The Three-Legged Hootch Dancer: Tales of the Galactic Midway, Vol. 2

by Mike Resnick

  “What do you mean?"

  “Stogie and Gloria."

  “I don't follow you,” said Tojo.

  “Maybe they can work out a routine together."

  “But no one understands Stogie's jokes,” said Tojo. “They're all dirty, and these beings just don't relate to that."

  “So we'll have them work out a slapstick routine,” said Flint. “All pantomime."

  “Can they do it?” asked the hunchback dubiously.

  “Who knows? At least it can't be any worse than his working the Bozo cage and her playing with Monk's cats."

  * * * *

  “Well,” muttered Stogie just before he and Gloria walked out onto the makeshift stage in the specialty tent, “it ain't New York—but at least we're working."

  They had spent a full day working out a skit, rehearsing their pratfalls, practicing their mugging. Then, before trying it out on the Procyonians, Flint had suggested a practice run in front of the human crew to determine whether they were at least funny by normal standards, and Stogie had agreed.

  Now the moment was upon them, and the skit began. The old man was no longer Stogie the burlesque comedian; he was once again Max Bloom, the vaudeville headliner who could get laughs just by raising an eyebrow, who no longer needed to use four-letter words and obscene gestures to keep an audience's eyes from straying eagerly to the wings.

  “You know,” whispered Tojo excitedly to Flint, “he reminds me of Harpo Marx!"

  “Better,” replied Flint softly.

  “Then why isn't anyone laughing?"

  “Because he's not playing off of Chico or Groucho up there,” said Flint, as Gloria missed a cue, took a pratfall before Stogie stuck out his leg to trip her, and anticipated too quickly a number of obscure items he withdrew from a seemingly bottomless pocket.

  When it was over, everyone—Monk, the Dancer, Swede, Diggs, Flint, Tojo, and the girls applauded politely, and all of them except Flint left the tent.

  “Where's Gloria?” asked Flint as Stogie approached him.

  “Cleaning up. She'll be by in a couple of minutes.” Stogie paused and looked at him, his face flushed with excitement. “Well Thaddeus, are we in business?"

  “You are,” replied Flint. “I had no idea you were this good, Max."

  “I felt sharp!” enthused Stogie. “I felt alive again! It's been a long time between dirty jokes, Thaddeus."

  “Can you work up a single routine?” asked Flint. “Maybe an Emmett Kelly kind of thing? You know—go around the grounds entertaining the kids, leading them to the attractions, sort of like the carny's goodwill ambassador?"

  “No problem,” said Stogie. “But what about Gloria?"

  “Uh-uh."

  “She was that bad?” asked Stogie, as Gloria walked through the doorway of the tent.

  “Max,” said Flint wearily, unaware of her presence, “she can't even get a pie in the face without screwing up."

  The girl who was no longer Butterfly Delight silently left the tent and went to her room, where she made three rather singular discoveries: she didn't disagree with Flint, she was all out of bitterness, and she had no tears left."

  * * *

  Chapter 10

  “Jesus H. Christ!” exclaimed Flint. “What the hell is that?"

  “I think,” said Mr. Ahasuerus dryly, “that Simba's replacement has arrived."

  Flint shook his head in awe. “I wouldn't trade places with Monk for anything in the universe."

  The robots were slowly lowering a huge cage from the hold of a small cargo ship. Inside it, pacing, glaring, snarling, was an animal that seemed to be all muscle and sinew and rage. It was perhaps seven hundred pounds, built very long and low to the ground, with an amazingly flexible spine and powerful haunches that seemed made for springing long distances in very little time. Its eyes were red, its nose broad, its teeth huge and multitudinous, as if layered. It possessed four legs and a short tail that seemed to act more as a rudder than a balance. It was bright red, and covered with very rough scales. At first and even second glance, Flint couldn't decide if it was canine, feline, or reptilian; it simply wasn't like anything he had ever seen before.

  “What does it eat—besides lion tamers, that is?” he asked at last.

