City of Baraboo

TWENTY-SEVEN

Adjya Sum, Nuumiian Ambassador to the United States of Earth, looked from beneath his dark hood with cold, approving eyes. Those eyes studied Karl Arnheim, former President of Arnheim & Boon Conglomerated Enterprises. The human sat at the visitor's place at the Board of Directors' table, arms folded, legs crossed, eyes steady. Many Nuumiians held the humans in contempt, but not Sum—not since Karl Arnheim had taken on his Goatha against John J. O'Hara.

Several of the directors seated around the table wriggled under Arnheim's stare, reaching self-consciously under linen collars with sticky fingers. Karl Arnheim was possessed of a fine hate—a hate that had been fine-tuned by his removal as President of A&BCE—a hate that a Nuumiian could both understand and respect.

The Board's Secretary cleared his throat, nodded quickly at Arnheim and the Nuumiian without taking his eyes from his notes, then turned his head toward the head of the table. Almost dwarfed by the plush chair at the head of the table, former A&BCE accountant Milton Stone nodded back. "You may begin, Otto."

The Secretary again cleared his throat. "Very well... Karl Arnheim, in possession of twenty-seven percent of the voting stock of A&BCE has placed before this board a motion in accordance with the charter of A&BCE, that being—"

"Skip that." Milton Stone smiled. "Let's get to the motion. I'm certain that we all understand the rules."

"Yes, Mr. Stone." The Secretary flushed, ran his finger around his collar, and again cleared his throat. The Nuumiian gave an imperceptible nod. Sum knew that even human insensitivity could not ignore Arnheim's wrath. The secretary flipped a page, then began reading. "The motion... proposed by Mr. Arnheim... is to remove the present Board of Directors and... officers, and to have the stockholders elect new officers and—"

"Very well, very well." Milton Stone looked around the table, stopping on Karl Arnheim. "Karl, I don't want to appear abrupt, but you have put this board to a great deal of trouble with this stunt." Stone leaned forward, put his elbows on the table, and pressed his fingertips together. "You are a maniac, Karl. You would destroy this corporation in your crusade to destroy O'Hara's Greater Shows, which is something we can't have. A&BCE ran the Arnheim & Boon Circus at an incredible loss for over two years, while every other circus on the star road was making incredible profits—including O'Hara's, I might add. We had to remove you in order to protect our own shares, and I warrant we shall do so again." He turned to the Secretary. "Otto, would you get Mr. Boon on the closed channel. I think we're ready to vote." Ambassador Sum noted Arnheim's pleasure as the angry man threw down a stack of papers. "Don't bother, Otto. You see, as of this morning, Mr. Boon is no longer a stockholder of A&BCE. I now own fifty-three percent of the voting stock."

As the color drained from faces around the table, the Secretary; fumbled with the papers. After reading the same thing over twice,; he looked up at Stone. "It... it's true, Mr. Stone."

There was but a hint of a smile on Karl Arnheim's lips as he turned to the secretary. "Otto."

"Yes... yes, Mr. Arnheim?"

"As your last official act, record the following ballot result:

All officers and board members are canned. Replacing them, myself as President; Adjya Sum as Vice-president, Deerji Muszzdn, Treasurer; Cev To Linta, Secretary—"

Milton Stone stood up and slapped his hand onto the table. "You are a maniac, Arnheim, if you think you can get away with this! Stacking the board with Nuumiians? The rest of the stock holders can get this whole thing thrown into court! You're responsible!"

Arnheim pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and balled it up. Taking the paper ball between thumb and forefinger, he flicked it down the long table and watched as it came to rest against the Secretary's hand. "That's the list of officers and directors." He looked around the table, his gaze coming to rest on Stone. "Gentlemen, at this moment your shares in A&BCE are worth close to twelve hundred credits apiece. I am offering, this one time only, to buy them from you at that amount." He grinned. "I think you know what would happen to their value if even a hint of top-level scandal made it into the news, much less the courts. What shall it be, gentlemen: go out with a sure thing, or go down in a flaming wreckage of principles?" He dropped his grin. "I might add, that with my present control of A&BCE, I can deliver the orders that will destroy this corporation before one of you can make it across the street to file any kind of action."

Ambassador Sum nodded again as he watched the directors shakily signing over their shares. A fine hate; a fine hate, indeed.

TWENTY-EIGHT

May 4th, 2145

En route to Mystienya, fifty-second planet of the Nuumiian Empire, under special arrangement that will guarantee the show's minimum for the season. Reports from the advance are good...

Tom Warner stopped at the edge of the pit, his calves still aching from the steep climb. He caught his breath, looked up at Mystienya's deep purple sky, then turned and looked down into the pit. Through the haze of poisonous rock dust, he could make out a few of his people—busting the milk rock from the pit walls, gathering it into baskets, balancing the baskets upon tired backs, then trudging the steep trail to the bins at the pit's lip.

"Human!" The loudspeaker instantly froze everyone in the pit. One by one the workers realized that the guard was not addressing them and went back to work. Tom Warner looked up at the hermetically sealed tower. "Where are you bound, human?"

"Honor, I am to report to the village master at this hour."

The voice paused for what the Nuumiians called the fear moment. "Proceed, human."

He bowed his head toward the tower, then turned and headed up the slope toward the village, knowing the guard's eyes would follow him until he disappeared over the crest of the slope, in case Tom Warner was foolish enough to make a gesture. Jason had made the gesture once; hand extended, fingers spread out, palm facing the guard. None of the humans knew the meaning of the gesture to the Nuumiians, but it was the only time any of them had seen one of the creatures angry.

Tom Warner held the flat of his hand against his thigh. As he reached to top of the slope, another of the hermetically sealed guard towers came into view. Beyond it lay the village: sheet metal and plastic rows of barracks.

"Human, where are you bound?"

Tom lurched to a halt, drew his hands into fists, took two deep breaths, then looked up at the tower. "Honor, I was told to report to the village master at this hour."

The Pause. "For what purpose?"

"Honor, I do not know."

The Pause. "Proceed."

Tom stepped off, but his knees almost buckled. He shut his eyes, flexed his fingers, and took more deep breaths. Hate is not an emotion with them, he thought. It is a creed? a religion, a philosophy. He felt the knots of muscles in his back ease slightly, and he moved toward the village, not looking back.

The rock dust covering the ground thinned as he approached the village, and Tom slapped at his rags in a futile attempt to raise the powder into the air and walk from it. As he came into the center street of the village, the exact rows of featureless barracks facing it, he approached the guard tower that straddled the dusty lane. The town guard was different. "Warner, you are back from the pit too soon."

Tom shrugged. "Honor, I must report to the village master." The town guard appeared friendlier than the others, and Tom wet his dusty lips and took a chance. "Honor, do you know anything about it?" Tom wet his lips again. Friends of his had been shocked for making unnecessary communications to guards.

"I do not know, Warner. Perhaps it has to do with a new group of pit workers coming to the village."

Tom let out his breath. "Honor, my thanks." He waited for the order.

"Proceed, Warner."

Tom stepped off, mentally shaking his head. He shrugged, thinking that zookeepers took an interest in their animals once they got to know them. He turned right off the street, came to a barrack door, and opened it. He stepped into the dimly lit interior and closed the door. The hallway was short with a door on either side and a door opening onto the workers' sleeping bay at the end. Tom turned right and opened the door. A sallow-faced man, seated at a simple table, looked up from some papers, squinted his eyes, then nodded. "Come in, Tom."

Tom entered the combination office-bedroom, closed the door, and sat down on the cot against the wall, next to the table. "What did you want to see me about, Francis?"

Francis DeNare, village master, pushed thin white wisps of hair from his eyes. "Tom, we're getting in a new lot of workers for the pit. They will be billeted here at the village."

Tom chuckled and shook his head. "Where? We don't have enough cots as it is."

"We'll have to manage somehow."

"Francis, what about rations? They weren't increased with the last lot. A further cut in calorie intake might kill some of the old ones."

Francis shook his head. "No increase in rations." His eyes appeared to go out of focus, then they turned in Tom's direction.

