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with . the author

PRINTING HISTORY

Berkley-Putnam edition published July 1980 Berkley edition / August 1981

Cover Illustration by John Rush.

This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part,

by mimeograph or any other means, without permission.

For information address: Berkley Publishing Corporation,

200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.

ISBN: 0-425-04940-X A BERKLEY BOOK(r) TM 757,375

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

After subtracting the many debts I owe in the researching and writing of City of Baraboo, I find

little remaining save the responsibility for whatever inaccuracies that managed to escape

detection before they saw print. First, for suggesting the development of the star-circus idea

used in one of my short stories, and for many suggestions that should earn him a generously

declined byline, my thanks to George Scithers, editor of Isaac Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine.

Special thanks go to Robert L. Parkinson, Chief Librarian and Historian of the Circus World Museum

in Baraboo, Wisconsin, for taking a highly unreasonable request for information and supplying it.

Sincere thanks go, as well, to Betty Austin, Colleen Condon, and Barbara Watt of the Cutler

Memorial Library in Farmington, Maine, for their long hours of searching that produced several

invaluable circus histories the absence of which would have made this book, at least in its

present form, impossible. Many thanks also go to Glenys Gifford of the Mantor Library at the

University of Maine at Farmington both for the books she found for me, and for the length of time

I was allowed to keep them.

My remaining thanks go to my chief critic, first reader, researcher, copy clerk, and wife, Jean.

To George H. Scithers

and My Wife, Jean

CONTENTS

I The Last Show on Earth 1

II Follow the Red Wagons 49

IE Working the Route Book 77

IV The Slick Gentlemen 107

V Sweet Revenge 135

VI In the Cart 177

Aftershow 208

The Company 212

The Last Show On Earth

EDITION 2142

ONE

Two and a half centuries after August Riingeling's famous sons-the Ringling Brothers-took their

first circus on the road in 1884, the "Greatest Show on Earth" was, as well, the last show on

Earth. It was a poor three-poled affair stalled under patched canvas on the outskirts of Ottawa.

Ans the mud road had given way to rails, and the railroad to concrete and asphalt, the hard road

had ended under a blizzard of paper.

The old problems had never left. Fire, windstorms, ice, mud, accidents, rain, shakedowns,

breakdowns, and crackups were as common to the trouper as his name. But in an age when the

resolution of human problems was taken for granted, no room had been left for John J. O'Hara's

circus. Room, the kind needed by a canvas show, was too valuable. The road cost the show seven-

hundred credits per kilometer in tolls, while hard, grassy lots near population centers-such as

remained-cost the show upwards of thirty-thousand credits for the twenty-four hours the site would

be occupied to put on five hours' worth of entertainment. All this, and more, the show had

endured. Its road ended at the Ottawa stand when it was faced with that thing feared above all

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else by

an institution of exception-laws for the general good enforced by incorruptible officials.

"They won't budge an inch, Mr. John." Arthur Burnside Wellington, the show's fixer, had stood

before the Governor's desk shaking his aging head. The tall, frail man in black seemed stumped for

the first time in his sixty-odd years. He held up his hands, then dropped them at his sides. "I

just can't move them."

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

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

"What about dirt?"

Wellington shook his head. "Never saw a cleaner bunch of politicos. Not so much as a parking

ticket. No outside incomes, no affairs, no relatives on the payroll-nothing." Again he shook his

head. "Of all the times to run into honesty in govern..." Wellington stopped short, rubbed his

chin, then stared at the Governor without seeing him.

"Patch, what is it?"

Wellington frowned, then shook his head. "Probably nothing. Maybe a straw; maybe not." Wellington

turned and left the office wagon, deep in thought.

Hours later, midway through the evening show, O'Hara sat in the dark of the office wagon half-

listening to the windjammers slamming out notes from the main top. He closed his eyes and leaned

his head back against the chair. Nothing sounds like a circus band. Skilled orchestras sawing and

blowing away make good tries but to the ear that had been reared with the windjammers, the

difference was considerable. No musician strapped into rigid notes, bars, and rests can imitate

the sound and beat of windjammers trained to play to the kootch of a dancing horse or elephant,

making it look as though the animal was dancing to the music rather than the other way around.

O'Hara opened his eyes and watched the colored reflections of the main entrance lights dancing on

the wall opposite the wagon's pay window. That fellow in Bangor-that writer-had asked why. He had

really been puzzled. Circus work was back-breaking, dangerous, and not particularly profitable.

Why a circus? The Governor had made an effort at finding the words, but in the end had resorted to

the stock trouper's reply: "It's a disease."

The Governor leaned forward, placed his elbows on his desk, and lowered his face into his hands.

The disease. It's worse than a disease-an addiction. It's a clawing need that no rube with a

typewriter could ever understand. And so, the ladies and gents of the media get told the same

thing that circus people have been telling civilians for uncounted years: "It's a disease."

