by E. C. Tubb
"You'll make the food taste twice as good." He looked at her clothing, a simple dress belted at the waist, one devoid of ornamentation as was her throat, her wrists, her fingers. The bells and chains and displaying garment she had worn on the boulevard were for a different kind of work. "I've been lucky," he said. "And I like to share my good fortune. I'd also like you to remember me. Let's buy something to make sure you do that."
Smiling, she led him to a booth where he bought a bracelet of precious metal set with scintillant gems. An item worth the cost of a High passage but one he could afford. As he could afford the expensive meal, the wine, the liqueurs. Bribes augmented by his charm, his attention and courtesy so that later, in the privacy of her cubicle, she clung to him with genuine passion.
"Earl, my darling! Hold me! Hold me!"
She writhed in the circle of his arms, the warmth of her nudity burning against him, the softness of her flesh triggering his own desire so that it grew to dominate the universe, to flower, to fade in soft murmurings as her fingers searched his face, his naked body.
"A man, Earl. God, you're a man!"
"As you are a woman."
"Do you mean that? Do you really like me?"
"More than like you." He touched in turn and she sighed her pleasure, snuggling close to him. "You are a beautiful woman, Helga."
"Your woman, Earl."
"Mine."
She sighed again and walked her fingers over his torso, soft pads which traced the pattern of scars marring the skin. Old cicatrices; the medals of wounds won in the arena and visible proof of his skill and ability to survive.
"A fighter," she said. "Is that how you won your money?"
"Have you known many fighters?"
"A few."
"Here?"
"No," she was scornful. "Baatz is too soft. How did you get your money?"
He said, blandly, "How did you get to work for the circus?"
"Luck." She stretched against him, her hand sliding over his chest to the muscled plane of his stomach. "I developed fast and had a friend who told me to use what I had. The circus gave me an opportunity. I worked a dance routine for a while then settled for this." Her hand began to move in small circles. "And you?"
"I had a stake in a ship and sold out."
"A good deal?"
"The best." His arm closed around her. "Who buys for the circus?"
A question she ignored as her hand moved faster, lower, her chest heaving as her breath accelerated to a sudden, unaccustomed wave of desire.
"Earl!" Her lips found his own, pressed, fell moistly away. "You're wonderful. Such a man. A hero. So satisfying. Take me, darling. Take me!"
Mechanical words used in an automatic response but beneath them was something more. A feeling expressed by the movement of her body, the hunger of her lips even as she spoke the ritual of commercial love. Dumarest recognized it, knew that she was hampered by lack of true experience, unable to do more than use words and phrases learned by rote. A woman basically a stranger to love but learning and learning fast.
"Darling! Darling!" She heaved against him in demanding fury. "Hold me! Hold me, Earl! Hold me!"
Against the fears and terrors of the unknown; the frightening abyss which lay beyond the boundaries of mechanical sex. A region which demanded emotional surrender and gave in return a hint of paradise.
After, when again the fires had died and she lay snug in the crook of his arm, she said. "Did you mean it when you said you loved me?"
"Yes."
A moment then, as a statement, she said, "You've known a lot of women. You know too much not to have done. Did you love them?"
"Does it matter?"
"You loved them. You had to love them. Some men are like that; with them it's all or nothing. Others are like machines.
They aren't interested in you as a person but simply as a body to be used. There's a difference-God, what a difference!" She reared to lean over him, breasts hanging like succulent fruit. "Am I really your woman?"
For answer he stroked her hair.
"I'd be all you could ever want," she said. "I promise that. And I wouldn't want anyone else but you, ever."
A lie though she didn't know it; her own nature and intense femininity would drive her along the path she had chosen. To love and be loved-even the facsimile of true affection would govern her life.
Dumarest said, "It's nice to think about, but don't you have commitments? A contract?"
"It can be broken. If you've enough money they'd let me go."
The moment he'd been waiting for. He said, casually, "It's a thought. Who would I have to see to make the deal?"
"I could arrange it."