Tom looked at the floor. "If they would feed us and give us just a little modern equipment, we could increase production by a thousand percent."

Francis smiled. "Tom, what do you suppose it is that they do with the milk rock?"

Tom shrugged. "I always supposed it was an ingredient in cement—something like that."

Francis shook his head. "The rock that we mine is taken by the members of another village to another pit, where it is dumped." "You... you're certain?"

Francis nodded. "The runaways that passed through the hills last night, they told the hands working the vegetable patch."

Tom leaned back against the wall, held his hands out, then let them drop into his lap. "Just because they hate us."

"The Nuumiians blame humans for limiting the expansion of the Empire."

"Humans didn't do it; the Quadrant Assembly—" "—Which has a majority of humans on it." Tom raised his eyebrows and nodded. "I suppose that's all that a Nuumiian needs to crank up a good hate." He looked at Francis.

"Wouldn't it have been nice—as long as the Assembly was settling the Nuumiian hash—if they had given a little thought to Mystienya?"

Francis looked back at his papers. "We were the price for three other planets—a matter of compromise. Three uninhabited worlds could be made open by the Assembly if they let Mystienya remain within the Empire."

"But, why?"

Francis shrugged. "Mystienya has humans on it; we're the Empire's therapy." He picked up a sheet of paper and handed it to Tom. "This is the new billeting assignment schedule." He shrugged. "Do what you can."

Tom looked over the sheet, shaking his head. He looked up at Francis. "Where are the new workers from?"

"A traveling entertainment of some kind. The Nuumiian that informed me of the new lot said that this was a small advance party, and that many more could be expected in a few days. Someone is working the Goatha on them. I wonder what they did to earn it?"

"I'm still trying to figure out what we did to earn it." Tom bit his lower lip, then changed the subject. "Have you heard anything about Linda and my boy?"

Francis shook his head. "Nothing new from the hostage camps for over twenty days now." The old man reached out a hand and gently placed it on Tom's arm. "I'm certain they are all right. As long as we play the Nuumiian's silly games, they promised to keep the women and children safe."

Tom shook his head. "Three years. Three years. How much longer will this silly game last? How long does it take a Nuumiian to work off a good hate?"

Francis looked down and shrugged. They both suspected that the answer to that question would be forever.

TWENTY-NINE

Cev To Linta, the Nuumiian Empire's adviser to O'Hara's Greater Shows, stepped down from the Baraboo's Number One Shuttle and watched as the humans went about the task of building the circus's tent city on the lot. The one called O'Hara walked up to him, nodded, then turned his attention toward the unloading, a frown on his face.

"Something concerns you, Mr. O'Hara?"

O'Hara lifted a hand and rubbed his chin, then turned to the Nuumiian. "I don't know. Tick Tock, that's our twenty-four-hour man, should be here. He isn't."

The Nuumiian nodded. "Does that cause difficulty?"

The human shook his head. "No. He left instructions." O'Hara scratched the back of his neck. "He should be here, though. Our radio room can't raise any of the advance shuttles, although the Blitzkrieg reports nothing unusual."

"It is probably radio interference, Mr. O'Hara. This planet is noted for it." The Nuumiian bowed his head. "Which reminds me, I must call in my own report to my superiors. If you will excuse me."

O'Hara nodded. "Of course. Hurry back. The cookhouse will be open in about twenty minutes."

Cev To Linta bowed again, then turned and headed toward the low, domed buildings at the edge of the lot. Karl Arnheim's Goatha appeared in good order. It was often said that humans cannot understand or appreciate the Goatha, but the human Arnheim gave the lie to that tale—or at least he appeared to. He had taken no instruction in the art/science/religion of revenge, yet his steps toward working Goatha on the human O'Hara seemed flawless. Cev To Linta had no desire to have a preview of Arnheim's revenge, since the Goatha is best appreciated as its artist chooses to unfold it. Still, thought the Nuumiian, how will Arnheim make his revenge—his Goatha—unique to O'Hara and patterned to a thing as curious as a circus? It must be a very special Goatha. Cev To Linta hoped that the human's seemingly natural flair for revenge would not be disappointing.

Ambassador Sum removed the tiny plate from his forehead and placed it on the phone hook. Nodding, he turned and faced the human Arnheim. "Linta has reported that the first elements of the City of Baraboo have landed at the field near Shazral."

Arnheim, seated comfortably in Sum's office, nodded slowly. "And the advance is on its way to one of the work camps?"

Sum nodded. "As you instructed."

Arnheim studied the Nuumiian. "Ambassador Sum, I want to thank you for all of your help—"

Sum waved a hand. "It is I who should be thanking you. Not only have you made me and a few of my associates very wealthy, despite having bought up all of those circus companies, you also have allowed us to participate in your Goatha."

Arnheim frowned. He still didn't understand the purpose or workings of this Goatha thing, whatever it was. Revenge for the form and beauty of it seemed foolish. He shrugged. Whatever it was, he seemed to be doing everything right. Arnheim met Sum's gaze. "The next step, Ambassador, is to fill his tent with a cheering crowd. Can that be done?"

Sum rubbed his hands together and nodded. "It is as good as done." Sum took a deep breath and looked in admiration at Arnheim. That a mere human, without instruction, could work such a Goatha—it was inspiring.

"After that—"

Sum held up his hands. "No! Please tell me no more. I don't want you to spoil the ending for me."

Arnheim frowned again at the Nuumiian, then shrugged. Whatever, he thought.

THIRTY

Francis DeNare stood at the base of the village guard tower and looked over the new lot. They wore rough, but colorful clothing, and confused looks on their faces. The large one in the front row of the hundred and forty studied Francis for awhile, then raised his eyes to study the guard's capsule on the tower. Troublemaker, thought Francis. There has to be one in every lot. He cleared his throat, then addressed the group. "As part of the Nuumiian Goatha, this village was established for the purpose of avenging the limitation of the Empire. For this purpose we mine the milk rock, which is for no purpose. It appears that you are here serving another Goatha." Tom Warner emerged from the barracks entrance, walked over and joined Francis.

"Everything is about as squared away as I can get it."

Francis nodded, then noticed the dust rising from the direction of the pit. He turned back to the new lot. "It is too late to join the afternoon shift. Tom Warner here will show you where you sleep and where you eat." Francis looked back at the tall one in front. "Things are already close to survival limits. So... don't make trouble." Francis turned and looked up at the tower. "Honor?"

"Yes, De Nare?"

"I have finished with them. Is there something you wish to say?"

The Pause. "Humans, the secret to getting along is to go along. Escape, disrespect, failure to work, causing trouble in the village, all are punishable in the shocks. DeNare?"

"Yes, Honor?"

"Leave the big one behind. Send the others to their barracks."

"Yes, Honor." In moments the street was clear as doors slammed and low voices directed fearful footsteps.

The large man thrust beefy hands into his trouser pockets, looked around at the empty street, then looked up at the guard tower. "Well?"

"Your name, Human."

The big man spat on the ground, not to clear his lungs, but just for the sake of it. He looked back up at the tower. "Dirak. Stretch Dirak. I'm the advance manager for O'Hara's Greater Shows."

The Pause. "Dirak, I understand the Goatha of the humans that arrived before you. What is the nature of your Goatha?"

Stretch shrugged. "Beats me."

"I do not understand 'beats me.' "

"I don't know what a Goatha is, and if I did, I don't know how it applies to us."

"That is curious." The tower guard paused. "Dirak, do you know who you offended? Perhaps I can appreciate the Goatha from that knowledge."

Stretch grinned. "I haven't offended anyone, as far as I know. But what if I scooted up to that little egg of yours and knocked it off that perch? Would that offend—"

A blue streak of light sizzled from the tower, engulfed the big man in a blue envelope, then it stopped. Dirak sank to the street. "You must not threaten force, human. It is punishable by the shocks. Warner." The volume from the tower increased. "Warner!"

Tom Warner rushed from one of the barracks and came to a halt next to Dirak. He looked up at the tower. "Yes, Honor?"