Troupers have no ready answers for why they troup. Question-asking is a head game, and the answers-

if they exist-are under the paint, the sweat, the scars, the pain, deep within that thing called a

soul. A trouper troups. It's a given.

"Perhaps we should ask why." O'Hara lowered his hands, dried his cheeks on his sleeves, then

surveyed the empty interior of the wagon. He pushed himself to his feet, walked around his desk,

then to the door of the wagon. O'Hara was feeling his years, and Wellington had been the Patch for

O'Hara's Greater Shows when the Governor's father had been Governor. O'Hara rubbed his close-

cropped white beard and nodded. "Maybe we're all past our prime."

He pushed open the door and inhaled the smell of the lot. It was a curious mixture of grass,

straw, candy, and wild animal. The afternoon's dust was out of the air, giving a sharpness to the

colored lights still strung around the sideshow and animal top. The windjammers swung into the

waltz that cued the flyers, markr ing the forty-sixth minute of life left to the circus. It gave

O'Hara a strange feeling to hear that waltz and still see the animal and kid show tops standing.

On normal nights, they would have been torn down, loaded, and off to the next stand by the waltz.

The canvas gang would be preparing to clear out and tear down the main top hot on the heels of the

last customer.

O'Hara thrust his hands into his coat pockets, stepped down from the office wagon, and headed

toward a small group of roughnecks standing next to a moving den in front of the animal top. As he

approached, one of the husky men parted from the others. "Evening, Governor."

O'Hara stopped and nodded at the heavy-set man in plaid shirt and work-alls. The man's face was

hidden by the shadow cast by the brim of his sweat-stained hat. "Goofy Joe."

"Any word, Mr. John?"

O'Hara looked down and slowly shook his head. "Looks like we're in the cart. Those environmental

officers say they'll confiscate the animals and run us in if we cross the district line."

Goofy Joe pulled his hat from his head, threw it on the lot, and jammed his hands into the pockets

of his work-alls. "Damn!" He frowned at the Governor. "Can't the Patch fix it?"

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

Goofy Joe stooped over, picked up his hat, then held out a hand toward the menagerie entrance as

he stood. "You know Duckfoot. He'll be in there with the bulls." The roughneck threw his hat on

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the lot again. "Why'd we ever have to come here?"

O'Hara placed a hand on the man's shoulder. "We're in the right place, Joe; it's just that we're

about a hundred years too late." He withdrew his hand, turned, and walked through the dark to the

animal top entrance. In the dim light of service lamps at the ends of the tent, he could see the

eight elephants calmly pulling truckfuls of hay from bales, and munching. As she recognized him,

Lolita stuck out her ears, lifted her massive head, then lowered it again as she pretended not to

see him. He entered the tent, nodded at the Boss Canvasman and Boss Animal Man seated in the

center of the tent on overturned buckets, then he stopped with his back facing Lolita. In seconds

O'Hara felt Lolita's trunk slip into his coat pocket, grab the bag of peanuts he kept there, and

sneak it out.

He turned and looked at the elephant. "What was that?" Lolita shifted her weight from one foot to

the other and shook her head. O'Hara reached into his coat pocket and frowned. "I could swear that

I had peanuts in here." He glowered at the elephant. Lolita shook her head again, and as O'Hara

turned his back and left, she swept the straw in front of her with her trunk, picked up the bag of

peanuts, and stuffed the entire thing in her mouth.

Duckfoot chuckled as he stood. "Lolita's getting to be a real dip, Governor. Careful she doesn't

go after your leather." The Boss Canvasman was built along the general proportions of Gorgo "The

Killer Ape" who now reclined in his cage scratching at imaginary fleas. Duckfoot's hair was

thinner than Gorgo's, but the arms more powerful.

O'Hara grimaced and shook his head. "For all the money that's in it, she's better off with the

peanuts." He nodded at the Boss Animal Man, who, although he was every bit as big as O'Hara,

looked frail next to Duckfoot. "Is everything quiet, Pony?"

Pony Red Miira nodded. "They were a little excited that they weren't being loaded on time, Mr.

John, but they're settled down now."

O'Hara nodded, kicked over a bucket with his foot, then sat on it. Duckfoot and Pony Red resumed

their seats. "Duckfoot, the city wants us off the lot by tomorrow, so don't let the canvas gang go

until after. One way or the other we'll need them to tear down the show."

Duckfoot shook his head. "Where're those roughnecks going

to go, Mr. John? It's not like they can hook up with another show. We're it. The last show on

Earth. What's going to happen to them?"

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

Pony Red held out a hand indicating the elephants and the line of cage wagons filled with tigers,

lions, apes, and other animals. "What about them?"

