‘That’s right.’ He seemed embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry, Charlie, but I’ve had another offer.’
I sat down. I smiled across at him. Every move was calculated now. For months I’d been trying to shake Parky off my lists — but this was something different. If a performer gets an offer, then somebody thinks that performer is worth something. And if you’ve still got all your screws, this starts you thinking. What had I missed in Parky? What did he have that I hadn’t seen?
‘Parky,’ I said. ‘We’ll have to talk about this.’
He shook his head grimly. ‘I can’t talk about it, Charlie. I’ve been offered another job at a higher rate of pay. That’s all there is to it. I can’t tell you who. I can’t tell you where.’
‘Can’t? Or won’t?’
He didn’t answer me. Just shook his head.
‘Look,’ I said. ‘Give me until after the show tonight.’
He nodded, satisfied. ‘That’s fine, Charlie.’
‘You won’t do anything rash?’
He shook his head like a child. I wondered if he realised that he was legally bound to me. Unless I gave him the OK he couldn’t go anywhere. I could hold him to his contract if I had to.
But I wouldn’t do that to the old fraud.
He went off down the steps, beaming, and I opened a beer, gulped it down, and started thinking.
Who the hell was after Parky? That was the first question. Nobody wants psi minds these days. Science has proved that the Power is so much s.f. It’s the equivalent of the headless woman nowadays.
I wondered if the yellow-haired guy had anything to do with it. What did he call his department? IGC? Something connected with government. And what the hell had he meant about ‘unpleasant’?
Angrily I tossed the empty beer-can into a corner and pulled on my coat. I locked the door of the caravan behind me and crossed the battered stretch of grass that separated my place from the rest of the fairground.
The remainder of the morning was spent in futile questioning. Nobody else had been approached. Nobody else had seen the guy with yellow hair. Finally, after lunch, I decided that all I could do was watch Parky’s act. If he had something new, I would spot it.
Accordingly, with two cans of beer and a plate of sausage-and-mash under my belt, I made my way over to Parky’s tent at about seven o’clock. There was a handful of people sown over the wooden benches, all of them looking around without interest, or watching a couple of kids who were trying to pull down the pale-blue curtain that screened Parky’s rostrum.
The dim yellow lights were shining uncertainly on the muddy grass inside the tent, and somewhere behind his curtain Parky was playing the harmonica while he changed his robes.
I sat down at the back of the tent, looking around. There was no sign of the guy with yellow hair. The spectators were an ordinary looking bunch. I would’ve bet my profits that none of them were talent scouts.
Five minutes went by, and the harmonica rose on a weird note, and fell silent. Quite suddenly, the lights went out. A girl in the second row giggled, of course, and for a moment the sound caught my attention. I almost missed the entry of two men who slipped into their seats unobtrusively in the half-darkness. Then Parky flung his curtain open with a flourish and the light from the rostrum fell on the hair of one of the men.
Government my pink eye. Yellow Hair was after Parky.
Almost in the same instant my eyes switched back to the tall, thin figure on the rostrum. I didn’t want to miss anything. So Parky did have something. So what the hell was it?
An hour later I was still asking myself the same question. Parky read the minds of two mindless youths; he foretold the futures of half a dozen seedy couples. But hell! The whole act was corn. His patter was feeble. His stage manner was laughable.
When it was over I ducked out quick because I didn’t want the embarrassment of seeing the guy with yellow hair turning Parky down. It was raining outside — a fine drizzle. I walked back to my caravan through the milling crowds with that rain slanting down into my face and Parky’s troubles in my mind.
I couldn’t give him a raise — he was already operating at a loss. And after tonight’s performance he wouldn’t be getting his offer. If one had been made, it was going to be withdrawn fast. I knew the business. I knew no one would want Parky now.
It was sometime after eight when I reached the caravan. I went inside and shut the door. I stripped off my wet clothes, put on my dressing-gown and started to make supper. I turned on the radio and got some soft music playing.
The hell with the whole business, I thought. The hell with Parky and his lousy act, and the hell with the whole damned fairground.
Then there was a knock at the door.
I thought it would be Parky, but it wasn’t. It was the guy with yellow hair. He stood outside, dripping. The rain, I saw, was heavier now.
‘Come in,’ I said. And in he came. He pushed past me purposefully and turned, facing me. Now he was between me and my desk. I had my back to the door. I closed it.
‘I’m sorry to intrude,’ he said quickly.
‘Not at all,’ I said. His dress was still very gentlemanly. His tie was knotted neatly. He carried an umbrella.
‘I understand that you’re Parkinson’s manager,’ he said in his precise English. He gestured faintly with his hand. ‘This is correct?’
‘That’s righ — yikes!’
I gagged. My eyelids peeled back like sprung traps.
During that little gesture, his dainty feet enclosed in his dainty shoes had risen! Perceptibly — unmistakably — they had left the floor!
He looked down and realised what was wrong. He touched a hand to his waist, under his coat. He descended, unperturbed.
‘Gravity Variation,’ he explained. ‘Plays the dickens with our AG belts.’
I sat down heavily on the bed.
‘Now,’ he said briskly, ‘to business.’ He took a seat on the arm of a chair, crossed his impeccably tailored knees, and went on: ‘You must realise that our world is not your world. You yourself once said to me that you didn’t wish to be unpleasant. On my world, Mr Cot, everyone wished to be unpleasant. Our civilisation has advanced until it is chaos. Our government has broken apart. We need Ephraim Parkinson!’
I gaped.
‘As his manager, of course, you will expect compensation. Perhaps this’ — he extended one arm gracefully and the point of his umbrella touched the steel door of the safe — ‘will be recompense enough?’
He smiled. ‘We took the opportunity earlier this evening, Mr Cot, of placing your reward in the safe. You will open it when I am gone.’
‘Why Parky?’ I croaked.
He smiled again. ‘Because Ephraim Parkinson is the only man in the Universe who actually can read minds, Mr Cot. He will be of inestimable value to my government when our Peace Talks begin.’
Then he waved his umbrella cheerfully, stepped out into the rain without raising it, and was gone.
Apparently it never rained on Parky’s new world.
I got around to opening that safe, you know. And by now most of you will have been out to the fairground to see the ‘Snuffler’ they left me.
It’s small, red, and furry. It eats glass, nails, paper — anything. It has three eyes, breathes fire, and can dance the hula on one leg.
But you know something. I’d give any amount of ‘Snufflers’ to get old Parky back.
We could do with a guy like him on Earth these days.
THE FASTEST GUN DEAD
by Julian F. Grow
For every change in outlook, there is an equal (and opposite?) shift in insight.