"Warner. You know I never like to use the shocks, but this one threatened me with force. You must explain to him—and to the others—all of the rules. I do not want to have to use the shocks again!"

Warner bowed toward the tower. "Yes, Honor." He squatted next to Stretch Dirak. The big man's eyes were dazed and his arm and leg muscles twitched. Warner looked him over. "You're lucky. Pussycat doesn't like to use the zap; any other guard would have fried you to a crisp."

Dirak's hands flexed, then formed into fists. "Let go of me, you—! I don't have to take that—"

Warner slapped the big man across the face. "You take it, just like everybody else here takes it, Dirak! That is, if you want to live!"

Dirak stopped shaking, and his eyes became very cold as his stare fixed on Tom. Warner felt a chill at how the big man looked at him, then he stood and pulled Dirak to his feet. Dirak staggered a bit, then looked up at the tower. "Kind of touchy, aren't you?"

A long Pause. "If you had not been holding Dirak, I would have put him in the shocks. Do you understand, Warner?"

"Yes, Honor."

Warner turned Dirak toward the barracks. The big man leaned heavily on Warner's shoulders and followed. "Warner, what kind of a nightmare is this?"

Warner barked out a bitter laugh. "I've been asking myself the same question for the past three years."

Night came early on Mystienya. The purple sky grew black, while sharp little gusts whipped the canvas of the main tent. O'Hara listened as the windjammers cued the finish of the next to the last act, then swung into the march for the spectacular. Duckfoot Tarzak, the Boss Canvasman, was standing in the dark examining the main tent and keeping an eye on the wind. A roar of applause erupted from the audience, and O'Hara turned away and walked toward the office wagon. Still no word from the advance.

As he approached the wagon, Billy Pratt and Warts approached from the opposite direction. They met at the wagon's steps, and the Governor looked at Billy. "Well?"

Billy Pratt shook his head. "There's not a bill or poster up anywhere in the entire town. Warts and I hopped transportation and went on to the next stand. Same thing."

The Pendiian rubbed his chin, then shook his head. "I don't understand it." He looked at O'Hara. "Mr. John, is the Flying Squadron late getting off?"

O'Hara frowned, then held out a hand in the direction of the location formerly occupied by the animal top, cookhouse, and maintenance wagons. "They left a half-hour ago."

Warts shook his head. "We didn't pass them on our way back. What route did they take?"

"There's only one hard-surfaced route to the next stand. Is that the one you took?"

Warts and Billy Pratt nodded. Billy scratched the back of his head. "Mr. John, we didn't see vans, wagons, shuttles—nothing. It's like they were swallowed up."

O'Hara looked at Billy, then looked back toward the main top. Billy Pratt was a good enough fixer but at that moment the Governor wished the Patch were back. Several dark shapes made their way around the end of the main tent, paused, then moved off toward the front entrance. O'Hara looked back toward the Boss Canvasman. "Duckfoot!"

The Boss Canvasman looked away from the canvas, saw O'Hara, then walked over. As he came to a stop, he nodded toward Billy and Warts, then faced the Governor. "Mr. John."

"Duckfoot, how long will it take you to get up the Irish Brigade?"

The Boss Canvasman shrugged. "They're ready."

"Ready?"

Duckfoot nodded. "I always do that first stand on a new planet. Just in case a few towner skulls need to be massaged. Have you heard something?"

"Still nothing on the advance." He cocked his head toward the office wagon, then climbed the stairs. "Now it looks like the Flying Squadron is missing." He opened the door to the wagon, entered, and turned on the lights. As Duckfoot, Billy, and Warts came in, O'Hara went to the communication console next to his desk and jabbed a few buttons. He sat down and spoke into the speakmike. "Boss Hostler, this is O'Hara. Skinner, where are you?" Silence. The Governor repeated the message several times, then leaned back, shaking his head. "What in the hell is going on?" He turned his head and faced Billy Pratt. "Billy, chase around and find me that Nuumiian... Linta. I want some answers, and I want them..."

The windjammers stopped playing, and sounds of many feet rushing past the wagon caused the Governor to spring to his feet. Duckfoot opened the door, put one foot on the steps, then backed into the wagon, followed by the blunt muzzle of a Nuumiian stun gun. The Nuumiian entered next, then nodded at O'Hara. It was Linta. "Goatha."

Billy Pratt took a step toward the Nuumiian, was slammed the entire length of his body by an invisible force, then he sank to the floor of the wagon, unconscious...

THIRTY-ONE

Havu Da Miraac turned over on his sleep plate, hoping to stretch out his blank period until mandatory awakening. Finally, he turned flat on his back and sighed. Too many things were on his mind. He turned his head to the right, opened his eyes, and examined the time instrument mounted on the console underneath the forward view bubble. Eight more sweeps before the awakening. Havu sat up, checked all four view bubbles, then examined the lay of the village. Nothing had changed since the most recent consignment of humans twenty day cycles before. At the end of the village street, the large canvas structure that had accompanied the consignment stood sagging in the quiet air, the colored flags at the tops of the supports still.

Havu stretched, swung his legs off of the sleeping plate, and stood on the deck. The plate automatically folded up against the lower wall. With a flick of his blue, four-fingered hand, he erased the darkening field above the capsule, allowing Mystienya's cu-inous light to enter and flood the interior of the tiny room. Moving to the center of the room, he stood upon a recessed plate and basked for a few moments in the cleansing ray, then he stepped off, removed his day's rations from the supply bank beneath the console, and sat down to eat first meal. After finishing the ration bars and stim milk, he tossed the wrappings into his recycler, put on a clean uniform from the clothes press, then seated himself before the console to begin the day's watch. He checked the time instrument again: one-and-a-half sweeps to go.

The screen of the night detection field showed the irregular, slight traces of some of Mystienya's sparse animal life scrabbling among the rocks and harsh scrub grass for food. Havu shook his head and extinguished both the night detection field and the repulsor field that protected the capsule while he slept. Why had the humans decided upon this forsaken planet to settle, he wondered. He swung his chair around, swept his gaze around the bleak horizon, and came to rest looking at the huge canvas tent. The construction of the tent by the consignment had been the most recent bit of excitement at the village. Again he toyed with the thought of leaving his capsule to walk among the humans, and again he discarded the notion as foolish. The time instrument beeped, and Havu touched it to silence. He stared at the instrument, wondering how many times the instrument had cycled since he had been stationed at the village. He shook his head, then looked back at the barracks. Soon he would follow the routine, shouting "Awake! Awake!" to rouse the tired humans from their scant cots and sleeping places. Then he would watch as they went to the barracks to eat an inadequate meal, and he would watch some more as they formed up before the tower for roll call. Then he would watch as they moved off to kill themselves at the milk rock pit.

Havu frowned. Guards weren't supposed to ponder such things. Standing watch in a capsule could drive one mad, if one pondered such things as routine, boredom, and—what was it? Injustice? He slumped back in his chair and pondered that the Goatha worked on the original lot of humans by orders of the Imperial Chamber at the instruction of the Royal Family. The humans believed themselves destined to conquer, to be free, to work at purposeful tasks. Is taking a mere handful of humans, conquering them, enslaving them to work at pointless labor a true Goatha? Especially when the humans suffering the Empire's revenge were not the ones responsible for the limitations placed on the Empire's expansion? It was a Goatha not worthy of the Royal Family.

He leaned forward, flicking on the village address system. Havu had much higher hopes for the Goatha being worked on the circus humans. He pressed the button that illuminated the village buildings, then he spoke into the address system. "Awake! Awake!" He paused for a moment, then smiled. "And, good morning!"

Billy Pratt dropped the chunk of milk rock into the basket, stood, and pressed his hands into the small of his back. The sun burned into the dust-filled pit, making the air hot as well as thick with dust. A few steps to his front, Stretch Dirak swung a pick against the pit wall, breaking loose pieces of the chalky substance, which would then roll to Billy's feet. As he looked around, everyone else in the pit was stooped over loading baskets or chopping at the walls. Billy shook his head. "What for?" he asked no one in particular. The sounds of mining drowned out his voice. What for, he thought. Bust out the milk rock, load up the bins, just so they can be taken someplace else and dumped.

