by Mike Resnick
“And a thousand?"
“A mathematician I knew in Florida worked it out once,” said Flint with a smile. “He said it was a ... I can't remember the term, but he had a funny-sounding name for it."
“A googol?” asked Mr. Ahasuerus.
“That was it! A googol-to-one against. How much is a googol?"
“Ten to the one hundredth power."
“Anyway, we aren't real likely to have to pay off."
“And why are you bringing out these games now, Mr. Flint?” asked Mr. Ahasuerus.
“To show your friend from the Corporation that we can turn a profit if we have to."
“I must have expressed myself poorly,” said the blue man. “What I meant was, why haven't we been running these games all along?"
“Because the night we formed our partnership, all I heard from you and the Corporation was how I had to run a totally legit show.” He paused to light a cigarette, another of his rapidly vanishing commodities. “The thing is, what I'm good at is bilking marks. It's what I've done my whole life. We're going to make eight thousand credits tonight just off the Psychic and Skillo booths, and look around you—the whole damned crew is feeling sharp again. We're doing what we know how to do."
“As long as the games aren't out-and-out crooked, I see no reason why they shouldn't be considered legitimate,” said the blue man. “You should have discussed this with me earlier."
“The timing was wrong."
“I beg your pardon?"
“We weren't going broke earlier. Would you really have agreed to a Skillo game on the first couple of worlds?"
“Perhaps not,” admitted the blue man. “And I must confess that I would have been wrong."
Flint chuckled. “We'll make a Man out of you yet, Mr. Ahasuerus."
“Fate forfend, Mr. Flint."
Flint left his partner and made a tour of the Midway. The Dancer's show—full, as always—was just letting out, and there was already a moderate crowd lined up to see Monk and his animals. Diggs was taking in money faster than he could count it, and sardonically signaled to Flint that he had inadvertently guessed right on four questions thus far. Priscilla's Fascination booth was at least breaking even, and Jenny and Lori were actually turning a profit. Only Gloria, rigged out in a costume that was halfway between a stripper's gown and harem outfit, had failed to draw a crowd, despite the fact that she had Stogie barking for her and the old comic was practically dragging reluctant customers into her small tent.
“Forty-six hundred credits, Thaddeus,” said Tojo, when the carnival had closed for the night. “That's some scam, that Psychic game. I've never seen it before."
“It takes someone like the Rigger to pull it off,” remarked Flint. “Most of the marks figure out after a half hour or so that he's never going to come up with a right answer and that they're getting nothing but slum for their money, but if you can get ‘em mad enough, make ‘em want to humiliate you enough, you can keep the thing going all night."
“I hear the Skillo game took in almost three thousand credits, too,” said the little hunchback.
“Yeah. I think we're going to be ready for this hotshot executive in a couple more days."
“I heard about him. Can he really cause us any trouble?"
“Not as much as I can cause him,” said Flint. “If those bastards really gave a damn about us, they'd keep their efficiency expert and send us a decent advance man. This world's okay, but one in six isn't much of a percentage."
“Isn't that what Fast Johnny's doing—advance work?"
“I don't know what the hell Fast Johnny's doing,” said Flint irritably. “I sent him out two months ago and I haven't heard a word from him since."
“Maybe it took him a while to recover from the operation,” suggested Tojo.
“You remember what Mr. Romany told us back on Earth,” said Flint. “Two weeks and out. Three at the most."
“But look what they turned him into."
“It's old hat to these people, Tojo. Making Romany look like a Man was probably every bit as hard as making Fast Johnny into a—well, whatever the hell he is now. It makes sense, I suppose—meeting the natives of a new world not just on their own turf but in their own image as well. I just hope the son of a bitch hasn't gone native on us."
“As a six-foot-long gray slug?” said Tojo dubiously.
Flint laughed. “It's a pretty stupid notion at that.” He paused. “I wonder why the hell he hasn't reported in?"
