by Mike Resnick
“Yeah? Where will you go?”
“I have three more planets to open up while I'm in this shape.”
“What do you mean—this shape?”
“This,” he said, indicating himself, “is not my real body.”
“You can change your shape?” asked Thaddeus, suddenly alert.
“Not at all,” said Mr. Romany with a small laugh. “I've been surgically altered.”
“You have?”
“Yes. It's a relatively simple process. It takes about two to three weeks.”
“But why did you do it?”
“I'm an advance man, Mr. Flint. I make the initial contacts on planets that have not yet joined our community of worlds, and of course it behooves me to meet the natives not only on their own turf, so to speak, but in their own image as well.”
“And there are three other worlds populated by men?” asked Thaddeus.
“Not exactly. I'm not totally like you, Mr. Flint. My coloration is a little different, my eyes are more widely set, my fingernails are false, and I have a rudimentary tail. But I'm close enough to pass as one of you, just as—depending on which features I emphasize—I'll be close enough to pass as an inhabitant of each of the other three worlds on my current agenda. Altering to accommodate three or four worlds at once saves considerable time, expense, and personal discomfort.”
“Does everyone in your organization alter his shape?”
“Oh, no. Very few of us do, in fact. But it does help to advance one's career.”
“I see,” said Thaddeus. “And you plan to be on some other world in a few years?”
Mr. Romany nodded. “Five years at the most,” he said. “Do we have an agreement?”
“No,” said Thaddeus.
“No?” repeated Mr. Romany in astonishment. “But why not?”
“First of all, I find it highly unlikely that all future aliens will be as docile as this group. Second, I'm having enough trouble keeping this bunch alive, and I have no assurances that you won't foist a batch of even sicklier ones off on me. Third, I'm already making a bundle without cutting you in for one-third. And fourth, your overestimate your importance. Your word will never hold up against Ahasuerus'.”
“What makes you think not?”
“Because if I can see through you in ten minutes, so can whoever has to decide the case. You're a two-bit clerk who's fighting for his job. He's an honorable man with nothing to hide. Who do you think they'll believe?”
“What do you know about honorable men?” said Mr. Romany hotly.
“I don't have to be a horse to know that Secretariat was a good one,” replied Thaddeus.
“You won't agree to it?” repeated Mr. Romany desperately.
“Of course not. But I figured you'd come up with some cockamamie scheme like this, so I've prepared a little counteroffer. Would you like to hear it?”
“Go ahead.”
“Okay,” said Thaddeus. “Quit the company and come to work for me. Keep the aliens healthy and happy and I'll give you five percent of the take.”
“Quit the company?”
“Beats getting fired, doesn't it?” said Thaddeus with a smile.
“But I'd have to stay in this shape, on this world,” protested Mr. Romany.
“It could be worse. You could be in Tojo's shape,” commented Thaddeus.
The lion roared just then, and Mr. Romany jumped. It took both of them a minute or two to calm down.
“I don't think I can do it,” said Mr. Romany. “Stay here forever?”
“It might not be forever,” said Thaddeus. “I might get tired of it.”
“You? Tired of money?”
“You never can tell,” said Thaddeus.
“I'll have to think about it,” said Mr. Romany.
“Take your time.”
“That's the one commodity I don't have in abundance.”
“I know,” said Thaddeus. “How long before your mother ship sends out a distress signal?”
“What do you know about a mother ship?” said Mr. Romany sharply.
“I know twelve aliens didn't cross the galaxy in a little shuttlecraft. It stands to reason there are other groups on Earth, and that you've got a big ship in orbit. Of course, you're welcome to deny it, if it'll make you feel any better.”
“It's up there,” admitted Mr. Romany.
“And of course it's too big to land.”
Mr. Romany nodded. “If Ahasuerus isn't back aboard it in four more days, they'll call my superiors for instructions.”
“I thought he was over his time limit already.”