"Human!" At the call from the guard tower, everyone in the pit stopped. Billy looked around. "Yes, you. The one standing. Bend your back, human. You have mountains to move."

Billy stooped over, shaking his head. "A regular damned poet," he muttered. "Mountains to move." As he picked up another chunk of rock, he saw another dust-coated figure move next to him, stoop down, and pick up a chunk of milk rock. Without turning his head, the figure spoke.

"Keep your eyes on your basket, and whisper when you answer. I'm Tom Warner. Your name?"

"Billy Pratt." Billy tossed the rock into the basket, then stooped and picked up another.

"That was your first and only warning. If he catches you loafing again, it's the shocks."

Billy had seen one of the other circus people get the shocks, and he redoubled his efforts. "Warner."

"What?"

"Just what is this Goatha thing?"

Tom shrugged as he reached for another rock. "Revenge. That's all I know. Francis seems to understand it better than I do."

"Francis? The human who runs the camp?"

"Yes." Tom dropped the rock into his basket and reached for another. "Do you know anything about the revolt? That big guy Dirak and the one you people call Duckfoot have been planning something, haven't they?"

"Why not? We can't spend the rest of our lives at this."

Tom shook his head. "It's been tried before. It won't work."

Billy almost stood and eased his back, but caught it in time and reached for another rock. "Why not? I only count three guard towers, and between the circus people and your crowd, there must be four thousand of us."

"I tell you, it's been tried. Those towers are invulnerable. I want you to talk to the revolt leaders and get them to call it off. Otherwise all of us will suffer."

"How can I..." Billy watched as Tom Warner hefted his basket, shouldered it, then staggered off toward the path to the bins at the lip of the pit. Billy turned back to the rocks and tried to concentrate on the strange way the village had been awakened that morning. The guard called Pussycat calling "good morning." It was a piece to a puzzle that he had yet to assemble for lack of pieces.

There was no way that he could influence the others about the revolt. Billy grimaced thinking of the way the others looked at him, half in blame for what had happened. No one came right out and said that he was responsible, but what they did say was enough. I sure wish the Patch were here. He'd know what to do. Patch would get us out of this. With Patch we never would have gotten into this—and so on. Billy was the show's Patch now, but no one called him that.

Billy spat onto the dusty ground, bent over and hefted his basket. Arthur Burnside Wellington, the Patch had haunted him ever since joining the City of Baraboo on Pendiia. The older fixer was a hard act to follow. It was always: Patch wouldn't have done it that way, or the Patch would have done a better job, or I sure wish the Patch was back with the show. After coming back from the pit the day before, he had spoken to the Governor about it. Mr. John was not sympathetic. Are you the fixer with this company? Yes. Then fix it, Billy. The show is in the cart. It's your job to get us out.

Billy shouldered the basket and turned toward the path. "Just what am I supposed to do?" he muttered.

"Stop work and form up for roll call!" An audible sigh arose from the pit at the sound of the guard's call. Billy lowered his basket, and when he stood he saw Stretch Dirak staring at him with narrowed eyes. Billy turned away and moved to where the other pit workers were making formation.

THIRTY-TWO

That evening, as Havu Da Miraac munched on his fourth meal ration, he watched the tired humans dragging themselves back from the eating building. A few stood in the dying light and talked briefly, then wandered off to their barracks and sleep. The horizon was already obscure, a hazy black against the purple-black of the darkening sky, and Havu flicked on the night detection field. He would wait until the street was clear before energizing the repulsor field. He looked down at the detection field's screen to check the zones outside the village limits and saw only a few minor tracings. Between the eating place and the barracks, however, wide red tracings marked the passage of the humans. One tracing moved from the eating place, came before the tower, and stopped. Havu frowned, then looked through the forward view bubble. The human, thin and dust-coated like the others, was looking up at the tower. Havu pressed the roll-call grid, narrowed its field to take in only the being standing before him. He studied the readout, then looked at the man.

"You are Billy Pratt, with the circus Goatha."

The man jumped as though startled. He looked around, then back up at the tower. "Yes... uh, Honor. I was just looking at the tower. I didn't mean anything by it."

"I am not offended." Havu paused for a moment, then shrugged. Why not? He was bored. "Pratt, what are you with the circus?"

"Fixer... legal adjuster." The man laughed and held out his arms. "I'm supposed to keep the show out of situations like this." The man looked down at his feet, shook his head, then looked back up at the tower. "Honor, mind if I ask you a question?"

"I do not mind."

"Do you stay in there all the time?"

"My watch is for a year. I remain in here during that period."

"Don't you get... well, bored?"

Havu leaned back in his chair, held his hand over the shock trigger, then lowered the hand to his lap. His movement made him realize that the human had hit upon a sore point, but it was not the human's fault. The question was reasonable from a human point of view. "I am not supposed to. Guards are picked for their aptitude at isolation."

The human made a strange face. "But, do you get bored?"

Havu studied the creature, then made a decision, "Yes. At times I am bored. I have entertainments in my capsule, and there is the Goatha to observe, but even so I get bored."

The human rubbed his chin. "Mind if I ask another question?"

"No."

"A couple of people have tried to explain it to me, but I really don't understand. What is a Goatha?"

Havu opened his mouth to speak, the subject being his favorite, but he stopped. The human seemed intelligent, and eager to learn. The Nuumiian checked his personal weapons rack, thought again of the endless days remaining on his watch, then he turned back to the figure before the tower. "The Goatha is something that needs to be explained at length... after you return from the pits tomorrow and stand roll call, come to the tower and stand beneath it. We shall have an evening together to discuss it."

Every human on the village street froze, their mouths hanging open, as though Havu had unleashed a wide-band shock. The human called Pratt closed his mouth, then nodded. "Okay. I'll see you then." He pointed at one of the barracks. "Can I go now?"

"Proceed."

The human moved off, and Havu watched as the rest of the humans in the street became animated again, moving off to their sleep places. Two large humans followed Pratt into a barracks, and in moments the street was clear. Havu energized the repulsor field, then stood and surveyed the interior of the capsule. Pratt may be simply curious, but he is also a prisoner, thought the Nuumiian. Havu went to his clothes press and pulled out his street uniform, the one with the individual repulsor field antenna woven throughout the fabric. It had been half a year since its last use, and he placed it back into the press and tripped the denser, noticing somewhat in a state of surprise that he was looking forward to his first evening with company.

Billy Pratt felt a ham-sized hand land on his shoulder moments after he had entered the barracks. He looked around and saw Stretch Dirak looking down at him. Stretch cocked his head toward the door opposite Francis DeNare's. "I'm tired, Stretch." He nodded at Duckfoot, then looked back at the man holding his shoulder. "I'm on my way to bed."

Stretch opened the door with his free hand and shoved Billy Pratt inside the door. Tom Warner looked up from his cot and frowned at Stretch. "What's all this?"

Stretch and Duckfoot entered, and sat on the bed opposite Warner's. Stretch reached out a hand, closed the door, and pushed Billy down on the edge of Tom's cot. Stretch pointed at Billy. "Pussycat has invited Billy to dinner."

Tom raised his eyebrows, stared at Billy, then turned back to Stretch. "I... how. I mean—"

"Never mind that. You've been against the revolt from the beginning—said it couldn't work. What if we got someone in the tower?"

Tom sat up, rubbed his chin, then looked at Billy. "Do you think you could kill a Nuumiian?"

Billy looked from Tom, to Stretch, to Duckfoot, then back to Tom. His eyebrows went up several notches and he got to his feet. "Oh no! Nossir, not me—"

Stretch pushed him back down onto Tom's cot. "Sit down Billy and shut up. Right now you're our only chance."

"I'm no commando, Stretch—"

"You're not much of a fixer, either." Stretch turned to Tom. "What about it? If he gets into the tower, do we have a chance?"

Tom nodded, then smiled. "A chance." He turned, reached behind the head of his cot, and tugged at a piece of the plastic wall. It came loose, Tom reached in with his hand, and came out holding a wooden gun. He held it out to Stretch.

