"Well, Captain Aron. I see you have damage around your main airlock."
"You aren't the first would-be salvagers," admitted Captain Pausert.
The Venture proceeded to follow the lifter to the lattice showboat on the last dregs of fuel in her laterals. In the gray, driving rain, the showboat loomed like a small dark mountain. The lattice skeleton of triangular hull-metal girders was covered over, not with the bright synthasilk of Pausert's memories, but a utilitarian black. A small yellow digger was busy trenching and a work team was repairing a small exposed section of the lattice. The showboat looked very workaday ordinary, except . . .
It was very, very big. Had it been a solid hull-metal thing it would have dwarfed a fair number of battle-dreadnaughts—and cost a small fortune in fuel to fly. As it was, the round, plump half dome, ringed with attendant smaller half-domes, could take crowds of thousands—and fly between planets at minimal cost.
The Venture set down in front of the entry portal. Here on their home-world, with no customers to draw, the showboat hadn't bothered to clad the two towers and arch in bright bunting and flags. Instead, a guard with a disrupter cannon huddled in the small metal box above the rippling array of colors that formed fifteen-foot-high red-and-gold ornate letters.
Petey, Byrum and Keep
"Clumping awesome!" said the Leewit.
CHAPTER 11
Vezzarn stayed to man the guns. Mere fabric and I-beams would be a poor defense against the unpredictable might of the nova guns. Yes, they could be taken hostage, but the captain had made sure he'd said loudly, in earshot of their two escorts: "Vezzarn, if they try to take us captive just blow the lattice apart until they let us free. They're in a weaker position than we are."
"We've got guns on Petey B too, you know," snapped Timblay. "More than a match for those antiquated novas."
Pausert snorted. "At this range? Vezzarn's only got to hit a couple of I-beams and the whole thing would fall over. And we're not threatening, it's just better being careful, eh?" Mannicholo definitely gave him a wink and a glance of amusement at Timblay.
They formed a very small procession coming in, out of the rain, into the great cavernous interior. "Where are all the levels? Where are all the stalls?" demanded the Leewit.
"Don't put them up here on Vaudevillia, little 'un," said Mannicholo, with a wry grin. "The stages"—he pointed to several stages hung on girders higher up in the structure—"are there for rehearsals and practices. But what's the use in setting out the bleachers for no one to sit on?"
"But . . ." The Leewit blinked a tear away, showing she was not as old, or as tough, as she pretended to be. "I thought it would be like . . . like I'd seen it. Oh, look!" She pointed. Across the space, various of the show's animals were being exercised. "Telebars! Cute!"
Mannicholo chuckled. "You should try mucking out their cages!"
"They'll probably get a chance to," said Timblay sourly, and strode off ahead.
The rotund, color-shifting man spat. "Never mind him, he's just sour because he never suckered you. Miserable fellow. He's an 'artiste,' " he said sarcastically. "Doesn't like working with mere freak show folk like me. You'll be all right dealing with Himbo Petey. He's mean but fair. Timblay would have tied you into a manual labor contract for the circus section if he could. That's the hardest work. Any of you have an act? That's best money."
"We weren't planning on joining the show. We just wanted a lift off-world," said Hulik.
Mannicholo grinned, making colors dance and sparkle across his cheeks. "That's the only way off Vaudevillia, honey. And Himbo will never agree to a one-stop hitch."
* * *
The showboat boss was a small, dapper man with a little goatee and a pair of elegantly curled mustachios that Pausert secretly envied. He plainly loved his own appearance, and had several full-length mirrors in his office. He paced as he spoke, and paused occasionally to admire himself, especially when he made dramatic gestures.
"But no one," he said calmly, "is a passenger on the Greatest Show in the Galaxy. In fact no one does just one job. I myself am ringmaster, I do a magic show in the sideshows, I am the accountant and chief navigator, and I play certain roles in the thespian section. I also stand in on the harpsicordium from time-to-time. Even our leading lady—and Dame Ethulassia is an exacting woman—controls the costumery. We simply can't afford passengers. We'll take your ship along, but she'll also have to work her passage. Props is in desperate need of more storage space. You can have her back when your contracts expire—provided you replace her with a space-tight hulk of similar size. But if you want off Vaudevillia, it's as part of the troupe or not at all."
Pausert shrugged, hiding his thoughts. A space-tight vessel . . . Even a derelict from a scrap merchant was going to cost at least a hundred thousand maels. They could manage that, easily enough, if they could draw on their funds; but, as the experience on Pidoon had revealed, right now they couldn't. That was a lot of money to try to earn, otherwise.
And then they'd still have to refuel and to repair the Venture. They'd have to earn as much as they possibly could. "We're multi-skilled too. For instance my niece Dani here does great stage magic, and is a skilled negotiator, Master Petey. She'll dicker with you about our worth and how long we'll travel with you and at what rate."
Himbo Petey was plainly amused. "Amateur stage magic isn't good enough for the Greatest Show in the Galaxy, Captain Aron. I dare say the thespians will want you for crowd scenes and the animal trainers will want you for grooming and mucking out. The lady with the pointed ears and the doggie"—Pul growled—"aren't even weird enough for the freak show."
Goth sat down cross-legged on the office floor, clapping her hands. A ball of flames suddenly balanced on the upstretched fingertips of each hand. She flicked them and they leapt from hand to hand. Captain Pausert knew that it was just a light-shift, but it certainly was very impressive. Then she clapped her hands again. The balls disappeared in midair. On her palms rested a paperweight from the showboat boss' desk.
Himbo Petey grinned. "I take it back! That's very good. The flame-balls are a neat one. Great distraction! I almost didn't see you slip my paperweight from your sleeve, and I am a professional. Can you juggle more than two flame-balls? How do you get them to go out when you clap?"
Goth shook her head. "Trade secret. But timing is pretty important."
"Ah!" Himbo nodded. "Misdirection! Excellent! We'll get you a stall of your own or include you into one of the bigger shows. Do any of the rest of you have acts?"
"He called me a doggie. Can I bite him, Hantis? Just once?"
"Ha! A ventriloquist! A good one, too. We don't have a talking dog act at the moment. Any more talents?"
Pul stalked forward. "You're a dead man, churl."
"Now, Pul," said Hantis. "He's never met a grik-dog before." She gave the showboat boss an enigmatic smile. "I believe we are strange enough for your so-called freak show after all."
At this point the door was flung open. A woman with a vast, upstanding coif of brassy hair paused in the doorway, making a grand entrance. It was plainly something she did often and well. "Himbo!" Her voice was a rich contralto, so strong it seemed to make the walls vibrate.
He sighed. "Yes, Ethulassia. You'll get some of them. You've told me you need them, oh, several hundred times already. You'll get even more staff, though the thespian section gets far more resources than its financial contribution justifies."