O'Hara looked into Pony Red's eyes, then averted his glance. "None of the zoos or preserves will

take them. All the time I get the same reason: they're not wild anymore so putting them in a

preserve would violate the environmental integrity or something." He shook his head. "Of course,

we can't take them over the district line because we aren't providing environmental settings

appropriate to them in their wild states."

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

destroy them?"

Duckfoot scratched the back of his neck. "Guess they're about to get the hell protected out of

them." He looked at O'Hara. "I never thought the Patch would let us down."

Pony Red held out his hands. "What about that command performance? You know, on that other planet?

We could at least keep the show together. Earth is no place for a circus anyway."

O'Hara shook his head. "Patch tried, but the same bunch that won't let us cross the district line

say we can't take the animals off the planet, away from their natural environment." He sighed.

"We're boxed in, Pony, and that's all there is to it."

All three lifted their heads as the orchestra swung into a familiar two-step. Duckfoot rubbed a

knuckle into his right eye. "Damned dust." He cocked his head toward the main tent. "The

windjammers sound a little off their tunes." Lunge Rope Willy's liberty horses would be out now

doing the quadrille. Thirty-four minutes left.

The customer lights went on, illuminating the interior of the tent. Duckfoot shot to his feet.

"What the hell?" Pony Red and the Governor joined him, and the three faced the entrance as several

official-looking types entered the tent. The obvious Mr. Big led the procession, followed by some

lesser officials and a number of reporters. Mr. Big was holding the hand of a little girl who was

staring saucer-eyed at the elephants. Immediately behind the little girl was a tall, thin man

dressed in black. Duckfoot jabbed O'Hara in the ribs with his elbow and whispered, "Mr. John, it's

the Patch."

As the three walked over to the procession, the little girl pulled on Mr. Big's arm. "Oooooo!

Daddy, look at the elephant! And, that one, and that one-"

Mr. Big pulled his daughter along. "Yes, yes, honey. Come along now." He stopped and faced the

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Patch as Duckfoot, Pony, and the Governor joined them. "Now, Mr. Wellington, could you explain why

you dragged me here?"

The Patch held his hand out toward O'Hara. "First, Prime Minister, may I introduce John O'Hara,

the owner of O'Hara's Greater Shows."

Mr. Big looked down his nose at O'Hara, issued a two-second grin, nodded his head, and said,

"Charmed." He turned back to the Patch. "Mr. Wellington, you said that there was something that I

must make a decision on, and my attorney general seems to agree with you. Could we get on with

it?"

The Patch nodded. "Certainly. As you know, Prime Minister Frankle, where the statutes are vague

and enforcement would cause severe loss to a company or individual, the injured party has the

right to demand that an elected official accept responsibility for the enforcement-"

"Yes, yes. Do you have the document?" Mr. Big took the paper from the Patch's hand, scanned it,

then reached into his pocket for a pen. "Everything appears to be in order."

Patch rubbed his chin. "Mister Prime Minister, you realize of course that enforcement of that

order will require that we destroy our animals."

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

The Patch handed Mr. Big a photograph, then handed out more photographs to the other officials,

the reporters, and to Mr. Big's daughter. "You see, Mister Prime Minister, this is how we have to

destroy an elephant. We chain its back legs to a cat-that's a tractor-then run a chain around its

neck through a slip ring, then hook that to another tractor. The two tractors go in opposite

directions, and the animal is strangled."

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

pen.

"Daddy, you wouldn't!"

He glowered at the Patch, then turned to the little girl. "Honey, you must understand that the law

is the law, and it's Daddy's job to enforce it."

The little girl looked at the photo of the strangling elephant, looked up at Lolita happily

munching away on a bag of peanuts

"he had lifted from a reporter, then back at her father. "You monster!" She pulled back a patent-

leather-clad shoe and kicked the Prime Minister in the shin, then ran crying from the tent. It was

lost on no one that the reporters had snapped possibly fifty different shots of the scene.

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

on with murdering our animals."

The hand holding the paper dropped to Mr. Big's side. "Mr. Wellington, I don't mind saying that

this stunt of yours is unfair. Just think what you've done to my daughter!"

The Patch shrugged. "I'm not the one who is ordering the animals murdered." He pointed at the

paper. "If you would just sign-"

Another official type stepped from the back and faced Mr. Big. "Sir, don't you see what he's

doing? We can't let him transport those animals over the district line. We'd be making a

laughingstock out of the law."

Another official stepped from the back. "Sir, we cannot take them into the preserves. We are

trying to maintain a wild state in the preserves. I mean, what would a performing elephant look

like in the middle of that? I just can't have it!"

Mr. Big frowned, looked at the paper, then looked back at the first official. "What about granting

a permit for transportation off planet?"