"What's that?"

"If Pussycat lets Billy into the tower, you can bet Pussycat's going to be wearing his armored longjohns. We found out about them two years ago when we... tried our own revolt."

Stretch frowned. "What happened?"

"We had watched them change guards. When the change takes place, the one inside comes out, goes through a little ritual with his replacement, then gets into a little scooter thing left by the other guard. That's when we tried to rush them, but we were stopped by their repulsor fields—then came the shocks." He pursed his lips, then nodded. "Pussycat is going to have to have that field on pretty low inside the capsule. Otherwise he'd blow out the walls."

Stretch turned the gun over in his huge hands. "What about this, then?"

"It's spring-loaded and it fires a sharpened metal bolt." Tom paused and looked at Billy. "If Pussycat is going to eat or talk, he can't have that field covering his face. Shoot this into it."

Billy swallowed as Stretch dropped the gun on his lap. It was small with a small lever beneath the barrel to release the spring lock. The part holding the spring was wrapped many times with heavy wire. Stretch turned to Tom. "When we take the tower, can we use the weapons in it to take out the other two towers?"

Tom nodded. "The shocks will reach that far, and when Billy has his date, we'll all be back in the village. That way we won't have to be too careful about aiming." Tom turned to Billy. "When are you supposed to go?"

Billy's throat felt dry. "Right after coming back from the pits."

Tom nodded. "You better keep that, then. Stick it in your waistband underneath your shirt. You won't have time to pick it up. Remember, just stick it in his face and pull the trigger."

Billy looked down at the gun, then up into Stretch's face. "Stretch, I... I..."

Stretch grabbed Billy by the shoulder. "You can at least do this much for your show—and these others—can't you?"

Billy looked down, swallowed, then tucked the gun under his shirt. He stood and headed toward the door. "I'm going now."

As Billy opened the door, Stretch stood. "Don't foul up, Billy. Understand."

"I understand." Billy left the room, stopped in the small hall and stared out of the barrack door toward the tower. He closed his eyes and shook his head.

THIRTY-THREE

On the City of Baraboo, Karl Arnheim was waiting as Ambassador Sum stepped out of the docked shuttle's airlock. "Come to inspect your new attack transport, Ambassador Sum?"

Sum studied the human, then shook his head. "I came up because what I have to say is not something to trust to the airwaves."

Arnheim frowned, then turned toward the ship's wardroom. "Let's go where we can talk." He walked down the corridor, turned into the open hatch, and motioned to a built-in seat, in which the Nuumiian sat down. Arnheim turned to the wardroom's bar. "Refreshment, Ambassador?"

"No. Nothing."

Arnheim shrugged, poured himself a cup of purim, then sat in a seat across the wardroom table from the Nuumiian. "Very well, Ambassador Sum. What seems to be the problem?"

Sum leaned on the edge of the table. "Perhaps nothing, Mr. Arnheim; perhaps everything. Your Goatha is drawing the attention of the Imperial Chamber."

Without changing expression, Arnheim sipped at his drink, then placed it on the table. "So?"

"Mr. Arnheim, the destruction of O'Hara's Greater Shows as part of an artistically executed Goatha is well within Imperial Law. But, there are some in the Imperial Chamber who suggest that you are doing this, not as an act of Goatha, but as a simple act of pecuniary gain."

Arnheim leaned back and studied the Nuumiian. "I derive nothing from this, save the destruction of John J. O'Hara. As you very well know, this stunt has already cost me plenty, and I'm not even claiming the ship. We agreed that the ship and all its equipment would be turned over to the Empire for its own use."

Sum nodded. "This has kept most of your critics at bay; however, a simple act of destruction—one without style—will not be tolerated either."

"Style?"

"I am aware of your ignorance concerning the Goatha, and to be frank, Mr. Arnheim, that is what has me nervous. Thus far you have done exceptionally well. Having the performers arrested by a cheering audience—a very nice touch. But, although it may spoil it for me, perhaps I should be told the end of this. If the Goatha is not resolved adequately, we could all be ruined through our forced restitution to Mr. O'Hara."

Arnheim slowly nodded, took another sip from his drink, then lowered it to the table. "Do you mean that if I don't destroy O'Hara according to some set of rules, he gets off and I lose my shirt?"

Sum nodded. "An apt description."

Arnheim tossed off the rest of his drink, then placed the cup on the table and folded his arms. "Perhaps, then, you should explain to me a little more about this Goatha."

Havu Da Miraac pondered the human Billy Pratt sitting nervously across the folding table from him. Pratt had seemed to enjoy the trip into the capsule on the elevation field, and had almost squealed with delight as he stood, clothes and all, in the clenser to rid himself of the dust. But, soon after the human had eaten his rations, he plunged into long, silent periods punctuated with twitches and looks over his shoulder through the view bubble. There were only a few of the humans on the street. Most of them were in the eating place. Havu sighed. He hadn't enjoyed the experience nearly as much as he had hoped he would. Pratt had been silent, jumping, groping under his shirt. Soon Havu would have to order him out so that the human could get some sleep before the next day's pointless work. Perhaps a Goatha existed, to whatever small degree, in the treatment of the original lots of humans. Havu still couldn't see the Goatha working on the circus people. He wished he had imagination enough to work the Goatha on the Imperial Chamber for tying up guards to supervise the remains of inept revenge.

"Pratt, before you asked about the Goatha."

The human jumped and quickly withdrew his hand from under his shirt. "Yes." Pratt took a deep breath, then nodded, letting the air out slowly. "Yes."

"Well?"

Pratt shrugged. "I just don't understand it. You Nuumiians have made a religion out of hurting people?"

"No, no." Havu shook his head. "The Goatha is not hurting people, except as a peripheral function of what you call revenge."

"I don't get the difference."

Havu frowned, then leaned on the tiny table. "Goatha we use to mean what you call revenge, but we use the same word to describe what you call justice. In your language, Goatha literally means an evening of scales."

Pratt shook his head. "Now I'm certain I don't understand." He half turned and pointed a finger toward the village street dotted with tired humans trudging their way back from the eating place. "This is not what we call justice. As near as I can figure it out, your Goatha has your Empire taking out its frustrations on these people, and they aren't even the ones who put the brakes on your bunch. I don't see any 'evening of scales' here."

Havu nodded, then shrugged. "To some, the humans are of one body—that by subjecting one human to a Goatha the entire body of humans is subjected—"

"Stuff and nonsense."

Havu sat up and his fingers closed around the handle of the stun gun he had placed on his lap. "Explain that."

"If what you say is true, then there would be no reason to do what you are doing to these people. Not all of them. You could satisfy this Goatha by doing it to only one human."

Havu released his grip on the weapon and studied the human. He had said in words what Havu had almost thought many times. The Imperial Chamber's Goatha—it's form?—was a makeshift affair, an excuse, a rationalization, and a poor one at that. "True, this is a poor example of Goatha."

Pratt leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. The human, seemed no longer nervous. "Give me a good example of a Goatha."

"Very well." Havu thought for a moment. "A classic Goatha is told of in the Nuumiian Chronicles. It seems that Hakkir and Joldas were brothers, and both desirous of obtaining Aiela for a mate. Aiela favored Hakkir over Joldas, and Joldas set about the task of disgracing Hakkir in Aiela's eyes. Joldas stole some livestock from his father's estate, sold it, and made it appear as though Hakkir had performed the deed. When the deed was discovered, Hakkir's father disowned him and banished him from his father's land. When Aiela heard of this, she also disowned Hakkir and turned her favor to Joldas." Havu said as an afterthought, "this is called the Benth."

Billy Pratt frowned. "Benth?"

"Yes. The foundation of every Goatha is the Benth—the imbalance of the scales—the cause, if you will. How would you feel if you were Hakkir; that is, how would you feel toward Joldas?" "Not good. I don't know if I'd kill him, but the urge would be there."

"That would be unartistic, crude striking out, Pratt, not Goatha. But, you understand the Benth?"

