The road would stretch from the three cars north of Number Three, through the mountains, south past Table Lake, to the four cars next to the sea. The northernmost car was run by Cross-eyed Mike Ikona, the boss porter. The southernmost car was run by the boss canvasman, Duckfoot Tarzak. Before it was constructed it was called the Ikona-Tarzak Road.
Fireball Hanah Sanagi, chief pilot of Number Three, sat upon a grassy hilltop and watched as her ship disappeared bit by bit. She looked down as she listened to the shriek of the core blades cutting teeth into saw blades, cutting cargo blocks into wedges, axes, and sledges. They were making shovel blades, dredges, parts for the scoop assembly the bulls would pull as they carved their way through the gap in the mountains to the north. A rivulet from the north edge of Table Lake fell and twisted its way through the gorge at the bottom of the gap. The sheer walls of the gorge meant putting in a climbing, twisting road to get above the walls. The scouts reported that there was a lot of digging to do to make it to what the troupers in the three northern cars were calling the Emerald Valley.
Southeast toward Tarzak, the expedition reported that it was mostly brush and trees to clear, bridges to throw across streams, bits of swamp to drain. The Fake Foot River did flow all of the way to Tarzak. It was not suitable for navigation except for very short stretches. Midway between Miira and Tarzak, the river cascaded down a great cliff. That would require some carving, too.
She looked up again and studied her ship. For eight years, ever since she abandoned her post at the Arnheim & Boon orbiting shipyard to help crew the City of Baraboo, Number Three had been all of home, mission, and her reason for existence. She winced as a large sheet of metal fell from beneath the port wing of the huge delta-shaped craft. She tried to blot out the cheers of the ones who had worked so tirelessly to detach that sheet of metal. The first saw blades were already in use bringing down trees, shaping the trees into planks, and the planks into wagons to be pulled by the Percherons. Number Three's wheelwrights had been busy. The wagons would roll on wooden wheels rimmed by strips of metal cut from Number Three's skin.
She stood, turned her back on Number Three, and looked across Table Lake at the green of the swamp and jungle beyond. They said that Waco Whacko had taken his box of eggs and had walked out into the darkness. The water-filled footprints the next morning pointed toward the lake. A search party had followed the footsteps around the lake until the marks were obscured by the underbrush and the darkness of the jungle's overhanging cover.
She studied the jungle; wondering what had driven Waco into it; what Waco had found there. The scream of the core blades cutting into hardened metal deafened her.
She heard footsteps in the grass behind her, but she did not turn to see who it was. "Fireball?" The voice belonged to the boss animal man.
"What do you want, Pony?"
"We need some help hacking apart the carrousels."
Fireball slowly shook her head. "Not me, Pony. You talk to Hollywood; he's Number Three's engineer. He'll help you shred that car down until there's nothing left but a memory."
Pony Red studied Fireball's back for a moment. "We could use more help."
"Count me out." She turned and faced the boss animal man. "Pony, I signed up with the show eight years ago to push the menagerie shuttle. My job is over."
"We're in the cart, Fireball. And we've got to plug it through—"
She looked back at the edge of the jungle. "I've seen this show in bloody fights, smashed to pieces by the weather, in jail, and every other which way." She held her hand to her neck. "I am up to here watching reruns of this plucky little troupe pulling its cookies out of the fire. If you want Number Three hacked up, find yourself another girl."
The boss animal man reached out a hand and touched her shoulder. Instantly the shoulder withdrew and Fireball began walking rapidly toward the lake, Pony Red Miira yelled after her, but his words were covered by the scream of the core blades cutting metal.
She began running. Her speed increased as she reached the hard sand of the lake shore. Faster and faster she ran along the shore, driven by the sounds of screaming metal. There came a moment when the harshness of her breaths, the pounding of her heart, and the pains in her legs and gut blotted out everything. She splashed through the shallows that led to the Snake Mountain Gap and continued on the other side, running. She ran until the setting sun washed her face, and the blood pounding in her head blinded her.
Just about all of the shipyard gang that had crewed the Baraboo and its ten shuttles had burned in the atmosphere along with the starship. Sabotage. Devilishly clever, and designed to maroon the show in the middle of nowhere. Karl Arnheim, the former owner of the A&BCE shipyard, was pulled from one of the pod assemblies, his body burned to a crisp.
"Why?" Fireball screamed her question at the setting sun, then she collapsed upon the sand. "Why?" Her breaths came in short gasps as she ground her cheek into the coolness of the wet sand.
Night came, she opened her eyes, and pushed herself to a sitting position. Above her spread countless stars. Never to travel among them again; never to see the show, hear the crowd...
She struggled to her feet, almost pleased at the ache in her muscles. The still lake reflected the starlight, and it looked to Fireball as though she were standing on the edge of the universe. A thin band of darkness between the stars of the lake and the stars of the night sky told her that the jungle was near. She looked back toward the Number Three car, but could see only the yellow pinpricks of a half dozen campfires. She turned toward the band of darkness and resumed running along the edge of the universe. Before the sun made visible the details of the shore she had left, she wanted to be deep within the jungle.
At the edge of the jungle, great dark shapes noted the tiny creature running toward them. They turned and slithered off into the mud. The past few days had brought much to disturb the serenity of the swamp. It was none of their concern, and so they hissed quietly and moved toward the swamp's dark, steaming interior.
SIX
Packy Dern sat upon a rock outside the door of the sick shack. He was looking across the dusty way at one of the crude hootches that had been built. The particular hootch he had built had done worlds to convince him that his calling was pushing bull. Years before, his career as husband and father had convinced him of the same thing as wife and son hit the lot and jumped the gate to look for what they hoped would be saner surroundings. Packy kicked a small stone and clasped his hands. "Can't say I much blame 'em."
"Blame who?"
Packy looked around and saw Mange Ranger standing in the sick shack's doorway. "Nothin'." He looked back at his hootch. "How's it goin' in there, Mange?"
The veterinarian sat upon a stump and grinned. "I think we're going to do just fine. Everybody in there is on the mend and I just had my first good night's sleep since I don't know when."
Packy nodded once then bent over, picked up a stick, and began breaking it into tiny pieces. "Maybe we can go a couple days at a time now without burying someone."
"What was in your feed this morning, Packy?"
The boss elephant man tossed the remains of the stick on the ground. "Little Will. She just sits there in the hootch. Now that she can talk like everybody else, she don't talk at all. Even that think-talk. It's like livin' with a ghost, her sittin' around starin' at that damned bullhook."
Mange bent over, placed his elbows on his knees, and clasped his hands together. "She's lost, Packy. Her parents are dead. A lot of her friends are dead. The show is gone. Her whole world is different."