  “I'm sure Kargennian sent along a supply of food, as well instructions to our galley robots,” replied Mr. Ahasuerus. “A fascinating animal. Note the retractable claws, Mr. Flint."

  “Note the lion trainer, Mr. Ahasuerus,” replied nodding in Monk's direction.

  Jupiter Monk was standing, hands on hips, staring at the animal with a practiced eye. The burly trainer stood motionless for a few minutes, then turned to Flint.

  “This is someone's idea of a joke, right?” he said at last.

  “Maybe,” agreed Flint. “But it's a joke we're stuck with."

  “I'll bet every penny I've got that no one has ever trained one of those babies,” said Monk fervently.

  “What makes you so sure?” asked Flint. “After all, you've only seen him for a couple of minutes, and just in a cage."

  “That's just the way I plan to keep on seeing him,'” said Monk. “That son of a bitch is built for quickness, Thaddeus."

  “With all that bulk?” replied Flint dubiously. “I think he'd run out of gas inside a quarter of a mile."

  “I didn't say speed,” said Monk. “I said quickness. Look how flexible he is, how balanced. And those front feet made for reaching out and holding things, not just for swatting them."

  “So are a lion's."

  “Not so,” said Monk. “A lion'll swat an antelope's neck and break it. He doesn't have to be accurate. This bastard catches things with those paws. What's the return policy on him?"

  “Well, the ship's still here,” said Flint. “Do you want to put him right back on?"

  Monk stared at the creature for a long moment. “I gotta have something else for the act. Maybe if I give him a few days to calm down...” His voice trailed off. “Can we still return him in a week or two?"

  “We can try,” said Flint doubtfully.

  “Okay, that's what we'll do,” said Monk. “Has it got a name?"

  “Individually or generically?” inquired Mr. Ahasuerus, who had remained silent up to that point.

  “Either one."

  “I've seen holographs of this type of creature before,” said the blue man, “and I believe I've seen its skeleton in a museum on Lodin XI. The name is unpronounceable to you, but it translates, roughly, as Demoncat."

  “There's not that much catlike about it,” said Monk.

  “Of course, I could be wrong,” admitted Mr. Ahasuerus. “If you'd like, I can put it through the ship's computer and translator."

  “Not necessary,” said Monk, never taking his eyes from the beast. “Red Devil's as good a name as any."

  “I believe it translates as Demoncat,” corrected Mr. Ahasuerus.

  “Fine,” said Monk, walking to within a few feet of the cage. “Red Devil it is."

  “But—” began the blue man.

  “Shut up, Mr. Ahasuerus,” interrupted Flint. “He's the one who's got to get into the cage with it. The least we can do is let him name it."

  “But he's wrong,” persisted Mr. Ahasuerus.

  “I'll tell you what,” said Flint with a smile. “You train it, and you can give it any goddamned name you like."

  The blue man looked at the beast for a few seconds, then turned back to Flint and exposed his teeth.

  “Red Devil it is,” he agreed.

  “Good. That's over with.” Flint stepped aside as the robots carried the cage by and fell into step behind Monk, who led them off to where he kept his animals.

  Then, once the beast was a safe distance away, the aliens began to disembark. There were three members of Kargennian's rotund reddish race, and a dozen assorted others, about two-thirds of them humanoid in shape.

  Finally one alien, a portly three-legged creature, separated himself from the group and approached Flint.

>   “Excuse me, sir,” he said, “but I was told to report to—"

  “Never mind that shit,” Flint broke in. “Where the hell are my rides?"

  “Rides, sir?” repeated the alien blankly.

  “Yeah, my rides. You know—Ferris wheels, stuff like that."

  The alien looked confused. “I'm afraid I have no idea, sir. Can you tell me where I may find Mr. Thaddeus Flint?"

  “You're looking at him,” said Flint, craning his neck to try to see inside the hold. “Were there any big boxes or crates marked for Procyon III?"

  “I really couldn't say, sir. I kept to my quarters for most of the voyage."

  Flint turned to the blue man. “Get on board and make sure he shipped the rides."