"I think so. The Benth for the Goatha the Imperial Chamber is working on those people out there is that the Empire has a tradition of expansion, but that the Quadrant Assembly—largely in the control of humans—put a halt on it. Therefore, the Chamber picked another bunch of humans to work their Goatha on, much like Hakkir picking just any Nuumiian off the street to get back at Joldas. Is that about it?"

Havu sat back, scowled at the human, then shook his head. "For the moment, let us only consider Hakkir and Joldas." Havu realized that he was feeling slightly ill. It was true that the Goatha of the Imperial Chamber did not bear close examination. But, to question a Goatha dictated by the Royal Family? It had never been done.

"Havu, what about Hakkir and Joldas? I think I understand the Benth"

Havu let the use of his familiar name pass without notice. "Very well. From the Benth Hakkir could design either a Jah or a Najah to work on Joldas. The Jah is to deny a goal." "Like killing Aiela. That would deny her to Joldas." Havu nodded. The human appeared very quick. "But, instead, Hakkir chose the Najah. The Najah allows the object of revenge to achieve the goal that caused him to Benth, or make the un-evening of the scales. But, it is done in such a manner that the achievement of that goal evens the scales—Goatha."

Billy Pratt nodded. "Joldas gets the girl, but finds out he doesn't like what he gets."

"Yes," Havu leaned back and sipped at his drink, thinking that he was, after all, enjoying his evening. "Next, you must understand Hakkir's feelings about Aiela and his father. His father had not believed him when Hakkir had claimed innocence."

"So Hakkir's father had also unevened the scales, as well as Aiela. She didn't believe him either."

Havu smiled and nodded. "He decided to work Jah on his father, whose goal was the honor of the family name, and on Aiela, whose goal was to mate with a rich husband. All of these elements, you understand, become parts of the same Goatha. Where the art comes in is that Hakkir must work the Jah on his father and Aiela, and the Najah on Joldas with the same act."

Billy Pratt studied the top of the table as he rubbed his chin and nodded. "Sweet revenge."

"I do not understand."

Billy looked at the Nuumiian. "When an act of revenge is particularly apt—when the revenge fits the crime, so to speak, we humans call it sweet revenge." He nodded again. "I think the Goatha is something I can understand. Go on. What did Hakkir do?"

"Hakkir disappeared to begin a new life under another name, leaving behind a note confessing all of his crimes in such a manner that Joldas was implicated and the information made public."

Billy Pratt held up his hands. "Wait. Let me see if I can tell what happened. Joldas was put up for trial?"

"Yes."

Billy nodded. "And it wiped out his fortune."

"He was found guilty and was required to pay the court a large sum. Too large."

"This public disgrace, of course, ruined the father's good name, his Jah, and left Joldas without a bean, Aiela's Jah." Billy leaned back and smiled. "And, of course, since Aiela was mated to a pauper, she became something less than desirable."

"A veritable monster."

"Joldas's Najah." Billy nodded again. "There is something of beauty in the Goatha."

"There is a part that I haven't explained. The Hazb makes the Goatha complete, and with his note, Hakkir also performed the Hazb."

"Let me guess. It's letting the objects of the revenge know who is responsible for it."

"That, and that they must suffer on that account."

Billy nodded, then his face became serious. "For the humans in the village that were here before we came, I see them suffering a range of the Jah, and certainly the Hazb is causing some suffering, but I don't get the connection between the Benth caused by the Quadrant Assembly and the Goatha being worked on these people."

Havu clasped his hands. "As I said, it is a poor example." Billy looked around at the village street and studied the barracks doorways. Three hundred human colonists of Mystienya along with another three hundred circus roughnecks were waiting for the signal that the tower had been taken. He turned back. "I should be getting to my barracks. We must do this again sometime."

Pony Red Miira sank down onto the straw next to the bulls. They could keep the animals, and care for them, but only in their spare time, which meant time usually used for eating and sleeping. Pony raised an eyebrow as Billy Pratt entered the far end of the animal top, walking next to the Governor. Stretch Dirak and the colonist Warner followed. Pony turned over on his side and closed his eyes. After a day of hauling rocks, then caring for the animals, conversation was definitely not on his things-to-do list.

"Pony?"

Pony opened an eye, aimed it at the Governor, then closed it. "No one here by that name."

The Boss Animal Man felt a boot stimulate his hindquarters with a swift kick. He turned around, fists clenched, noticed it was the Governor's boot, then frowned. "Just what'n the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Can't afford to have you sleep your life away, Pony. Get your gang up and start getting this company ready for parade."

"Pa... what?" Stretch helped Pony to his feet as Billy and the Governor walked off between the cage wagons. Sticks Arlo, the show's director of performers, rushed through the animal top entrance, then joined the fixer and the Governor. Pony looked at the advance manager. "Stretch, can you tell me the score?"

Stretch released the Boss Animal Man, then shrugged. "All I know is that in about ten days we make parade and put on a show." He grinned, then shook his head. "It's been explained to me, but I'm still not sure what's going on."

Pony Red frowned at the cage wagons. "Parade, huh?" He turned, took a few steps, then planted his own boot against the backside of one of the animal men sacking in the top. "Snaggletooth, get up and get those wagons ready for parade. They're filthy!"

"Hah?" Snaggletooth yawned and rubbed his soft end. "What is it. Pony?"

"Parade in the works; get up and I want those cage wagons to sparkle. Where's Waxy?"

Snaggletooth shook his head to clear it, then pointed toward the other end of the tent. "Waxy's down there sleeping with the rosinbacks."

"Get down there and tell him that I want all harness cleaned, repaired, and polished."

"Parade?"

"You heard me!" Snaggletooth elevated off the straw and moved at top speed toward the other end of the tent. Pony turned his head toward Stretch. "We'll be ready, but... what for?"

Stretch grinned. "Goatha!"

Slippery Sash looked up from his spot on the floor to see the Amazing Ozamund looking glum. "What is the trouble, my friend?"

Amazing looked up from his place against the wall, then looked back at the floor. "Slippery, I don't know what to do. I just don't. Mr. John wants me to figure out a way to deliver papers to all of the camps. I told him it was impossible, and he said that's why he's giving the job to a magician." Amazing shook his head.

Slippery pursed his lips, frowned, then smiled. "Come, come, my friend." He pushed himself to his feet and took a place on the floor next to the magician. "Cannot the greatest magician in the Universe, in combination with the Universe's greatest escape artist, devise a simple thing such as delivering the mail?"

Amazing raised his brows and looked at Slippery. "You have an idea?"

Slippery shrugged. "These Nuumiians, Ozzie, they are rank punks when it comes to locking a fellow up. Sometime remind me to tell you of my experiences in Kuznetsov Maximum Security Center—ah, now that was a challenge! Something a fellow could get his teeth in!" He shook his head. "Of course, the hardest part in trying Kuznetsov was getting in. I had the Devil's own time getting assigned there—"

"You have an idea?"

"Of course, of course." Slippery sighed. "But paper is such a small thing." His eyes lit up. "Now, if the task were to sneak out the bulls..."

THIRTY-FOUR

At the vegetable patch above the hostage camp, Linda Warner stood, stretched her back, then noticed the men on the road below. They were the ones from the dump camp pulling the rock-filled carts from the pit camp to be dumped. She looked back at the vegetable patch and shook her head. The addition of the circus women and children made that many more mouths to feed, and they had to be shown how to do everything. And that fat one named Bubbles—she could hardly move, yet she practically ate a normal person's weight in food every day, if she could get her hands on it. Linda nodded. "Well, we'll trim her down some."

She picked up her weeding tools, turned, and headed down the slope toward the hostage camp. As she came to the road the men from the dump camp were crossing in front of her. Several of them nodded at her as she searched their faces for Tom. She knew he was at the pit camp—or had been—but there was always a chance. She glanced up at the guard tower rolling along behind the column of carts, then turned her eyes toward the ground, resigned to waiting. While she watched the procession of creaking wheels and dusty feet, she saw a heavy envelope thud into the dust on the road. The feet passing by kicked dust over the envelope, making it undetectable as the guard tower rolled by.