The first official shook his head. "Impossible. It would involve thrusting those animals into

totally alien environments. You must see that, sir."

Mr. Big looked at the reporters, looked at the picture of the strangling elephant, rubbed his

shin, then studied the document. He looked again at the reporters, then returned his glance to the

official. "A thing you appear to be unable to see, sir, is that I am an elective official, while

you are appointed." He looked back at the picture. "I would venture that after our friends from

the fourth estate"-he grinned at the reporters-"are finished with this, I will go down next to

Adolph Hitler as the archfiend of the past two centuries." He shook his head. "But, still..."

The Patch leaned over and whispered into Mr. Big's ear. He finished, and the minister looked at

him, pursed his lips, then nodded. "I see, but how..."

The Patch pulled a paper from his pocket and handed it to the official. Mr. Big read it, then

nodded, then signed it. He faced official number one. "I have just signed an authorization to

transport these animals off planet."

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

Mr. Big cleared his throat, looked at the Patch, then looked back at the official. "Since, on

Earth, the environment provided by these people for the animals is unacceptable, and since the

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animals are unacceptable to the preserves because they are circus animals, I have decided to

authorize their transportation off planet. After all"-he nodded at the Patch-"what environment for

a circus animal is more appropriate than a circus?"

"But-"

Mr. Big held up his hand. "Be still, Beeker. I'm up for election in five months. What chance do

you think I'll have if this happens?" He held out the photograph.

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

"To you." Mr. Big handed the paper to the Patch, then turned and exited, followed by the officials

and reporters. O'Hara lifted his arm and placed it on the Patch's shoulder.

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

century."

The Patch looked at the paper in his hands, closed his eyes, then opened them as his hands began

to shake. "Mr. John..."

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

all right?"

Patch cocked his head toward the center of the tent. "Put me down on one of those buckets, Mr.

John. I've been on my dogs all day..."

Duckfoot and the Governor helped the fixer to one of the overturned buckets and lowered him. The

Governor looked up at the Boss Animal Man. "Get Bone Breaker in here."

Patch held up a hand. "No, Pony. All I need is a little rest." O'Hara cocked his head toward the

entrance, and Pony Red rushed out to get the circus surgeon. The Patch shook his head. "All I need

is some rest. I don't think Bone Breaker has a cure for being a little over thirty, does he?"

O'Hara smiled. The Patch had been "a little over thirty" for at least thirty years. The old

fixer's confidence had been shaken pretty badly, but was now on the mend: "Now that we can breathe

easy for a while, you better go and lie down."

The Patch frowned, folded the off-planet authorization and placed it into his breast pocket. When

his hand came out, it held another piece of paper. "We don't get to breathe easy for too long, Mr.

John." He held out the paper. "All I've done is to buy a little time. This fix is up to you."

Duckfoot sighed. "What now?"

The Governor read the telegram, then looked up at Duckfoot. "The backers, Arnheim and Boon.

They're closing the show." O'Hara crumpled up the sheet, threw it on the ground and stormed from

the tent. Duckfoot looked down at the Patch.

"What do you think?"

The Patch smiled. "I was worried before with the Governor moping around. I think that shook me

more than anything else. But now he's mad. I'm not worried."

TWO

"You must understand, Mr. O'Hara, that Arnheim and Boon Conglomerated Enterprises cannot afford

the liabilities of having a... circus among its numbers." O'Hara frowned around at the sixteen

indifferent faces seated around the polished onyx conference table while the accountant consulted

his memory. The walls were stark white and without windows. O'Hara felt caged. The accountant

looked up from his wrist and turned his head in the direction of the others seated at the table.

"It seems that we acquired the assets of O'Hara's Greater Shows in twenty-one thirty-seven when we

merged with Tainco, the entertainments conglomerate. Since then, O'Hara's has made a net of fifty-

six thousand credits."

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

"See?"

The accountant grimaced and continued. "That is less than half a percent return on investment.

And, last year..." He again consulted his wrist. "Last year O'Hara's was in the red to the tune of

one hundred and eighty-seven thousand-"

"Point of order." One of the sixteen raised his hand and faced

the head of the table. "Karl, haven't we voted on this already? I don't see the point of chewing

this cabbage another time."

Karl Arnheim nodded. "Your point is well taken, Sid, but John-Mr. O'Hara-wasn't present when we

discussed this. I think it's only right that we give him our reasons for snipping him from the

corporate body, so to speak."

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

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

O'Hara clasped his hands and rested them on the edge of the table. "What you're telling me is that

you're just going to ex the show? You're not even going to try and sell it?"

Arnheim shook his head. "There are no buyers, at any price. And now the government has all but

shut you down. What point is there in whipping a dead horse, so to speak?"

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

A wave of chuckles and head shaking circled the table. Arnheim leaned back in his chair, rubbed

his chin, then turned toward the accountant. "Milt, what will it cost us to discharge the show's

liabilities and dispose of the animals and equipment?"