  Mr. Ahasuerus sighed, nodded his head, and climbed aboard the ship.

  “Okay, friend,” said Flint, turning back to the alien, “why don't you and all your pals mosey on over to the Midway? I'll join you in a few minutes and we'll get to work teaching you the games."

  The alien remained standing where he was, while his companions milled restlessly in the vicinity of the landing field.

  “Well?” demanded Flint harshly.

  “Excuse me, sir,” said the alien, “but I do not know any of them."

  “Then how the hell do you work with them?"

  “I don't. I am a magician."

  “You?” said Flint unbelievingly.

  The alien reached out a stubby hand, and suddenly a bouquet of flowers appeared in it. “Me,” he replied.

  “Hard to imagine you in a tuxedo and top hat,” said Flint, “but what the hell—I guess we'll have to make do. How is it that you speak English?"

  “I took an intensive sleep-therapy course on the voyage here. Languages are one of my specialties, sir."

  “Someday you must tell me what your other specialties are,” replied Flint dryly.

  “Well, sir, I—"

  “Not just now, Houdini."

  “My name is Martthlplexorp,” said the alien.

  “Not anymore, it isn't,” replied Flint.

  “Have you some reason for choosing the name Houdini, sir?"

  “Yes,” said Flint.

  The alien waited for an explanation, then sighed and shrugged when none was forthcoming.

  “All right,” said Flint. “How the hell do I communicate with the rest of them?"

  “I assume they all have translators,” replied Houdini. “I know I was given one."

  Flint, followed by Houdini, walked over to where the aliens were milling around and whistled for attention.

  “Can everyone understand me?” he asked.

  They all looked blankly at him.

  He pulled a translator out of his belt and held it up. “Does anyone have one of these?"

  He received nothing but curious expressions.

  “Figures,” he muttered. “The son of a bitch only gave it to the one guy who didn't need it."

  By dint of hand signals and facial expressions, he managed to make them understand that they were to follow him to the games area, where Diggs was waiting. Once there, he hunted up fourteen translating devices and handed them out. Five of them required extensive adjustments before they were of any use to their new owners, but at last everyone signaled that they could understand what he was saying.

  “My name is Thaddeus Flint,” he announced, “and you are now employees of The Ahasuerus and Flint Traveling Carnival and Sideshow. We have very few rules here, but those we have must be obeyed. You don't fight with the customers, you don't leave the grounds without telling myself or Mr. Ahasuerus—he's the blue skeleton who was with me when you landed—where you're going, you never try to cheat the carnival, and you never give a sucker an even break. Got it?"

  There was a general murmuring of acquiescence.

  “Good. You'll all be quartered on the fourth level of the ship. As soon as I'm through speaking to you you'll have half an hour to go pick out your compartments and unpack any gear you may have brought along. If you've got any special dietary needs, tell the galley robots about it, and may God have mercy on your souls."

  He motioned Diggs to step over.

  “This gentleman is Jason Oliver Diggs. He likes to be called Diggs. He's in charge of the game booths. When you report back here after selecting your rooms, you will be working directly under him. He'll explain how all the games work, and assign each of you to a booth where he feels you are best suited. I would strongly recommend that you run the games precisely as Diggs tells you to, as he has been known to break a few heads when he feels he's being cheated. Does everyone understand the translation so far?"

  He waited for questions, but there were none, and continued.

  “Most of you have names that are totally unpronounceable to myself and other members of the carny. Don't worry about it. Sometime in the next couple of days we'll give you all carny names, like my friend Houdini here."

  His gestured to the alien magician. “Other than that, I strongly advise you not to stick your hands into the cages of any of the animals. Your personal habits are your own business, but you'd better show up clean and sober. That's it."

  The aliens wandered off to the ship, and Flint pulled Digger aside.

  “Did you see the big one?” he asked.

  “The green one with all the muscles?” grinned the Rigger. “I wonder if you're thinking what I'm thinking?"

  “Probably. Find out if he knows how to wrestle."