* * *
Chapter 4
John Edward Carp undulated across the moist brown vegetation, sniffing colors, tasting sounds. He had not eaten for three days, but he felt no pangs of hunger, nor would he for another week.
He came to a slope in the trail he had been following, and after considering his alternatives, elected to roll his reticulated body down to the base of it. Then, shaking himself off, he continued slithering in the direction of his ship, content and serene.
He had only one regret in the world: that he wouldn't able to see the expression on Thaddeus Flint's face when he sent in his resignation.
* * *
Chapter 5
Gloria was sitting at her vanity, her sewing kit laid out before her, meticulously reattaching a Velcro fastener that was coming loose from one of her gowns, when there was a knock at her door.
“Come in,” she said, without looking up.
A moment later Tojo, dressed in a long-sleeved shirt and jeans, entered the room.
“Can I speak to you for a minute?” he stammered.
“Just a second,” she replied, inserting a last stitch and then carefully hanging the gown against her closet door to stretch the wrinkles out.
“Thaddeus sent you, didn't he?” she said, finally turning to the hunchback.
“He wants to know if you'd like me to teach you the Psychic routine,” said Tojo.
“I thought so! Listen to me, you ugly little dwarf—you go back to your boss and tell him to get off my case! I'm a dancer, not a goddamned con artist!"
“I know,” said Tojo. “I'm sorry I bothered you, but he's the boss, and..."
Her face softened. “I didn't mean to yell at you. It's not your fault. You look hot: can I give you something to drink?"
“That would be very nice, thank you."
She opened a small, built-in refrigerator, pulled out a pitcher, filled two glasses, and handed one to him. “It's a coconut-pineapple combination that one of the robots synthesized for me.” He stared at it dubiously. “Go ahead, drink it. It's a lot healthier than Thaddeus’ beer."
Tojo shrugged. “When you're hot, I suppose anything tastes good.” He took a long swallow and immediately screwed up his face as the flavor hit him.
“If you'd wear a T-shirt like everyone else, you wouldn't sweat so much,” said Gloria.
“This fits a little more loosely,” he replied.
“What difference does that make?” she asked. Then her eyes fell on his hump. “Oh. I see."
“Why make people look at something they find distasteful?” he said.
“By the same token, we ought to lock Mr. Ahasuerus in cold storage for the rest of the tour. Don't be so sensitive, Tojo.” She walked over to a recliner chair and sat down. “How long before Thaddeus stops asking me to work the games and starts telling me?"
The hunchback shrugged. “I really don't know. I think he's a little bit afraid of you."
She laughed derisively. “Nothing scares Thaddeus Flint."
“Yes, it does,” said Tojo, placing his glass on the vanity and sitting on the chair. “He's afraid to fail. You were the only stripper we had back on Earth who refused to work strong when he gave the word, and you made it stick. He might be afraid of what will happen if he orders you to run a booth."
“I was the only stripper he had at all,” said Gloria firmly “Where does Priscilla get off lecturing me about degrading myself, anyway? I spent years studying my craft and refining my routines. All she ever did was walk out naked on a st
age and let the audience paw her. Where's the art in that, Tojo?"
“There wasn't any,” he admitted. “But it was what the marks paid for."
“The marks were a bunch of freaks and perverts. That doesn't mean we had to lower ourselves to their level. I'm a stripper, not a whore."
“Whores take money,” he pointed out gently.
“Whores make transactions: their bodies for something they want, whether it's money or a trip to the stars or good treatment from the boss. I don't do that. I never did and I never will."
“I never said you did,” replied Tojo.
“Yeah? Well, he wanted me to."
“Thaddeus?"
“He lied to me to get me to join the carny, and he lied again to get me to come out here. First he told me he wanted a stripper, when all he really wanted was another slut to sit on the marks’ faces. Then he told me we'd be playing cities that make New York look like a hick town.” She paused for breath.
“Look around you, Tojo. Do you see any of those audiences he promised me? All I've seen is one dust bowl after another, and my audiences are all things with feathers or scales!"