"No, things like that are best done personally." A smile made the remark innocuous, a smile he retained as he said, with equal casualness, "How does it work? I mean, if someone's sold to the circus what happens to them?"
"They have to be trained. Washed, fed, dressed, healed sometimes and taught to walk and stand and smile." Her eyes narrowed a little. "Why the interest?"
"Curiosity. I guess they must be kept in a special place. That dome with the false stairs?"
"That's the infirmary." She stooped to trail her breasts across his face. "Kiss me, lover."
He obliged. "The one with the spirals?"
"You're close. Again."
"Tell me."
"It's next to the one you said." Straightening, she frowned. "Why the interest?"
Dumarest shrugged. "There could be money in it. A man I met in town has lost his daughter and thinks she may have been sold to the circus. He's willing to pay well to get her back."
"His daughter?"
"That's what he said. She's young, bleached hair, thin, washed-out, half-starved. Her name's Melome. Maybe you've seen her."
"No."
"You could find out about her. Find out where she is. Fix it to buy her back."
Dumarest felt his anger rising as Helga shook her head. "Why not? Damn it, woman, why not?"
His anger betrayed him, was reflected in her face, her eyes, the rising tempo of her voice.
"You came here looking for her. Your girl. Lying to me. Using me. Making me feel I was something special. Promising- you bastard! You dirty bastard! Out! Get out! Out!"
"The girl!" Dumarest reared as she came at him, hands extended, fingers hooked, nails aiming at his eyes. "Melome!"
His hand thrust out in a defensive blow to save his eyes. The blow slammed against the woman's jaw and sent her rolling from the bed to lie shrieking on the floor.
"Rube! Rube! Hey Rube!"
The warning carny cry which spelled trouble and the need for help. Any circus worker within earshot would answer on the run.
Dumarest snatched at his clothes, found his knife, rose with it in his hand as men burst into the cubicle. Three of them armed with clubs. They halted as they saw the gleam of the blade, the man holding it in a fighter's stance. Their leader, a man with close-cropped hair and the massive bulk of a weight-lifter, glanced at the girl.
"Helga?"
"A pervert! The bastard hit me!"
"She's lying," said Dumarest. "If I hit her where's the mark?" The pad of his hand had cushioned the blow. "I'll leave but when I do I'll be dressed and walking." He turned the knife, light from the overhead lantern splintering from the steel, fuzzed on the edges and point. "Anyone have other ideas?"
"I'll handle this." The big man lowered his club as his companions left. To Dumarest he said, "I'll take you to a raft and, mister-don't ever try to come back!"
The shop was a cave of wonders; of ruffles and flounces, leather, plastic, feathers, belts glowing with filigree, garments heavy with fictitious gems. In the dim lighting the owner was a snuffling wasp who stared and shook his head in disapproval.
"A clown?"
"A clown." Dumarest was patient. "Nothing too elaborate. I want to crash a party," he explained. "It's a fancy dress affair and I'm not too popular with the host. His wife, you understand." He saw the th
in face crease in a frown and quickly adapted the story. "She doesn't like the plans I've made for her sister. If she hadn't interfered we'd have been married by now."
"An affair of the heart?" The costumer beamed, mollified. "But a clown?"
"It seems appropriate-all men in love are fools."
"True, but there is an art in these things. A soldier, now, or a great lord or a captain from space-you have the look and bearing of such. But a clown-who can take such seriously?"
"Exactly. You can supply me?"
"Of course. But you had better strip." The costumer gestured at the tuin Dumarest wore, high-collared, tight at the wrists, falling to mid-thigh. The pants and high boots. "The art of costume is to dress from the skin-only then can you really slip into the part."
"I'm not acting, just pretending, and I won't be wearing the costume for long. Could we hurry?"
Minutes later Dumarest left the shop, stooping, his head and face hidden by a grotesque mask, his clothing by a loose garment of ragged tatters. One which led to flared pants trailing the ground and all in blotches of vibrant color. He swayed as he moved toward the area where the circus rafts were kept, using a bottle to daub himself with alcohol.
It was past midnight and the area was apparently deserted, but as he reached it a shape loomed from the shadows.