“The excursion was to be for fourteen days, but the situation is not considered critical until twenty days have passed.”
“Well, you seem to have a problem on your hands, Mr. Romany,” said Thaddeus. “Why not go home and think it over for another day?”
“Fifteen percent,” said Mr. Romany suddenly.
Thaddeus laughed. “Get out of here, you fucking amateur!”
Mr. Romany left, and Thaddeus walked to the refrigerator again, pulled out a couple of slices of Swiss cheese, and tossed them to the leopards, who ignored them.
“Oh, well,” he shrugged. “You can't please everyone.”
“Thaddeus,” I said, “what's going to happen?”
“Who knows?” he replied. “But it sure as hell is gonna be interesting, isn't it?”
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* * *
Chapter 13
It started snowing very heavily about an hour after Mr. Romany left.
Thaddeus turned on the radio, found out that there were traveler's advisory warnings out and that many of the roads had been closed, and decided to shut down the carnival for the day. He sent Big Alvin and me around to post signs to that effect. It took us about twenty minutes, and when we were done we hurried back to the dormitory tent to warm up and have some of Queenie's coffee.
Thaddeus was sitting at a table with Mr. Ahasuerus, the astronomy book turned open to a photo of the Crab Nebula, listening intently to the blue man.
“This I recognize,” Mr. Ahasuerus was saying, pointing to the photo. “But you must understand that your stellar configurations are completely different from those I am used to. In other words, I may be acquainted with many of these stars, but not in the positions where they appear to you.”
Thaddeus pushed the book over to him. “Is there anything else you recognize?”
The blue man thumbed through the rest of the pages, staring at each one carefully. Finally he shook his head. “I am neither an astronomer nor a navigator,” he said. “This one,” he added, pointing toward a tiny spot on a huge picture, “could be Mr. Romany's home star. It's the right color, and it seems to be in the right star cluster. But of course I can't be sure.”
“How did your company ever pick a loser like Romany in the first place?”
Mr. Ahasuerus shrugged. “We employ hundreds of thousands of beings. From what I know of him, his record has been exemplary.”
“Yeah. Well, beware of Greeks bearing gifts and hotshot junior executives with exemplary records.” Thaddeus paused for a minute to light a cigarette. “Tell me a little bit about your organization.”
“We're a loosely knit community of worlds that have united for economic and cultural benefits,” replied Mr. Ahasuerus. “We bear absolutely no resemblance to the quasi-military empires that your more imaginative entertainments envision.”
“That's not what I meant. Tell me about the company you work for.”
“What do you wish to know?”
“Who runs it? How big is it? What does it do?” He exhaled a stream of smoke and smiled. “I feel more at home talking about businesses than galactic civilizations.”
“So do I,” admitted Mr. Ahasuerus, flashing his teeth in what I supposed was his equivalent of a grin. “We are what you would call a conglomerate. We have branches on hundreds of worlds, and we deal in everything from manufacturing to real estate to space travel.”
>
“How did you come to pose as a sideshow?”
“I told you. We attract less—”
“I know that,” interrupted Thaddeus. “But that means you must have sideshows on your home planet.”
“No,” corrected the blue man, “but they are quite common on many of our community of worlds. Indeed, had they not been known to Earth, I am sure Mr. Romany would have recommended that we bypass the planet. After all, there are thousands of other worlds worthy of interest.”
“Romany told me he was surgically altered.”
“That's true. It is a complex and painful operation, though relatively brief.”
“What did he look like originally?” asked Thaddeus.
“I have no idea.”
“How did they know to make him look the way he does?”
“We tend not to visit worlds that do not transmit television signals,” said Mr. Ahasuerus. “Does that answer your question?”
“I suppose so,” replied Thaddeus. “What kind of currency do you use?”
“It varies from world to world.”
“Doesn't that get pretty complicated after a while?”
“It is no more complicated within the community than dealing in dollars and pounds and yen is to the nations of your world. Of course, when we travel beyond the community, a certain amount of creative financing is required.”