“I'm sure he didn't know it was a lie when he said it,” replied Tojo gently. “I know how much he was looking forward to coming out here. He's as disappointed as you are."
“I find that hard to believe,” she said bitterly. “He's still doing what he always did—finding new ways to screw the marks. Hell, he's probably happy to have a new challenge."
“He's been a driven man all his life. Personally, I think he's tired of challenges.” Tojo paused uncomfortably. “Would it be so terrible for you to help him in the booths?"
“Yes!"
“Can you help me to understand why?” continued Tojo. “I'm not asking this for him,” he added hastily. “But it just doesn't make any sense to me. All my life I wanted to belong to something, to feel that I was useful. I mean, who has any need for a hunchback who stammers? That's how I wound up with Thaddeus. Sometimes he treats me like shit, I admit that—but he treats everyone else the same way. I'm happy here, because I've finally found a place where I can make a contribution and stop feeling like a parasite—"
“Are you calling me a parasite?” she interrupted.
“No, of course not,” he answered her. “But after a lifetime of being ignored or pitied or merely tolerated, which is the worst of all, I finally feel like I'm earning my keep, and it feels good."
“I'm trying to earn my keep!"
“But until you figure out a way, why not at least do something and work games?"
“Because then I'd just be Gloria Stunkel again."
“I don't understand,'” said the hunchback.
“Look at me, Tojo,” she said, standing up and turning slowly around in front of him. “Really look at me. My face is plain, my eyes are too small, my nose is too big. I keep my body in good shape, but it's nothing to write home about: nobody from Playboy was ever going to put it in their centerspread.
This,” she said, turning around again, “is Gloria Stunkel.” She paused, staring sightlessly at an imaginary spot a few feet above Tojo's head, where a girl who was no longer Gloria Stunkel was strutting across a stage to a chorus of wild cheers and whistles. “But Butterfly Delight, she's something different. When I'm Butterfly Delight I'm not plain and clumsy and ordinary anymore. Butterfly Delight is beautiful and important. People actually pay money to watch her do nothing more than walk around a stage and take off her clothes. Men who wouldn't give Gloria Stunkel a second glance on the street howl like dogs when Butterfly Delight bumps and grinds; women envy her looks and her glamour. Butterfly Delight is someone special—and Thaddeus wants to kill her and make me go back to being Gloria Stunkel. Well, I'm not going to do it!"
“I'm sure it's just until we can get to a humanoid world,” said Tojo soothingly.
“Humanoid?” she repeated sarcastically. “You mean like Mr. Ahasuerus—seven-foot-tall bald blue skeletons who look like they ought to be breathing fire? You think they're going to pay to watch Butterfly Delight?"
Tojo made no answer.
“It's just not fair,” continued Gloria. “I don't just like my work, Tojo: I'm good at it.” She opened a trunk that was next to her bed, pulled out a large vinyl-covered scrapbook with the Woolworth's pricetag still on the cover, and carried it over to him.
“Look at that,” she said, opening it and pointing to an ad from a Wisconsin newspaper. “'Back By Popular Demand,'” she read. “'Butterfly Delight.’ That's me, Tojo.” She continued thumbing through the pages, pointing out ads that ran her photo, ads that mentioned she was the headliner, ads that implied she was Blaze Starr and Tempest Storm and Lili St. Cyr all rolled into one.
Tojo looked at the book and made properly impressed noises. It didn't matter that most of the ads were from theaters long since gone out of business, or currently running hardcore movies instead of burlesque, or piping in music as the girls danced for fifty businessmen on their lunch hours. It didn't matter that only two ads in the whole book were more than one column wide or an inch deep. It didn't even matter that none of them appeared in the journals of any city boasting as many as two hundred thousand people. In her chosen field Butterfly Delight was indeed a star, and it was hardly her fault that the bottom had fallen out of the field years before she had entered it.
“Who's this?” asked Tojo, coming to an eight-by-ten photo of a tall, leggy brunette. “It looks very old."