"You there! What do you want?"
"A ride." Dumarest halted, swaying, lurching closer to the guard. "Gotta get back to the cus… cir… gotta get back."
"You're drunk." The guard wrinkled his nose at the reek of spirit. "Stinking. Why don't you sleep it off?"
"Gotta get back."
"Sure. Tomorrow at first light." The clown was of the circus and the circus looked after its own. "Bed down in a raft." He gestured toward the grounded vehicles and laughed. "Pick a soft one."
Dumarest picked the one farthest from the light falling over the rail, muttering, changing the mutter to a snore. He heard the crunch of boots as the guard came to check and sensed the impact of the man's eyes. Satisfied he turned away and Dumarest relaxed, unclenching his hand, opening his eyes to look at the stars. They were blotched by patches of cloud but clear enough to check their wheeling. A clock which measured time for the guard to relax and fall into a doze. For the circus to bed down for the night.
The raft was locked, the key missing, as Dumarest had expected. The knife whispered from his boot and eased away the casing over the control panel. Wires lay exposed, black in the starlight, and he traced them with his fingers to select two pairs. Insulation shredded beneath the edge of the blade. A twist and the vehicle became alive.
Dumarest sent it upwards, rising like a shadow, soundless save for the hum from the antigrav units. A good vehicle and well-maintained-the circus could not afford accidents. When the town had fallen far below and the boulevard was a thin streak of brilliance he sent it toward the place where Melome would be waiting.
A short journey but one longer by night and he strained his eyes, searching the hills, grunting his relief as, far to the left, he saw the glow of massed bubbles. Poor navigation and he corrected it, swinging wide so as to approach from the far side. The lights were dim, the glow a pearly sheen which hid sharp detail, and he halted the raft as he examined his target.
Where had Helga said?
He thinned his lips as he remembered the woman, the incident her jealousy had caused. His own fault-he should have remembered the double standard of those who followed her profession. The sudden tempers and demanding passion. The brittle emotions and fierce possessiveness, but his own urgency had made him careless.
Where had she said?
A dome moved before him as he touched the controls; one daubed with lozenges of color now dulled by starlight. A walk which wasn't real, a sweeping arch, a winding path, a spire-all the products of illusion. A minaret circled with a staircase…
Stairs?
The infirmary, Helga had said-would Melome be there? The woman hadn't said and, at the time, she'd no reason to lie. There, perhaps? There?
Again the raft moved and Dumarest narrowed his eyes. Starlight and shadows altered perspective and robbed colors of distinctive hues. Was that dome white with red spirals or black with white? Close, Helga had said; the place he wanted was close to a spiraled dome. But which?
He had to take a chance. To drift was to invite discovery. The raft dropped as he made his decision, softly, lightly, coming to rest on taut membrane, indenting it, the plastic rising as he adjusted the lifting units. A delicate balance but shielding domes would protect it from any wind and those same domes would keep it hidden from the ground.
Dumarest left the raft and looked around. He'd landed on the roof of what he assumed to be a gallery; part of a convex web lying between soaring domes. One close to him was ridged in a pattern of fluted columns, another, smaller, bore snarling beast-masks, the mouths ugly with fangs. He left them behind as he walked to where the web branched, halting as he reached the target he had chosen; a cone which held a steady rustling, one set with a ladder that was real.
A vent, he guessed, or an induction tube feeding the pumps which maintained the internal pressure. The gilded summit would hold filters and the ladder was to allow access. The place should have a door yielding to inner mechanisms, and he found it on the far side, a narrow panel which jerked open to reveal a dimly lit interior filled with a louder murmuring and the scent of dust.
From below came the sound of voices.
"… had about enough. If Zucco pushes me much harder I'll quit."
"That's your privilege, but he's not so bad."
"He's an animal. Well, to hell with him. Playing tonight?"
"I'm bushed and the luck's against me. I'm for the sack."