The accountant again consulted his wrist. "A little over a quarter of a million credits. Of

course, with Mr. O'Hara's three-percent interest in the show, A&BCE is only liable for ninty-seven

percent of that." The accountant looked at O'Hara with a genuine expression of concern on his

face. "Mr. O'Hara, you must realize that absolutely no one wants to destroy your circus, but you

can't take on sole responsibility." He shrugged. "It's just not done."

O'Hara looked at Arnheim. "Well?"

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

John?"

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

Arneim looked around the table. "Gentlemen?"

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

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

Arnheim nodded. "All in favor of accepting Mr. O'Hara's offer?" The vote was unanimous. Arnheim

turned to the accountant. "Very well, Milt, see that the papers are drawn up and presented to Mr.

O'Hara within the hour." Arnheim faced the Governor, then shook his head. "Explain something for

me, John."

O'Hara shrugged. "If I can."

"You've just taken on a back-breaking debt, practically exiled

yourself from this planet, and committed yourself and your show to a bleak future. I can't see

where you'll go after Ahngar. There just aren't that many wealthy monarchs having birthday parties

to keep you going." Amheim held out his hands. "All this for a threadbare tent show. Can you tell

me why?"

O'Hara studied Karl Arnheim for a few moments as he searched for the words, but then the Governor

shrugged. "It's a disease."

THREE

His permit and title in hand, John J. O'Hara ordered the show torn down, moved from its stand at

Manotick Station to Ottawa Interplanetary Spaceport, and from there into the holds of the

freighter Venture. In loading a show, there are important considerations concerning the care of

animals and equipment, as well as the order in which things are needed. These considerations were

rote to Boss Hostler Skinner Suggs and his razorbacks in loading the show for transportation, but

Cargo Master Hoik of the merchant vessel Venture had other considerations to take into account:

balance, acceleration, fastening in case of free fall, and so forth. After some initial

disagreements, the cargo crew and razorbacks arrived at an understanding, depositing the show

intact upon the planet Ahngar with bruised knuckles and aching heads.

Since the show had arrived three months early for Erkev IV's birthday celebration, the Governor

decided to finish out the season, making the show's first stand at Ossinid, a burg of about twenty-

five thousand. To give the performers time to polish up their acts at the slightly lighter

gravity, only the evening performance was scheduled.

Rat Man Jack, the show's route man, stood in the midway in front of The Amazing Ozamund's spieler,

while the barker looked

at the willowy, robe-clad Ahngarians crowding the entrances to the various sideshows. "Lookit 'em,

Rat Man. I've sold out every show for Ozzie, and the other spielers are getting straw houses too.

But, they come in, sit, watch the show, get up and go out. Never saw anything like it. Not a

single clap, not even an appreciative nod. They just sit like so much granite. I tell you, it's

about to drive Ozzie into his cups."

Rat Man nodded. "The ticket sellers at the front entrance have been out of blues for an hour, and

the advance sold off the last reserved seat a week before the show arrived." He studied a few of

the Ahngarians emerging from the freak show, then turned toward the spieler. "Motor Mouth, you've

been looking at them all day. Do they seem just a little hostile? Like they might be planning

something if the show doesn't measure up to what they expected?"

Motor Mouth shrugged, then shook his head. "No. They just don't do anything. I almost wish they'd

start throwing garbage, just to get a reaction. It's spooky, that's what." Motor Mouth turned to

his left and noted that The Amazing Ozamund's audience was letting out. "Well, back to the job."

He lifted his bamboo cane, cocked his straw skimmer over his right eye, and proceeded with the

ballyhoo. "Laydeeeez and gentlemen, inside this tent, brought to amaze you with feats of magic at

great expense, The Amazing Ozamund, who will astound you with..."

Rat Man stepped away from the stand, and in seconds a line of fresh customers were buying tickets

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to attend the magic show. Rat Man shook his head, then noticed the Governor and Boss Canvasman

walking in his direction. The three moved to the side of the midway, between two tents, then

stopped.

O'Hara looked over his shoulder to make certain that no one would overhear them, then he turned

and faced Rat Man. "Have you learned anything?"

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

O'Hara nodded at the Boss Canvasman. "After the show, instead of sending the menagerie and

cookhouse on ahead, I'm keeping everyone here. Duckfoot's warned the Irish brigade."

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

representative?"

"I couldn't get through to him about the problem. I explained it, but he just kept saying what's

the difficulty?" O'Hara shrugged. "Anyway, he said he'd send someone, just in case."

Rat Man felt something brush his leg. He looked down to see a balding man in formal dress suit

crawling out from under the sidewall of The Amazing Ozamund's tent. Rat Man reached down and

pulled the fellow to his feet. It was The Amazing Ozamund. "Ozzie, what're you doing?"