“That's Gypsy Rose Lee,” replied Gloria proudly. “She autographed it for me just before she died."
“That was very nice of her,” said the hunchback.
“She was a very classy lady,” responded Gloria. “Did you know that she played to more women than men during her career?"
“No, I didn't."
“It's true. Stripping doesn't have to be cheap and vulgar. It can be anything the audience will let it be. Ann Corio has been touring the country for the past fifteen years with an old-time burlesque show. Most of her audiences are families.” She closed the book and tenderly returned it to the trunk. “I never saw a family audience in my life,” she said at last. “All I ever got were freaks and drunks."
“You came along too late,” said Tojo sympathetically.
“But I played as if my audience had class. I was always a lady on stage."
“I'm sure you were."
“I never let a customer touch me, and I never balled anyone to get work."
“Thaddeus used to complain about that all the time,” said Tojo with a smile.
“After I'd been on the circuit for a few years, I found out there was a school for strippers out in California, and I enrolled there to see if I could make my act even better. That's where Thaddeus found me."
“I remember. You were the best we ever had, Gloria."
“That's because I work harder at it than anyone you ever had. I jog two miles every morning. One hundred sit-ups. Stretching exercises. Constant dieting. I dance to my tapes every day. I never get out of condition."
“I know."
“This is what I am, Tojo. This is me. I can't help what audiences were back on Earth, and I can't help not having them now. Gloria's just an ordinary girl who passes time between Butterfly Delight's performances. If I could be Butterfly Delight twenty-four hours a day, I would. I can't be. I've made my adjustment—but I can't stop being her altogether. I just can't!"
Tojo stared at her long and hard, wondering what he could say and wishing he knew how to recognize the preliminary symptoms of a mental breakdown.
He even found himself half believing in Butterfly Delight as a separate entity—not as a headlining stripper, but as the person who kept Gloria Stunkel sane for twenty hours a day. Suddenly he wished they had taken a doctor along, instead of the extra games barker.
Gloria had returned to her chair and seemed content to sit there, sipping her fruit juice and staring at the sequined gown that was still hanging on the closet door, but Tojo felt he had to say something, any
thing, to break the silence. His brain raced through hundreds of prior conversations he had had with her over the years, scanning them, trying to find some interest they had in common, or even some subject other than her work that she had ever shown any enthusiasm for. He was startled to discover that he couldn't come up with a single one, and wondered what to do next.
Finally she asked him if he would like a refill, and the sound of her voice breaking the grim silence of the room so startled him that he almost knocked his glass over.
“Yes, please,” he said, not wanting one at all but suddenly afraid to offer her any rejection, no matter how trivial.
He was taken off the hook a moment later when Mr. Ahasuerus knocked on the door and entered the compartment.
“Ah, hello, Tojo,” said the tall, cadaverous blue man. “I hope I'm not interrupting."
“No!” said Tojo, so anxious to force the word out that he almost screamed it.
Ahasuerus stared at him curiously, then turned to Gloria. “I'd like to speak to you for a moment, if I may."
“I'm not working the booths!” she said defiantly.
“This has nothing to do with the carnival,” said the blue man.
“Oh?” she said, eyeing him suspiciously.
“Well, only insofar as everything that takes place aboard ship pertains, directly or indirectly, to the carnival."
“Will you get to the point?"
“Certainly,” said Mr. Ahasuerus. “It has to do with something you requested from the galley robots. I believe you called it pineapple-papaya juice."
“What's the matter with that?” she said. “It's perfectly healthy. You might even try some yourself."
“The problem,” he continued patiently, “is that our computer has nothing in its memory banks concerning the chemical composition of a papaya, so if it isn't absolutely essential to your health and well-being, would a substitute be acceptable?"
“I suppose so,” she shrugged. “Make it banana-mango instead."
Tojo made a face at the thought of that concoction, and Ahasuerus shuffled his feet uncomfortably.
