City of Baraboo

The man on the screen shook his head. "It's gone, Mr. Arnheim."

"Gone?"

"Gone."

"What do you mean, Yates? How can it be gone?"

"One of the shuttles we sent down two days ago for fuel and supplies returned a few hours ago. There was a man—his name was Wellington; tall, skinny guy—anyway, he presented the proper registration papers. Then his crew unloaded and released the ship. They docked the shuttle to the ship, took on the crew and yardworkers, then left—"

"The yardworkers? You mean he's got my yard gang, too?"

"Yes, Mr. Arnheim. I would have called sooner, but the communications up here have been tampered with—"

"Shut up for a second, Yates!" Arnheim frowned, looked down for a second, then looked back at the screen. "Yates, the other nine shuttles—where are they?"

The image on the screen shrugged. "As far as I know, Mr. Arnheim, they're still downstairs being loaded."

Without signing off, Arnheim punched off the screen, punched in a code, and waited for an answer. The screen came to life. The image on the screen smiled. "Eastern Regional Spaceport. May I help you?"

"Give me the freight terminal." He turned to the Ambassador. "O'Hara has his bunch at a hotel near Eastern Regional—"

"Freight terminal."

Arnheim turned back to see a nondescript image. "I want to see the manager."

"You're looking at him."

"I am Karl Arnheim. Those shuttles from the A&BCE yard—"

"Oh, you're Karl Arnheim!" The image smiled. "Well, sir, let me tell you that I never saw a smoother operation. Those shuttles touched down and were loaded in an hour and a half. Those circus people certainly have loading down to a science—"

"The shuttles; where are they?"

"Why... they left over an hour ago—"

Arnheim punched off the screen, punched in another code and waited. "Ambassador Sum, is your vessel prepared to chase down the Baraboo?"

"It is."

An image appeared on the screen. "Ninth Quadrant Admiralty Office."

"This is Karl Arnheim. I've had a ship pirated. I will need a Judgments Officer at Eastern Regional in ten minutes. Transportation is already arranged."

"Yes, Mr. Amheim. Will you need an enforcement company?"

Arnheim looked at Ambassador Sum. The Ambassador motioned for Arnheim to cut the sound. Arnheim did so. "It would be better, Mr. Arnheim, that if there is killing to be done, it be done by the Quadrant authorities."

Arnheim looked back at the screen and cut on the sound. "Yes. I'll have all the necessary papers with me." He cut off the screen and turned to the Ambassador. "Half of O'Hara's show is still on Ahngar. That's where he'll be headed."

"You are coming as well, Mr. Arnheim?"

Arnheim barked out a short laugh. "No one—and I mean no one—is going to stick me with an eighty-million-credit rubber check! I am going!"

As the shuttle streaked to make orbit with the Baraboo, Patch, and the newly christened Pirate Jon Norden, moved to the pilot's compartment. The Governor was sitting in the co-pilot's seat staring at a tiny viewscreen. He looked up from the viewscreen as they entered. His eyes were red-rimmed. The Patch frowned. "Is something wrong, Mr. John?"

O'Hara turned back to the screen and pointed at it. It showed Earth. "Before we loaded I took a little trip to where the old Madison Square Garden used to stand. Do you know why some of the performers and roughnecks call the main entrance to a lot the Eighth Avenue side, and the other sides are named after streets? The old Garden was flanked by Eighth and Ninth Avenues and by Fifty and Forty-ninth streets. Eighth Avenue was the main entrance side. RB&BB used to start off their season there before going under canvas and hitting the road. Circus people just got used to calling lot sides after the streets surrounding the Garden." The Governor shook his head. "RB&BB is gone, and so's the Garden." He turned his head and faced the Patch and Pirate Jon. "The streets are still there, but that's all."

O'Hara turned back to the viewscreen. "When I was a kid and my father was the Governor, he used to have the vans drop off the horses and wagons about ten miles from the stand. The Governor would ride up front in his buggy, and right behind would be the Boss Hostler driving the first wagon. It was the grabber—a cage wagon. In it was Mousy Dunn, our wildman, and a beautiful, huge, Siberian tiger that used to sleep with Mousy. But when they were in the cage, Mousy would crouch at one end and the tiger at the other, hissing and growling at each other, and wrestling between tunes.

"After the attention-getter would be more cage wagons pulled by eight-horse teams, then the show wagons. They were mounted with mirrors and were painted with pictures of clowns and animals and trimmed with whorls of gold carvings. Then, tail-and-trunk, came the bulls. At one time we had twenty of them. Then, more show wagons and the horse piano would bring up the rear. After the steam music would come the kids. It was... as though the passing of the wagons caused the soil to generate a parade of kids. It didn't matter where we were. The vans would unload the wagons in the emptiest countryside you ever saw, and in minutes the road behind would be filled with waving hands, laughing faces, and eyes filled with sparkle. ..."

O'Hara rubbed at his eyes, then looked back at the viewscreen. "Earth no longer has a circus, and the circus no longer has Earth. I can't help feeling that they're both a little less because of it."

The Patch felt the tears blur his vision, and he looked out of the forward viewplate at the bright dot in the black of space that would soon expand to become the City of Baraboo. Patch nodded. He had ridden those wagons behind the old Governor and his apple-cheeked son. He looked back at O'Hara and nodded to himself. He was beginning to see what the Governor meant about saving the circus.

EIGHT

The Nuumiian battle cruiser sped into orbit around Ahngar, after its week long chase, and in seconds its skin bristled with guns and sensors. The City of Baraboo was immediately located in a fixed orbit, the Nuumiian ship matched the Baraboo, then launched a shuttle. On board the shuttle, Judgments Officer Ali looked from Karl Arnheim's bright-red, simmering face, to the death-cold demeanor of the Nuumiian Ambassador. Captain Green, commander of the enforcement company, entered the compartment, nodded toward Arnheim and the Ambassador, then turned to Ali. "All set."

Ali nodded. "They appear cooperative, but keep your troops on their toes. We don't know what to expect from them," he nodded toward the Nuumiian, "nor from them."

The Nuumiian co-pilot of the shuttle opened the forward compartment hatch and stepped in. He bowed toward the Ambassador, jabbered in Nuumiian, then turned and left. Sum announced to them all. "We are about to dock. The co-pilot informs me that we'll be using the after compartment exit."

Ali felt the shuttle lurch a bit, then he heard port locks slamming home. He slapped Green on the shoulder. "We're docked; let's go."

They moved into the after compartment and stood by the exit door at the head of Captain Green's thirty-man enforcement company. Each man was in combat armor and sported an array of destructive weapons. As soon as the port light showed safelight, Green threw the dogs on the door, spun the wheel and pulled open the door. The Baraboo's port was already open. Standing in the brightly lit airlock was a tall, thin man dressed in black. "Welcome to the City of Baraboo. My name is Arthur Burnside Wellington. I am the legal adjuster for O'Hara's Greater Shows."

Arnheim pushed his way through the men, then stopped and pointed a finger at the Patch. "That's him! The one who pirated the ship. What are you waiting for? Arrest him!"