The magician looked from Rat Man, to Duckfoot, to O'Hara, then back to Rat Man. There was a

wildness in his eyes. "Nothing, Rat Man. Nothing! Those rubes just squat on the benches staring at

me! No applause, no Ahhh's, no Ooooo's! Right now I'd give my holdback for a Bronx cheer-"

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

Ozzie barked out a short, bitter laugh. "Right now, Mr. John, I'm doing a disappearing act, and

that's just what I intend to do: disappear!"

The Governor pointed at the tent. "You get back in there, Ozzie. Those people paid their money to

see your act, and that's exactly what you are going to show them."

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

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

new wrinkle!"

Ozzie frowned, wrung his hands, took a deep breath, then nodded. "Very well." He nodded again.

"Very well." Ozzie stooped down and went back under the sidewall.

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

As Duckfoot went around the corner of the tent, Rat Man shrugged and held out his hands. "I'm

sorry, Mr. John. If I'd known it would be like this, I would have steered the show away from this

stand. But, there just wasn't any indication."

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

Rat Man shook his Read. "The General Contracting Agent said he never had an easier time, and the

squarers arranged for banners and posters with some of the best hits I've ever seen. I don't get

it."

A bugle sounded, and O'Hara perked up his ears. "Five minutes to the main show." He looked up at

the darkening sky. "It'll be dark before the show's done. I hope that Ahngarian from the Palace

shows up before too long." O'Hara turned to go.

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

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

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

need you."

Rat Man stood in the dark along with the canvasmen and razorbacks, and the performers who had

concluded their acts. Everyone sported one of the Boss Canvasman's toothpicks, the four-foot,

hardwood tent stakes. A clown in makeup approached the group, picked a tent stake from a wagon,

then walked over to Rat Man. The clown was muttering under his breath.

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

The clown glowered then shook his head. "I've played to faster towners, and that's a fact." The

clown rested the stake against his legs and held out his hands. They were shaking. "Lookit this,

Rat Man. Just look!" Cholly lowered his hands. "It was awful, that audience, quiet as death,

staring down at you from the blues. They don't even blink!" The clown smacked the stake against

his left palm. "I hope they do start something, Rat Man. Have I got a case to work off!"

"What about the others?"

Cholly shook his head. "A couple of Joeys are in Clown Alley right now-crying! Stenny, the tramp

clown that works the come-in before the start of the show, tried to blow his brains out." Cholly

shrugged. "Stenny couldn't find anything in the Alley but a water gun. We got the Bones watching

him."

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

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

the high-wire?"

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"Yes."

"It was already so dead Sam didn't bother, but the quiet was so thick, Paul-the old man himself-

got so nervous he almost fell off the wire." Cholly smacked the stake into his palm. "Just let 'em

start something!"

They all heard the orchestra's switch in tempo, and Duckfoot stopped in front of them, swinging

one of his own toothpicks. "All of you. The windjammers're wrapping it up, so be ready."

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

The Boss Canvasman nodded. "Showed up a few minutes ago." He pointed toward the lights of the main

entrance. "Went in there with the Governor." Duckfoot listened to the tune. "Okay, this is it."

Everyone hefted their stakes and tensed. The music concluded,

followed by dead silence. Rat Man felt the sweat beading on his forehead. Then the sounds of many

feet moving out of the blues, the regular customer seats. The Governor emerged from the main

entrance with an Ahngarian, waved good-by, then turned to the armed circus people waiting in the

dark. "All you people move on into the main top-and leave those toothpicks behind." Everyone

exchanged confused looks. "Go on! Move it! We don't have all night."

Rat Man dropped his stake, and the others did the same. He joined the Governor as O'Hara led the

procession into the big top. "Mr. John, what is it?"

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

As they came to the lowest tier of seats, Rat Man Jack could see that the stone-faced Ahngarians

still occupied the ends and one side of the blues, while the ones who had been sitting in the

opposite side of blues had come down and were standing in the twin rings and around the

hippodrome. O'Hara pointed to the unoccupied seats. "Up there."

They moved up into the seats, and Rat Man noticed that many of the performers were already seated,

including Stenny the tramp clown. As soon as all the circus people were seated, the top again

became as quiet as death. Rat Man jabbed O'Hara in the ribs with his elbow. "What's going on?"

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

The Ahngarians standing around the hippodrome track turned to their lefts, four in each rank, then

began swaying as those in the center of the tent began singing. The canvas swelled with the bell-

clear voices, as the ranks surrounding them whirled off into a complicated series of dance steps.