Linda crossed the road behind the tower, dropped her rake, and bent over to pick it up. As she stood, she lifted the envelope, covering the action with her body. She slipped the package underneath her shirt into her waistband as she left the road.

Could it be word from Tom? Linda forced herself to walk the path to camp slowly. As she approached the midway guard tower, she heard Boomer's voice ring out. "What is the matter, Linda?" She could never be certain, but Linda suspected that the guard they called Boomer was no more thrilled at having to guard them than she was at being guarded. "You look sad."

"Of course, Honor, I am. It is the Goatha."

"True, true, Linda, but it is such a poor one. One should not suffer so..." Linda smiled inwardly as Boomer cut himself off in his criticism of the Royal Family's Goatha. So, even they were scared, she thought.

"May I go now, Honor?"

The Pause. "What was that you picked up on the road, Linda?"

Linda felt her blood run cold. "My rake, Honor... I dropped it."

The Pause. "Proceed Linda."

When she reached the limits of the hostage camp, still with her back toward Boomer's tower, she waited until the end barracks came between her and the camp guard tower. Immediately her hand darted under her shirt and withdrew the envelope. She wiped the dust from it on her shirt front, then squinted at the name. "Iron Jaw Jill." Linda felt tears burn her eyes as she replaced the envelope, realizing just how much she had hoped for word from Tom. But the package was for that pushy old woman from the circus, the one who directed their ballet girls. Linda smoothed the front of her shirt as she came into view from the camp tower. Then she walked over to the shed and left her tools. While inside the shed, she pulled out the envelope, thinking to ditch it. After all, if she were caught with it, it would mean the shocks. She looked at the package again, then nodded and replaced it beneath her shirt. As much as she disliked Jill, she couldn't do that to her. She shook her head at the thought that some man thought enough of the old circus crone to risk the shocks and send her a message.

Linda stepped from the shed into the sunlight, then turned and walked directly toward her barracks. As she entered, she saw the women in her barracks from the circus, as usual, gathered around Iron Jaw Jill, picking up the pearls of wisdom that the old jabbermouth issued by the carload. Linda walked up to Jill, pulled out the envelope, and handed it to her. "This is for you."

As the old woman sat down and opened the envelope, Linda turned and began moving toward the door. "Honey?"

Linda turned. "Yes?"

Iron Jaw Jill held out a scrap of paper. "This is for you. From someone named Tom." Linda took the scrap of paper with shaking hands. Dearest Linda and Bobby, I am well and love you both. Do all you can to get the colonists to do what Iron Jaw Jill says. All my love, Tom. Linda moved to a sleeping pallet and lowered herself upon it. Then she read the letter again. When she finished, she looked at Jill. The old woman was shaking her head and rubbing at the hairy wart on her nose. "Well, troupers, I always said Billy Pratt was crazy, and now I got proof." She shook her head again, then looked at the other papers. "Well, well. The Governor's crazy too." She looked up, then handed a wad of papers to one of the ballet girls. "You. Get everyone in camp to sign that. Don't miss a soul. Linda Warner will get someone to help you with the colonists." She looked at Linda, and Linda nodded her assent. Jill looked at the other girls, then smiled. "The rest of you have an easy task. All you have to do is figure out how we're going to put on a show with no animals, no rigging, no costumes, and no men." Jill stood, scratched under her chin, then looked down at Linda. "After you find someone to help Plain Jane get the signatures, I think you better explain this Goatha business to me—real slow."

THIRTY-FIVE

On the planet that was the namesake of the Nuumiian Empire, Zereb Ni Su, the King's Designate to the Imperial Chamber, bowed to the assembled deputies, then took his seat. The special session had been called by a one-third delegation of Chamber Deputies, which meant that the young radicals were probably going to make another attempt to force a new government on the monarchy. As the deputies seated themselves in regular rows of benches facing his podium, Zereb smiled inwardly. He was an old hand at defending the King.

Below the Designate's podium, facing the deputies, the Chamber Moderator arose. "This Chamber is declared in session. I will accept a motion to dispense with opening formalities." The Moderator turned around and smiled at Zereb, who nodded back. Zereb had made the request. The young windbags would take up enough of his day.

Several mumbled responses of assent were heard, the Moderator put it to a vote, and the motion was passed without dissent. A deputy at the rear of the chamber stood. "I seek recognition."

The Moderator bowed. "You are recognized, Deputy Misu Czhe Banu." The Moderator sat down.

Deputy Banu surveyed the chamber, then spoke toward the Moderator. "Honored Moderator"—he cocked his head to one side—"brother deputies"—he returned his gaze to the front. "Several times I have risen before this body to question the King's Goatha against the colonists of Mystienya—"

"I protest!" Another deputy jumped to his feet. "The King's Goatha is against the Quadrant Assembly, not the colonists of Mystienya!" Zereb nodded at the Loyalist deputy, who smiled and nodded back.

Deputy Banu stared at the Moderator. "I wish the Moderator to censure my brother deputy for his rudeness."

The Moderator nodded. "You are censured, Deputy Vaag, for speaking out of turn." Vaag nodded and resumed his seat on the bench. "You may continue, Deputy Banu."

Banu looked around the chamber. "We have heard the King's Designate to this Chamber claim—rather lamely—that the Benth of the Quadrant Assembly can be resolved by submitting the humans of Mystienya to the Jah. Zereb Ni Su reasons that the Benth of one human is the Benth of all humans; that by subjecting the colonists to the Jah we by the same act subject the Quadrant Assembly to the Jah." He looked around the Chamber again, his glance coming to rest on the King's Designate. "I think we all know this to be foolish reasoning."

Cries of dissent went up from the benches. Banu held out his hands, and the Chamber quieted down. "Nevertheless, because this Goatha—if we can dignify it by that name—came to this Chamber under the King's seal, this body has seen fit to accept this reasoning." Banu paused for a moment, then looked at the Moderator. "If we accept the connection between the Assembly's Benth and the colonist's Jah, then we must accept that the colonists' Hazb is the Quadrant Assembly's suffering, as well."

Murmurs of assent rose from the King's supporters. Zereb, exercising his privilege as King's Designate, stood and bowed toward the moderator. "It is well for the Empire that our dissident deputies have seen fit to conform their positions to that of the majority, although I hardly think it requires a special session of the Chamber to make their conformance known. Is there something else Deputy Banu wishes to bring before the Chamber?"

Banu smiled. "One other thing." He nodded at a page, who in turn left the Chamber and returned with an armload of papers. Banu faced front. "If we accept that the colonists' Hazb fulfills the Goatha by making the Quadrant Assembly suffer in some... abstract manner, then we must also accept that the failure of the colonists' Hazb fails as well with the Assembly, thereby leaving the act, not a Goatha, but a grotesque act of aggressive war against a helpless and inoffensive population!"

As the page put the papers on the wide railing before Banu's bench, Zereb stood. "Does Deputy Banu seriously expect this Chamber to believe that the human colonists of Mystienya, condemned to work out their lives at intolerable, pointless labor, are not suffering?" He sat down amidst chuckles and snickers from the Loyalist Deputies.

Banu picked up one of the sheets of paper. "I would like to read something into the record. Every one of these sheets of paper begins the same way. 'To the Royal Family of the Nuumiian Empire and to its Imperial Chamber of Deputies: We the undersigned wish to express our earnest appreciation for the treatment accorded us by the Imperial Chamber. Hard work, orderly routine, and humiliation have shown us the meaninglessness of the lives we led before. Our lives are now enriched beyond calculation and as we set about our daily tasks, there is not one of us that does not feel gratitude to the Royal Family for its consideration.' "

Banu picked up the stack of papers. "This was presented to the embassy on Mystienya by one of the village guards, and sent immediately to the Chamber by members of the Embassy staff sensitive to what this document means. It has been signed by every living human on Mystienya, both colonists and the employees of that circus ship that served as the objects of another Goatha tolerated by this chamber." Banu turned toward the deputy who had argued in the past on behalf of Ambassador Sum and Karl Arnheim. "Offhand, brother, I would say that this document sours your Mr. Arnheim's Goatha, as well."

