"Thank you, sir."
"And now—is there anything else?" Parley's smile was a dismissal.
"Well, not here in this cabin," Illya said with a grin.
"Brian will be your man in charge. Anything you wish—ask Brian."
"Thank you again, Mr. Parley. You've been very kind."
Out again in the sunshine and wind, they went back to Powell's cabin where Powell wrote out the pass for Evan Fairchild.
"By the way," said Illya, "could I, by any chance, meet Kenneth Craig?"
"Thought you'd be coming around to asking that. Our star performer. Certainly you'll meet Craig, but right now it's somewhat early, he's not on the grounds yet. But I'll arrange it, Mr. Fairchild, never fear. And... er..." Powell hesitated.
"Yes?" encouraged Illya.
"I mean—I'm no big shot, I know, but if you can get my picture in the magazine—I mean a magazine as important as Scope—my wife back in Australia, she'd feel right proud..."
"If I can, I will," stammered Illya, knowing he could not ever do it. Feeling slightly guilty, he ended the conversation and went out alone into the bright, clean, windy morning.
He wandered about the circus grounds. He chatted with some of the early risers, but they were very few. He strolled about the immense grounds, taking pictures. Then, in a deserted area, he was attracted to a huge wagon, its rear doors bolted. He went a long way around the huge yellow-painted wagon and found that the front of the wagon was attached to a tremendous cage, big enough to contain a small army. The cage had a door latched from the outside. Illya lifted the latch, entered the cage, and commenced taking pictures through the bars of the cage. Brian's remark had stimulated a guilt, and the guilt had stimulated an idea. Illya, though only an amateur, was quite good as a photographer. Perhaps, he thought, if the pictures were good enough, Scope would really use them, and then Brian's wife in Australia would be proud and happy, and Brian would be proud and happy. As a matter of fact, everybody would be proud and happy, including himself.
Shooting pictures, be saw out of the corner of his eye the door, which he had left open, snapped shut by a gust of wind. No crisis, he thought. He was not locked in. The bars were wide enough for his hand to slip through to open the latch. But then suddenly he heard a sound, a growl. He whirled and stood petrified.
Through a low swing door connecting wagon and cage, a lion appeared! Powerful, black muzzled, heavy-maned, the lion, tail swishing, blinked yellow eyes in the sunshine.
Locked in a cage with a lion! Illya shot a glance toward the door leading outside—it was a long distance away! What to do? The lion, standing still, blinking, was looking at him, and he, standing still, was looking at the lion. He feared to make a sudden move. Slowly, ever so slowly, he backed toward the door—and stopped! Another lion pushed through the swing door into the cage and uttered a small sound. Perhaps to the lion it was a small sound; to Illya it was a fearful roar. What to do? How many more were in the huge wagon? Should he make a run for it and risk a leap from a lion? Again he threw a quick glance over his shoulder. It was still a long distance to the door. He stood motionless, confused, hoping against hope that by some miracle, like a happy awakening from a dreadful nightmare, the massive, yellow-eyed, tail-swishing animals would disappear.
15. Invitation Accepted
"STAY, KING! Stay, Mack-boy!"
It was a youthful voice, a girl's voice, but it rang with authority. It came from somewhere behind him. He did not dare turn, did not dare move.
"Stay! Attaboy! Good boys! Good cats!" The great lions stood like statues, making a sound like a purr. "If those are purrs," thought Illya, "then I will happily live the rest of my life deprived of all sounds of purring."
He heard the latch come up, heard the cage door screech open, and then a vision passed before him. Young and pretty, flaxen-haired and blue-eyed, attired in slacks and blouse that matched the color of her eyes, the vision proceeded at a smooth gait toward the lions, talking all the while.
"Good boys. Good old pussycats. Come on. Come along."
She slapped at their flanks, rubbed at their manes, kept on talking in an unexcited voice, soothingly giving orders, pointing toward the swing door. Finally the lions turned and padded through.
The girl bolted the swing door, whirled, and smiled at Illya.
"Are you all right, sir?"
"Uh." The monosyllabic grunt, under the circumstances, was the best he could manage.
"Would you like me to help you out, sir?"
"Thank you," he gasped. "I think I can make it without help."
The girl giggled. They went out of the cage and she latched the door.
"Whew!" breathed Illya. With shaking hands he replaced the camera in its leather case. In the warm sunshine he was perspiring like a runner at the end of a marathon race. He took a handkerchief from a pocket, mopped his steaming face, returned the handkerchief, and looked through the bars of the cage toward the huge yellow wagon. "How many are there in there?" he asked.
"Six."
"Oh, my!"
"They're wonderful, sweet old lions, believe me."
"Yeah," groaned Illya. "Miss, please, who are you?"
"I'm Candy."
"Candy?"
"Short for Candace."
"But how you handled those lions!"
"Candy Craig. My father's Kenneth Craig. I'm sure you've heard of Kenneth Craig."
"But I never heard of you, my dear." Illya was beginning to recover. "And so young. How old, if I may ask?"
"Seventeen."
"Only seventeen? My goodness." Illya's recovery was coming along.
Candy's smiling blue eyes grew stern. "What happened wasn't your fault, sir, whoever you are. That swing door should have been bolted shut. The lions have ample room in the wagon and they're quite contented there until we let them out for work in the cages. That's the duty of the roustabouts, to securely lock in all the animals. But it always happens, toward the end of our stay any where—the roustabouts get kind of careless, negligent. You must not blame yourself, sir. It was not your fault, whoever you are."
"I am Evan Fairchild, a photo reporter for Scope magazine," said Illya, fully recovered. "And right now I'm going to take pictures of you, if you please."
The sparkling girl posed and Illya snapped. Then be put away the camera and said, "I'm dying to meet your father."
"I'm sure he'd be happy to meet you, Mr. Fairchild."
"How do we work it out?"
"Quite simple. He's at our apartment. I came out this morning to do chores here. But I'd be happy to take you back to meet my dad."
"How do we go, Miss Craig?"
"Candy."
"How do we go, Candy?"
"We walk." The blue eyes twinkled mischievously. "Unless you don't like to walk."
"I love to walk," said Illya.
They walked. And on the way, Illya tactfully questioning, Candy told him about herself.
She was Candace Craig, seventeen. All her life, because of her father's profession, she had lived with lions. She was, in fact, an accomplished lion tamer on her own, although she was not quite sure that lion taming would be her lifetime profession. She was still going to school and had lots of time to make up her mind. An Australian, this past year she had gone to school in England, and for the summer vacation she had come with her father to America. At home in Sydney, Australia, there were three little brothers in the care of her mother.