“What particular kind of creative financing did Romany indulge in to bankroll your carnival?” asked Thaddeus.
“I really couldn't say,” answered the blue man.
“I'm beginning to get the impression that you could teach us one hell of a lot about bureaucracies.” He turned to me. “Wouldn't the Rigger make one hell of an advance man?” he said with an amused laugh. “You could plunk him down penniless on any world in the galaxy with nothing but a deck of cards and a pair of dice, and he'd own half the planet by nightfall.”
He pulled a flask out of his pocket and took a long swallow. A gust of wind whipped through the canvas a minute later, and I asked if I could have a sip.
He shrugged and handed it to me, and I took a small mouthful. It burned my lips, and stayed hot all the way down.
“What was it?” I gasped.
“What do you care? It'll keep you warm.” He took the flask back and then, as an afterthought, offered it to Mr. Ahasuerus.
“No, thank you,” said the blue man.
“Right,” said Thaddeus. “It would probably kill you.” He screwed the top on and put it back in his pocket. “What are the winters like where you come from? Do they ever get this cold?”
“From time to time,” said Mr. Ahasuerus. “Though it has been many years since I was on my home planet.”
“Don't you ever miss it?” I asked.
“Not with so many new worlds to see,” he said. “Our friend the Rubber Man would have you believe that one world is pretty much like another, but he's wrong: each is unique and individual, and each is fascinating in its own way.”
“Even this one?” asked Thaddeus.
“Of course,” said the blue man.
“How long have you been on the road, so to speak?”
“Oh, perhaps twenty of your years.”
“And you have no desire to return home?”
“I've seen home, Mr. Flint,” said Mr. Ahasuerus. “These others”—he indicated the rest of the aliens—“are merely tourists and vacationers. I am a wanderer.”
“You were a wanderer,” Thaddeus corrected him.
“I will be again. Whatever agreement you make or do not make with Mr. Romany, you won't kill us.”
“You're sure about that, are you?” asked Thaddeus.
“Yes,” said the blue man. “First of all, it is in your best interest to keep us alive and working. And second,” he added, looking straight into Thaddeus’ eyes, “you're an exploiter, not a killer.”
“You think not?”
“I think not.”
Thaddeus shook his head. “I give a rubdown to the rainbow man and try to keep Dapper Dan alive, and all of a sudden you seem to think you're dealing with some kind of a pushover. Maybe I've been taking it a little too easy on you.”
“What purpose would be served by abusing us?” asked Mr. Ahasuerus.
“Maybe it would make me feel better,” said Thaddeus.
Mr. Ahasuerus was about to reply when Big Alvin walked up to the table.
“Yeah?” said Thaddeus.
“Four-Eyes is out of iron pills,” said the big guy.
“You're just noticing that now?” said Thaddeus. “It's a damned good thing he's not depending on you to keep track of that stuff.”
“Then you've got some more?”
“I sent Monk out for them when I closed the show,” said Thaddeus. Alvin went back to his post, and Thaddeus turned to me with an amused smile on his face. “When I heard the roads were closed I figured that Four-Eyes was in for a bad night. Then I remembered all of Monk's stories about how he used to go hunting in the Klondike, so I went over to his bus and offered him fifty bucks to walk into town and pick up the pills. He finally agreed to go when I got up to eighty dollars, and just when I was sure that I was sending the poor son of a bitch out to freeze, he locked the money in that little metal coinbox he keeps in the bear cage, walked to his closet, and pulled out a pair of snowshoes and a fur coat that must have been made of forty sealskins. He's so goddamn warm that when he gets back I think the first thing he's going to ask for is a cold beer.”
“When is he due?” I asked.
“Another hour or two. It depends on the snow.” His gaze fell on the Cyclops. “Look at him!” he said disgustedly. “Healthy as a horse.”
“Should I check on Dapper Dan and Rainbow again?” I asked.
