"You two ought to look into putting your trunks in Clown Alley."
Electric Lips stopped his eyes from rolling, swallowed again, then aimed a sickly grin at the press agent. "You look a little down at the corners, Quack Quack. The Mouth and I decided to cheer you up... urp!"
The press agent shrugged. "I appreciate it, boys, but I guess I'm past cheering up. I should have been with Stretch and the boys on the advance. When the Blitz went... well, I'm just a little past it."
Motor Mouth frowned, then held out his free hand. "Lips and I have a disagreement. He says Buttons Fauglia pulled that Brighton number, but I say it was you."
Quack Quack turned to Lips. "Sorry, Lips, but that was mine."
Electric Lips frowned at Motor Mouth, then turned back to Quack Quack. "I guess I have it fuzzy. Maybe you could refresh my memory?"
The press agent looked back at the locker wall. "That was a few years ago, wasn't it? That was back before I was in politics, and before I worked for that publicity firm in Chicago. I was with the Bull Show out of Glasgow, and we were stuck in Brighton. I mean, we didn't have penny one to put in the fuse box. Governor Bullard was near ready to dissolve the show, since we'd only been up for three nights and near playing to ourselves. Bullard's used to do two, three weeks at a stand like they do over there.
"Anyway, the customers just weren't turning out. The Governor he comes to me and says that we have to get the gillies to the tent; either that, or it's in the cart. Well, I thought on it some. I'd passed out the usual readers to the local papers, but editors won't use releases from a circus mediagent unless he's really starved for copy. If you remember, that was about the time that Northern Ireland lit up again and finally became a part of the Republic. The papers were squawking about that something terrible, and we could have burned down the show and not gotten a line in print."
Motor Mouth nodded. "Those are cold days, true. Had a few like that with the Old One in Peoria. What did you do?"
Quack Quack rubbed his chin. "Well, you know that the trick is to get free space in the papers without the editors knowing it. They're always on the prowl for stunts, and you have to be on sharp toes to keep ahead of them. Well, I had a talk with Split Straw O'Toole. He was a trick shooter we had that was watering bulls while we were in England. About then the folks in Old Blight wouldn't have been too keen on us billing any shooter named O'Toole, if you know what I mean.
"O'Toole had kin up there in Ireland, and he called to make a plant. That afternoon the constabulary up there happened upon a plan to raid Brighton and ex the Bull Show. Seems that the IRA was accusing us of being spies, and that justice needed doing. Now, it didn't matter that it had been four years since the Bull Show had toured Ireland. No one saw that, or even looked for it. The first thing was a screaming editorial in a Brighton paper that came out along with the story. Then, Governor Bullard had a press conference where he spat defiance at the blackguards who would attack a harmless show.
"Well, before you know it, the local citizenry turned out to show their support, but after a few speeches were made in Parliament, we had a couple of regiments standing guard on us, and buying tickets, too." Quack Quack shook his head. "From there on the tenting season was making coin. The story went in front of us and grew by the mile, allowing each local editor to vent spleen on his favorite patriotic subject. Next season we toured the Republic and just turned the story around a little, and the same thing when we toured the north. In the north, the IRA was after us, or the British depending on the town; in the Republic it was the Ulstermen after us, then back to the Old Blight with the IRA hot on our heels. We milked that stunt for three seasons until those papers finally realized just whose flag it was they were waving." Motor Mouth cocked his head to one side. "Quack Quack, those shows over there; they call it tenting instead of touring or trouping, don't they?"
"Yes. I always liked what they called jobs over there. Tent Master is what they call the Boss Canvasman. And, do you know what they call canvasmen?"
Electric Lips shook his head. "What do they call them?" "Czechs."
Motor Mouth frowned. "You mean like what you write out for money?"
"No. There was a town in a country called Czechoslovakia that did nothing but supply canvasmen to the European shows. So, they called them Czechs." The press agent turned toward Lips. "What are you studying on?"
Lips looked up smiling, his stomach forgotton along with Quack Quack's misery. "I heard you use a phrase that I've heard the Governor use every now and then. In the cart."
Quack Quack nodded. "In trouble. The shows over there use it."
"Wonder how that came to mean being in trouble?"
The press agent pursed his lips. "I think it comes from the days of the Black Plague. They used to move carts through the streets to haul away the... dead." He returned his glance to the locker. "They'd call out 'Bring out the dead!' and then you'd haul your wife, your father, or whoever had died during the night... so when you're in the cart..."
Motor Mouth turned to Electric Lips. "That was terrific, Lips. I might even say inspired."
Lips frowned. "I'm sorry." Lips saw Motor Mouth going green. "Mouth, what's the matter?"
"Get me... a... bag!"
At the other end of the main bay, Weasel, the holder of the juice joint privilege, lay strapped in his bunk, licking his dry lips, and dreaming of enormous lakes of cool, clear water. He felt a hand shake his shoulder, the lakes disappeared, and he opened his eyes at a frown. Looking back was Cross-eyed Mike Ikona, the Boss Porter. "What'n the hell'd you do that for, Cross-eyed?"
Cross-eyed held out a plastic squeeze bottle filled with a pink liquid. "Here. It's to drink."
Weasel raised an eyebrow. "Forget it. That stuff looks too much like pink lemonade."
"It is. We found five hundred gallons of it frozen in the ship's freezer."
Weasel shook his head. "I sell it; I don't drink it!"
"You better. There's not much else until they get the condenser rigged."
Weasel stared at the plastic bottle. "Why's it in a ketchup bottle?"
"You rather chase the stuff around the bay? C'mon, we got these from the grab-joint supplies; they've never been used."
Weasel took the bottle, stared at it for a long moment, then inserted the nozzle into his mouth, making a face. He gave the bottle a squeeze, then removed it as he swallowed. His eyebrows went up and he smacked his lips. "Hey, that's not bad!"
Cross-eyed smiled. "You make a good product, Weasel. We're melting the stuff down in the pressure cookers, but we couldn't find your property lemon, so no floaters."
Weasel sipped again at the bottle, then shrugged. "What the hell, Cross-eyed." He reached under his pillow and pulled out a bright yellow lemon. "This was supposed to last me the season, but what the hell—let's splurge."
Pirate Jon adjusted his pressure suit as he pulled his way toward the number-ten shuttle. As he approached the docking port, he saw a small crowd of roughnecks gathered there. They stood silently, heads hung down. Pirate Jon stopped, noticed the red light on the lock cycle, then turned to the nearest canvasman. "Carrot Nose, why's number ten under vacuum?"
"The crew's out there dumping the main top." Carrot Nose snorted. "You ordered it."
Pirate Jon frowned. "I know, but they were supposed to wait for me. Who's bossing the cargo gang?" The faces gathered around the port grew noticeably longer. "Goofy?"
Goofy Joe rubbed his hand under his nose and sniffed. "Duckfoot."