  “Fifty credits to anyone who can last five minutes with, him!” laughed Diggs. “Damn! We haven't had a real live wrestler since Sheboygan!"

  “Make sure he knows how to use all those muscles first, and then see if he's interested,” said Flint. “We'll cut him in for a quarter, but I don't want him out there unless he likes throwing people around. If he's going to be a gentleman, they'll kill him."

  “He didn't look all that gentle to me,” opined Diggs.

  “Well, check it out with him later."

  Flint walked over to the cargo ship, where Mr. Ahasuerus was supervising the unloading of a number of plastic crates.

  “Any idea what they are yet?” asked Flint.

  “Not really,” replied the blue man. “We'll have to assemble them first. I'll put the robots to work right away.” He paused and looked at the crates.

  “There's nothing as large as a roller coaster in here, that's for certain."

  “Well, then it's a damned good thing Barbara only knows how half the games work, isn't it?” grinned Flint. “I sure wouldn't want the hotshot to think he was taking advantage of us."

  “Son of a bitch!” exclaimed Mr. Ahasuerus.

  “Why partner, wherever did you learn to speak like that?” laughed Flint.

  * * *

  Chapter 11

  The odd-looking magician, still dressed in his flight fatigues, paused in the doorway and cleared his throat. When the girl didn't look up from her book, he coughed a little louder. There was still no response.

  “Excuse me,” he said at last.

  “Who are you?” demanded Gloria, looking up and then jumping to her feet.

  “I did not mean to startle you,” he said softly. “But I have become confused. Is this the fourth level of the ship?"

  She shook her head. “The third. Are you one of the new games workers?"

  “I am a magician,” he said gravely.

  “Really?"

  His broad face contorted in a smile. “Is it so hard to believe?"

  “Thaddeus didn't mention a magician. What kind of tricks can you do?"

  His gaze fell to her vanity, and he picked up a small comb.

  “May I?” he asked.

  She nodded, and he waved his free hand in the air, lowered it slowly over the comb—and suddenly the comb was no longer there.

  “That's very good!” said Gloria, smiling. “Where is it?"

  “That,” replied the alien, returning her smile, “would be telling."

  “What's your name?"

  �
�My name is...” The magician paused, then started again. “My name is Houdini."

  “Of course,” laughed Gloria.

  “May I inquire who Houdini is?"

  “Was,” corrected Gloria. “He was the most famous magician in the history of my race."

  “Truly?” he asked, and she nodded. “Then I should feel highly complimented.” He paused. “May I ask who you are?"

  “My name is Gloria."

  “And what is your function with the carnival?"

  Her face darkened for a moment, then became expressionless. “I take tickets at the specialty tent."

  “It sounds ... fulfilling,” said the magician diplomatically.

  “Does it now?” said Gloria. “Tell me about yourself, Houdini. Where do you come from?” She walked to her refrigerator. “Can I offer you something to drink?"

  “Thank you,” he said. “I'm not sure if my metabolism can cope with it, but I've had so many odd things in the past two years I suppose one more won't hurt."

  “Fine,” she said, withdrawing a pitcher of fruit juice. “Have a seat."

  “That, alas, I cannot do,” he replied.

  “Why not?"

  “Your furniture,” he explained. “It was not made for beings with a tripodal structure."

  She looked at him for a moment, as if seeing him for the first time. “You must forgive me: most of the aliens I've met are so difficult to speak with that when I come across someone like you or Mr. Ahasuerus, I tend to forget that you're really very different from me."

  “That's perfectly understandable,” said Houdini with a smile. “I must confess that I tend to think of everyone except myself as an alien."

  Gloria laughed. “Then, as one alien to another, let me ask you a question: do you ever sit down?"

  “Oh, yes,” replied Houdini. “But while I can adapt to most gravities and atmosphere contents and foodstuffs, I afraid that I cannot use any chairs that were not made specifically for my race."

  “And what is your race?” asked Gloria, pouring a glass of juice and handing it to him.

  “I am of the race of Djjong, from the planet of Hesporite III."