Odd scrapings rose above the murmuring; tools being set in their place, Dumarest guessed, or cans being moved. The men could be roustabouts on cleaning or maintenance duty, tired now, careless, but it would be a mistake to take that for granted. Yet to find another entry would take too much time. The external membrane was too tough to slit and, even if he slashed an opening, air loss would register.
Dumarest stripped off the clown's mask and costume; if the circus had bedded down it would arouse attention and would hamper quick movement. Stairs led down from where he stood and he moved down them, freezing as something moved at their foot. His face was in shadow, the grey of his clothing blending with the wall behind him-only movement would betray him.
He saw the blur of a face looking upwards, the hand which reached for the rail.
"Leave it, Brad." The other man, invisible, echoed his fatigue. "We'll sweep out tomorrow. Come on-I've had enough."
The face vanished, the hand, and Dumarest heard the pad of boots, a sighing rustle, then silence. Cautiously he moved to the floor below. The air-vent passed through it and from the vibration he guessed the pumps were below. Brooms, cans, dusters stood racked against a wall together with loose coveralls and peaked caps. He donned one, slipped a loose coat over his shoulders and picking up a broom, pushed his way through the rollers of an air-trap.
Beyond lay the curve of a gallery, another door, a room holding tables, chairs, people.
Circus folk at recreation.
Men for the most part though women were among them, all casually dressed, none in costume though some bore the traces of makeup. Cards, bottles, plates of small cakes stood on the tables and, on the far side, a man swore as he rolled dice.
"Six again-damn the luck! Three times down in a row!"
A woman said, "Give it up, Sakai. Lose more and you'll be paying to work."
"That'll be the day-there's always the punters."
"Try lifting their cash and you'll be out on your butt." The woman, a hard-eyed, hard-faced brunette with skin raddled beneath her paint, poured more wine into her glass. To Dumarest she said, "Hey! Come to sweep us out?"
He grimaced, lifting the broom, pointing ahead.
"Swamping, eh? Rather you than me. Say, you new here?"
He nodded, ge
sturing with the broom again, acting the mute. To talk would lead to conversation which could betray him.
A man called, "Guide him right, Zulme."
"Sure." She pointed to a door to the left. "Through there, swamper. Then the first door to your right. Clean good, now, or Draba will be after your tail."
Laughter followed Dumarest as he left the room. A short passage lay before him and he passed the door to his right. Then one led to something he chose to avoid-the laughter had lacked true humor and he guessed the woman had made him the butt of a joke. An air-trap ended the passage and he squeezed through it, scenting the sudden acridity of the air. An odor which strengthened as he reached a door, cracked it open, passed through into a soft dimness.
"Melome?" She could be asleep, resting-the place was where he judged she might be. "Melome?"
Then, suddenly, he was fighting for his life.
CHAPTER THREE
It came from the shadows, a blow which tore the peaked cap from his head, raking downwards to shred the loose coat from his shoulders. One which would have torn the scalp from his head had Dumarest not acted with unthinking speed. A stir of the air warned him, a gust of fetid odor, the sense of movement and he was moving forward and down to cushion the blow which slammed against his back. Feeling the impact of it. The grate, as claws ripped into his tunic to meet the protective mesh buried in the plastic.
The metal saved him from crippling lacerations but he felt the bruising fury, the shock, the force driving him to the floor.
He rolled as he hit, rolled again as something struck close enough to sting his eyes with wind. Something looming monstrous in the gloom, a shape of hair and limbs and a squatly huge body. One with claws and fangs gleaming with a greenish phosphorescence.
A beast spawned on some radiation-lashed world now snarling with a killing rage.
It lunged forward, foot raised to kick, taloned nails to rip out Dumarest's stomach and spill his intestines. A blow which would kill even if the mesh held, rupturing the spleen, pulping liver. A blow which missed as he flung himself over the floor, rising to back, almost falling as his foot hit the broom.
A weapon he snatched up and poised, bristles forward, the points aimed at the back-sloping face, the eyes. A thrust and he dodged the reaching claws, darting to one side as the thing pawed at its sockets. A minor irritation and it snarled as again Dumarest attacked, snatching at the broom, snapping off the head to leave him with a splintered stick.