Soon, open places between the dancers and singers filled with Ahngarians performing complex, as

well as astounding, feats of balance, with one pyramid successfully making its sixth tier. The

song changed, and the dancers pulled red, blue, orange, and yellow scarves from their robes and

began waving and whirling them in graceful swoops and loops, and all in unison. This spectacle of

song, dance, and tumbling lasted for twenty-five minutes, then those in the center of the tent

formed up and moved out into the night. As the Ahngarians in the blues opposite the circus people

began moving down to the center of the tent, O'Hara checked his watch, then looked at Rat Man.

"We're a hit, Rat Man! We have made it!"

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

"All four groups will each do twenty-five minutes. In Ahngarian terms, that is a thundering well

done. You see, when our

people were performing, they were silent so they wouldn't miss anything. What you're looking at

now is the applause." The Governor folded his arms and smiled. "I think we're going to do very

well this season; very well, indeed."

As the show worked its way across the surface of Ahngar, the customer performances grew longer and

the main top held larger crowds, until two- and three-day stands were necessary to meet the

demand. By the time the show had hit Darrasine, there were many young Ahngarian hands to help

spread canvas to get free passes to the show. At the stand in Yolus, a blowdown that came up in a

flash, and left just as suddenly, left the main top canvas in tatters and splintered two of the

three center poles. Within a week the local merchants replaced the old rag with a light, strong

fabric, and the center poles with local sticks about twice as strong as the Douglas Fir poles the

show had been using. Even with the show playing in the open, the customer performances continued

to grow longer.

As the days on Ahngar passed, everyone noticed a change in the Governor. Hours at a time he would

spend locked in the office wagon. Several times the show moved from one stand to the next with

O'Hara still in the wagon. On those rare moments when he would allow someone else inside, they

would find the Governor's desk piled with papers, books, plans, charts.

After leaving Abityn, the Patch happened to meet O'Hara rushing back to the office wagon from the

cookhouse. The Governor, deep in thought, didn't notice the fixer. "Mr. John?"

O'Hara stopped, looked around with a frown on his face, then let his gaze stop on the Patch. After

a moment his eyebrows went up. "Oh. It's you."

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

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trouble, I should know about it."

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

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

O'Hara looked at the office wagon, then turned and looked at the show's main top. A strange look

came over his face. "Patch, my whole life has been spent trying to keep a show alive; first,

helping my father, now alone." The fixer saw the corners of O'Hara's eyes crinkle. "But, it's not

just keeping the show going.

The circus itself is almost extinct." The Governor raised an eyebrow. "Do you know what Annie

Oakleys are?"

"The shooter?"

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

Patch shrugged. "What?"

"Comps."

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

Annie Oakley?"

"Annie Oakley used to have a card thrown up and she'd shgot the ace out of it, just like the comps

are punched. Do you know what else comps were called?"

"No."

"Ganesfake, ducats, snow-see, Patch, we're losing all that. Even though we have a show going,

we're losing the circus." The Governor nodded, turned, and headed toward the office wagon.

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

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

Jingles McGurk, treasurer, pulled his long, thin nose from his ledgers long enough to peer from

his desk in the office wagon to the Governor's. O'Hara was shoulder high in plans and odd scraps

of paper. Jingles cleared his throat to get O'Hara's attention. When that failed, he coughed. His

other options closed, he spoke up. "Mr. John?"

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

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

O'Hara glanced up, then returned to his papers. "You sound almost disappointed, Jingles." The

Governor smiled. "But that's why I hired a pessimist for the books. Better I should have money and

not believe it than not have money and think I am rolling in coin." He looked up. "Think we'll

make a profit over the liabilities?"

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

"Terrific."

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

Dormmadadda, Valtiia, Dhast-one after another the show played to capacity crowds as the date for

the Monarch's birthday

drew near. The show's route turned toward Almandiia, Ahngar's '| capital city, and at Stinja on

Almandiia's outskirts, one of the ":' young Ahngarian's spreading canvas appeared on the lot with

four hulking brutes who appeared to be bodyguards. As the young Ahngarian joined the others in the

line up at the lap of the thick flat roll of the center section, Duckfoot nodded and the

roughnecks and Ahngarians reached to open the first fold. While they were so occupied, the Boss

Canvasman moved over to the four silent bodyguards. Their black short-robes and belts did little

to hide their powerful bodies, and as Duckfoot approached, they turned their smooth, leather-

capped heads in his direction. He nodded, then cocked his head toward the line up and ordered the

next fold run out. Looking back, Duckfoot smiled. "Is the lad something special?"

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

special."

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

The three guards who hadn't spoken turned to the one who

had, then they jabbered among themselves in Ahngarian. While

they were so occupied, Duckfoot signaled for the next runout. He

• turned back and the guard who had spoken to him spoke again.

"Would inquire to join entertainment."