“No. Swede's with ‘em. They'll be okay.” He looked out at the blizzard. “I'll tell you what you can do, though. Take turns with Alvin making the rounds every hour or so to make sure there aren't any locals freezing to death out there. If you find any, take ‘em over to the Hothouse until they can figure out how to get home—and if they've got any money, send the Rigger by to pay them a friendly little visit.” He looked up and saw Scratch approaching us hesitantly. “Well, well, what have we here?”
“Mr. Flint,” said the Horned Demon.
“Yeah? What do you want?”
“The Man of Many Colors is an especially close friend of mine. I wonder if you could tell me how his condition is progressing.”
“Pretty much the same,” said Thaddeus. “Maybe a little better. It's hard to tell.”
Scratch shifted his weight uneasily. “I would like your permission to visit him.”
“Out of the question,” said Thaddeus. “None of you leaves the tent.”
“I know that you are shorthanded because of us,” persisted Scratch. “Since we will not be on display tonight, I would be happy to take the place of whoever is tending to him and to the Missing Link.”
“I'm sure you would,” said Thaddeus. “I'm sure you would be equally happy to hit the Midway running and never look back.”
“How far could I get in this weather?” said Scratch with a smile. “Where would I go?”
“A rule is a rule,” said Thaddeus. “Forget it.”
“It would mean a lot to him,” continued Scratch.
“You don't listen too good, do you?” said Thaddeus irritably.
“Neither do you,” said Scratch, obviously nervous but obstinately holding his ground. “I told you that I will not try to escape. I simply want to bring comfort to my friend.”
“Swede has been over there an awfully long time, Thaddeus,” I said.
“You, too?” he said, turning to me.
“What harm could it do, Thaddeus?” I said. “Nobody's going to run away on a day like this.”
“Shut up, both of you!” he yelled.
I jumped back, because that tone of voice usually preceded a blow, but he just sat motionless at the table, staring at his coffee cup, while Scratch walked unhappily bac
k to his cot.
Finally, after almost half an hour had passed, Thaddeus got up, looked out the door at the snow, and walked back to me.
“All right, you fucking dwarf,” he said with a sigh. “We'll do it your way.
Hunt up a coat for Scratch and take him over to the trailer, and tell Swede to come over here to grab some dinner. And when you're done with that, tell the Dancer to bunk with Diggs or Monk tonight. I want his trailer.”
“What for?”
“Because I'm getting goddamned sick and tired of sharing mine with a couple of aliens,” he said.
I took the Horned Demon to our trailer, spent about five minutes convincing Swede that Thaddeus had really agreed to it, and then went off to find the Dancer. I finally found him sitting in the makeshift grandstand of the specialty tent, staring blindly into the past. I don't think he even knew it was snowing.
He agreed to move in with Monk for the night, and I went back to the dormitory tent to tell Thaddeus that the arrangements had been made.
While I was gone he had finished his entire flask of whiskey, and he was a little unsteady on his feet when he stood up. I helped him to the door, and then led the way to the Dancer's trailer.
It was freezing when we entered it—the Dancer had forgotten to turn the heat on—and I spent the next couple of minutes making it liveable, while Thaddeus rooted through the kitchen cabinets until he came up with a bottle of Scotch, a present from some infatuated teenaged fan of the Dancer's.
The trailer looked more than neat and well-kept: it looked unused. The bed was wrinkled, but I doubted that the Dancer had crawled under the covers since he'd owned it. There were no crumbs in the kitchen or on the breakfast table, but again I felt that was due to his lifestyle—if that is the word for it—rather than any fetish for cleaning up after himself. There were photographs and tintypes of an the famous outlaws and lawmen of the Old West hanging on the walls, and I had a feeling that all of Billybuck's time in the trailer was spent sitting in his big leather chair staring at them, or dozing on top of his covers. Walking through the trailer produced an eerie feeling—but then, all carny people are strange. The Dancer was just a little stranger than most.
