As Crav left, O'Hara chuckled and turned toward Divver. "Now, where were we?"
Divver turned his head from the door, frowning. "That creature! He is demanding money! He should be reported to the Bureau of Regret—"
The Governor held up his hands. "Hold your bosses. Crav is being handled. We were saying...?"
Divver shrugged. "You were explaining the nonpolitical nature of the circus when the Duckfoot fellow interrupted to inform you that his crew had just returned from the polls. Are humans voting in the municipal election?"
O'Hara raised his brows and pursed his lips. "They've been here long enough to establish residency. Shouldn't they?"
"What you said about the show being nonpolitical."
"Oh, that. Well, I can't stop my people from voting, can I?" O'Hara shrugged. "Besides, all three of Westhoven's candidates were out here offering handsome prices for troupers' votes."
Divver stood. "Buying votes! That's... disgraceful! To suffer a revolution to—"
O'Hara held up his hands. "Calm down, Skivvy. Calm down. It's nothing to get upset over." Divver resumed his seat. "If you troupe with this show, you'll see worse things out of politicos than that."
Divver folded his arms and snorted. "Do you know whose credits will buy the election?"
"Why, let's see. Each candidate promised five credits for showing up and voting. That's fifteen, and an easier fifteen is hard to come by. So they pick up their fifteen, then take advantage of the secret ballot."
Divver stood again, clasped his hands behind his back, and began pacing before the Governor's desk. "An outrage, that's what it is. The revolution less than three years old, and corruption run rampant! Bribes, vote-buying..." He stopped and faced O'Hara. "I must report this! All of this—"
The Governor shook his head. "No. We take care of shakedown artists in our own way. We never call copper." O'Hara shrugged. "Besides, it would take forever to square things away through the coppers; it's faster to let Patch handle it."
Diwer sat down. "What can he do? I don't see—"
"It's like when we put into orbit around Masstone last season. Now, our nut's pretty heavy, and—"
"Nut?"
O'Hara shook his head and raised his brows. "My, but aren't you a First of May? The nut is our daily cost of operation. See, what with paying off the Baraboo—that's our ship—fuel for the shuttles, wages, supplies, permit fees, taxes, maintenance, property, and so on, it figures out to forty-nine-thousand credits a day. That's our nut."
"I see."
"Well, once we put into orbit and put down the show planetside, you can see why we have to start playing to two straw houses right off."
"Full houses?"
"That's what I said. Anyway, once we put down on Masstone, the shakedown artists dropped on us and wouldn't let us open unless we spread the sugar." O'Hara leaned forward and pointed a thick finger. "Now, I can see helping an underpaid civil servant make ends meet now and again, but shakedowns are a different matter. We don't give in to 'em. It's the principle of the thing."
Divver decided that the Governor was a man of principles. "What did you do?"
"Patch caught up with our advertising shuttle and had the lithographers make up some new paper." O'Hara pulled his beard, shook his head, and chuckled. "See, we'd been advertising the show on Masstone for weeks, and the gillies were looking forward to seeing us. Patch sent out the brigade loaded with hods of posters all over the big towns and had the mediagents work the papers and stations with readers—press releases. Well, all they said was that there would be no show because of permit difficulties." The Governor slapped his knee. "In the space of a week, Masstone almost had a revolution on its hands and the authorities were begging us to put on the show, and no charges for the permits. Well, we sat back and thought about it, know what I mean?"
"I'm not sure. You didn't take the permits?"
O'Hara nodded. "We took 'em, after they paid us two hundred thousand credits to take 'em."
"You mean..."
"We shook them down."
The Governor studied the Pendiian, waiting for his reaction. All Divver could do was nod. "I see why you will miss Mister Patch."
O'Hara nodded. "Oh, I could tell you a thousand stories about Patch. I have the call out for another fixer—Billy Pratt—but I don't know if I can get him."
The wagon door opened and in walked a dapper fellow dressed in a red coat with black collar, black trousers tucked into shiny black boots. "Governor, I've brought the rest of the performers back from the polls. Are you finished with the parade order?"
O'Hara pushed some papers around on his desk, then pulled one out and handed it to the man, then turned toward Divver. "This is Sarasota Sam, the Circus Equestrian Director. Sam, meet Skivvy-Seein Toe."
He stood and let Sarasota Sam crush his fingers. "My name is Divver-Sehin Tho."
Sam smiled. "Well, that won't last long."
"Skivvy's taking the route book."
"I'm considering it."
Sam held up the paper and turned toward O'Hara. "I'd better get together with the property man about this."
O'Hara nodded and Sam left the wagon. Diwer faced the Governor. "If I did take the position, what would I be paid?"
"Eighty a week—that's seven Earth days—bed and board. Holdback is ten a week and you get it at the end of the season if you can cut it."
By the time the Pendiian had returned to his living unit, had put in a night's sleep, and had thought about it, the entire prospect of wandering around the Quadrant like a nomad with a collection of peculiar beings seemed foolish. This feeling was underlined by the pay, which was half of his take at the Bureau. Divver could imagine himself in the Patch's position—old, worn-out, and cast adrift on a strange planet when he couldn't "cut it" anymore. In addition, it appeared that the "English" the Governor wanted hadn't been covered in Divver's education.
Despite the meaninglessness of his position at the Bureau, and the tarnish gathering on the glory of the revolution, Divver had made up his mind to expect less from life and return to the Bureau at the end of his vacation. He chanced, then, to read this morning news chips. When the Pendiian had stopped laughing and had recovered enough to rise from his prone position on the floor, he had made up his mind to take the route book. Diwer-Sehin Tho would follow the red wagons on their route to strange, unpredictable worlds.
The news story was a simple account of the Westhoven municipal election. The three candidates on the ballot had been defeated by a surprise write-in campaign. The picture next to the story showed the aging winner dressed in black coat and trousers, his large watery eyes looking back at the reader. The circus would get its permit, Westhoven would get its parade, and the fixer, Patch, had found something to occupy his retirement years—being mayor of Westhoven. As the Patch had said, it isn't the circus, but there's plenty need for a fixer.
SIXTEEN
At the conclusion of his third night with O'Hara's Greater Shows, Divver-Sehin Tho pulled himself into the office wagon while it was being loaded on the shuttle to be moved to the next stand. He sat at his desk, located across the aisle from the treasurer's workplace, heaved a tired sigh, then lifted his pen and began his work.
Route Book, O'Hara's Greater Shows May 1st, 2144
The Governor insists that the route book use Earth time designations, which means having to ask the date, since no one has provided me with a date table. I asked why Earth time, when every other institution in the Quadrant uses Galactic Standard. He says that if we don't use Earth time, we won't know when to lay up at the off season. I offered to keep track in Galactic, but he thinks calling a "First of May"—a first-season trouper—a 12 point 04 shreds the designation of meaning and romance.