Duckfoot grinned. "You want to join the show?" The guard nodded. Duckfoot rubbed his chin and held

back his head. "Well, I sort of screen acts for Sticks Arlo-he's our Director of Performers.

What's your act?"

The guards jabbered among themselves again and Duckfoot took the opportunity to order the next

runout. He turned back and the guard bowed. "Our act." The first guard grabbed the hands of the

second guard and hoisted him up in one fluid motion to his shoulders. The third guard placed his

foot into the outstretched hands of the first guard and was hoisted up to the waiting hands of the

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second guard, who in turn hoisted number three upon his shoulders. The stunt was repeated with the

fourth guard until, feet on shoulders, the four guards formed a fairly tough-looking pillar.

Duckfoot stood before the first guard and nodded. "Not bad, but if you're going to impress Sticks,

you need something more." The first guard frowned. "More?" Duckfoot nodded. "What's your big

finish?" "Big finish?"

"The thing you do to wind up the act." The first guard studied the Boss Canvasman for a moment,

then smiled. "Big finish." He reached out two strong arms, grabbed Duckfoot around the waist, then

lifted him to guard number two. Number two grabbed the Boss Canvasman under the armpits, threw him

up and caught him by the waist and held him up to guard number three. The Boss Canvasman's

language during this interlude has yet to be cleared for the printed page.

The Governor walked by the idle canvas gang and crew of young Ahngarians, his head buried in a

sheet of plans. He stopped, looked up and noticed the lack of action. He held up his' head toward

one of the canvasmen. "Goofy Joe, why isn't the canvas being spread? Where's Duckfoot?"

About fifty arms pointed at a spot behind and above O'Hara, and he turned to see a grinning

Ahngarian. The Governor raised his eyes, found another Ahngarian, then followed the trail until he

found the Boss Canvasman teetering on top of the fourth Ahngarian's shoulders. "Duckfoot, what're

you doing?"

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

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

"First thing ... Mr. John."

O'Hara shook his head, looked back at his plans, then looked up at the first guard. "By the way,

you boys aren't bad. If you're at liberty, why don't you see the Director of Performers?"

The guard nodded. "Our thanks."

"You better put Duckfoot on the lot. He's got work to do." The Governor turned, put his head back

into his plans and walked off. The first guard shouted an order and the fourth guard lifted the

Boss Canvasman by his ankles, held him forward, then dropped him. Duckfoot's descending scream was

cut short as guard number one caught him and lowered him to the ground. The guards jumped off of

their perches, then stood in a line facing the Boss Canvasman. Duckfoot glared at them, wiped the

sweat from his face with the palm of his hand, then turned toward the canvas as he heard laughter.

He lifted a ham-Sized fist at the rolling canvasmen. "You..." Well, it is only necessary to

recount that the canvas was spread in record time. The four guards left with the young Ahngarian

after Duckfoot had issued the lad his free pass.

The next day the show moved indoors to the Royal Hall in Almandiia for the Monarch's birthday

command performance. The troupers sprung their braces putting on a special effort, which was

complemented by the display of naff riding put on by His Highness Erkev IV. As the Boss Canvasman

stood at the performers' entrance to the Great Hall, he noticed the four guards standing behind

him. As the Monarch put the cross between a bull and an alligator through its paces, Duckfoot

turned and spoke to guard number one. "I see you didn't put your act in the show." The guard

nodded. "We not at liberty." Duckfoot nodded. "Where's the little guy?" The guard frowned. "We

sworn not tell." Duckfoot shrugged, then turned to watch as Erkev IV wrapped up his act. The

Monarch led off his mount to the lusty applause and cheers of the troupers seated in the stands of

the great hall. The hall quieted, then a tiny clown sped by Duckfoot's left in a blur of standing

somersaults. The clown came to a stop in the center of the hall, bowed toward the Monarch, then

faced the troupers in the stands and began an acrobatic comedy routine that had the Joeys in the

stands taking notes. Duckfoot turned to see the four guards watching the small clown. "That's the

lad you bozos were guarding at the lot in Stinja."

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

"Ahssiel, Crown Prince of Ahngar."

Duckfoot looked back at the Prince for a moment. "Not bad." The guard frowned. "Is excellent!"

Duckfoot nodded. "That's what I said."

With the conclusion of the command performance, the season on Ahngar closed. The Governor left the

show playing a fixed stand at the Royal Hall to capacity crowds. He took transportation to Earth

bringing with him Jingles McGurk, Sticks Arlo, the Patch, and an armload of plans.

FOUR

Karl Arnheim took the chip rack from his accountant, placed it on his desk, then looked up at the

Governor. "Now, what may I do for you, Mr. O'Hara? I caution you in advance that A&BCE will not

let you out of our agreement."

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

Arnheim picked up the chip with his right thumb and forefinger, frowned at it, then returned his

glance to the Governor. "What is it?"

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

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