The King's Designate shook his head as the entire Chamber stood and demanded recognition.

"Hold your horses! The elephants is comin'!" Havu Da Miraac leaped for the tower's shock triggers as the audio pickups screamed horrible shrieks throughout the guard capsule. From the canvas structure at the end of the village street, a double line of white horses moved out, followed by a number of the curious Earth elephants. Humans in grotesque costumes and paint fell over themselves, hit each other and squeezed the bulbs on huge horns. Wagons came next, followed by humans dancing, throwing balls in the air, carrying huge snakes, and walking on their hands. The procession turned right and headed toward the tower.

"Humans! All of you! Stop! Stop now!" At a signal from one of the humans at the front of the column, the parade halted and became silent. The colonists lining the edges of the street cheered.

"Silence! Be silent, else I shall turn the shocks on you!" The humans became quiet and Havu took a deep breath. He looked down at his guard net panel and saw warning lights from the camp towers in all of the villages in his sector. He looked out of the view bubble, saw that the smiling humans were not attacking the tower, then signaled net control. "This is guard post one at village seventeen."

The speaker crackled for an instant, then a voice shakily answered the call. "What is your report, seventeen?"

"I... I don't know. What's happening?"

"We don't quite understand it at this point. Celebrations of some kind seem to be taking place at all of the camps. None of the posts that have been checked so far have been threatened."

Havu looked over the humans on the street. They were happy, almost estatic. "What should I do?"

"Have they threatened you?"

"No. Not yet."

"Use your own judgment, then. Report anything unusual. I must get on with other calls."

Havu switched off. The human called Billy Pratt moved out from one of the barracks and came to a halt before the tower "Havu?"

Havu studied the human, then keyed his address system "Billy Pratt. What is this?"

The fixer rubbed his chin, looked back at the halted parade, then turned back to the tower. Pratt had a smile on his face. "Honor, you know about the note of gratitude sent to the Imperial Chamber?"

"Yes. I understand that the signed papers from this camp left here without my knowledge, which displeases me."

The human looked stricken. "We had no intention of displeasing you, Honor. We simply wished to express our gratitude as a single people."

Havu looked at the halted column. "What is this parade about, Billy Pratt?"

The human shrugged. "We are simply demonstrating our happiness at our situation, Honor."

Havu studied the humans along the street, and in the column. Then he returned his glance to Billy Pratt. He leaned back in his chair, thought a moment, then nodded. His laughter rang inside the tiny enclosure as he nodded again and again. When he had control of himself he looked upon Billy Pratt with new eyes. "Goatha. A double Goatha. Well done." He laughed again, then keyed the address system. After all, he had been ordered to use his own judgment. "Continue. Continue the parade, Billy Pratt. I apologize for my interruption." Havu leaned forward to watch the parade, the rough outline of his report to the guard center forming in his mind.

THIRTY-SIX

At the pit, John J. O'Hara stood next to Tom Warner as both of them swung their picks at the pit wall. "Humans O'Hara and Warner! Stand before the tower!"

O'Hara put down his pick, cursed his aching back, smiled, then faced the tower. "Yes, Honor, I would be happy to." Up on the rim of the pit he could see a human standing among a delegation of Nuumiians. He recognized Karl Arnheim, then dropped his pick, choosing a path that would pass by the stooping Billy Pratt. The fixer sang as he picked up chunks of rock and dropped them into his basket. "Billy, they're here."

Billy turned, glanced at the rim of the pit, then turned back to his basket. "Good."

"This better work."

Billy finished filling his basket, then hefted it to his shoulder and faced the Governor. "It will, Mr. John. The fix is in."

Warner shook his head and frowned. "This whole thing seems so stupid."

Billy nudged Warner with his free arm. "Smile when you say that, stranger."

All three smiled as they walked the steep path to the rim of the pit to the sounds of singing and laughing. While Warner and O'Hara joined the delegation at the base of the tower, Billy Pratt walked to one of the bins at the edge of the pit and dumped in his load. Holding the basket in one hand, he turned and began walking toward the path. "Your name, human?'

Billy looked up at the tower. "Honor, my name is Billy Pratt."

"You will come to the base of the tower."

"My pleasure, Honor." Billy joined Warner and O'Hara and the three of them stood grinning at the Nuumiian delegation.

One of the Nuumiians stepped forward. "My name is Adr Ventzu Fung." He turned toward Billy. "We asked the guard if we could speak to you, as a representative of the workers, rather than as a leader, such as Mr. O'Hara and Mr. Warner."

Billy grinned and bowed. "It is my honor. How may I help my benefactors?"

Karl Arnheim stepped forward. "That's their fixer. Get someone else."

Adr Ventzu Fung studied Arnheim, then shook his head. "Everyone has a function, Mr. Arnheim." He turned back to Billy. "Do you own or manage any part of O'Hara's Greater Shows?"

"No, Honor."

The Nuumiian delegation leader shrugged at Arnheim. "He is one of the workers. I think you have consumed enough of our time, Mr. Arnheim. We shall proceed." He turned to Warner. "Am I to understand that the colonists look upon their subjugation as beasts of a meaningless burden as a favor?"

Warner nodded and smiled. "Oh, yes, Honor! It has brought us happiness..." he looked at Billy, then turned back to the Nuumiian. "And it has relieved the suffering born into every human. We rejoice at our work."

The Nuumiian turned toward O'Hara. "And you?"

The Governor nodded, his face wreathed in smiles. "Yes, Honor. How can we ever repay our debt or express our gratitude?"

The Nuumiian glanced at Arnheim, then studied the happy, coughing workers in the pit. He turned back to Arnheim. "Well?"

Arnheim glowered. "They're putting you on! Don't you see?" He turned to O'Hara. "It's me, John. I'm the one who wrecked your show and got you stuck in this dust bin. Me! Do you understand that?"

O'Hara stepped forward and clasped Arnheim's hand. "Oh, thank you, Karl. We haven't known who to thank until now. How can I ever repay you?"

Arnheim pulled his hand away, and turned to Billy. "You're Billy Pratt. You used to work for the Abe Show, and I know about you. Tell these people what's going on here, and I'll make it worth your while."

Billy smiled and held his hand out toward the pit. "I don't see how you could do much more for us, Mr. Arnheim."

Adr Ventzu Fung turned to the rest of the Nuumiian delegation. "Brother deputies, I don't think there is anything left to investigate. Of the nine villages we have seen, none of them has taken the Royal Family's Hazb. This village has taken neither that Hazb nor Mr. Arnheim's." He turned back to Warner and O'Hara. "The only matter left is the amount and form of restitution the Chamber shall make to these victims."

Havu Da Miraac saw the people from the village marching back from the pit and could hear them singing something about working on a thing called a railroad. He opened the floor hatch to the capsule, stepped into the elevation field, and lowered himself to the village street. In moments the villagers stood in even ranks before him. Pratt, Warner, and O'Hara stepped out and came to a halt in front of him. He turned to Billy. "What happened?"

Billy Pratt danced a little step, then came to a halt smiling. "Perfect. A halt has been put to everything until the Chamber votes on the restitution."

"What is the restitution they will recommend?"

"For the colonists, the removal of Nuumiian government, the restoration of human control, and eight billion credits. For the circus, return of all equipment, the ship, replacement of anything lost on Mystienya, and the minimum guarantee for the season promised by the Nuumiians because of Karl Arnheim."

Havu turned to Warner. "I would like to stay on Mystienya."

Warner nodded. "No problem, Havu. I think you'll be useful, since we're still pretty close to the Empire." Warner turned to O'Hara. "What about the show?"

O'Hara thought a moment. "Well, we contracted to do a season on Mystienya, and I think that's what we're going to do." He smiled at Havu. "I'll see if we can pick up some of that eight billion credits before we leave."

Havu turned toward Billy. "I enjoyed our talks, Billy. Will you leave with the show?"

"Yes. I'm a circus fixer." He chuckled, shook his head, then looked back at Havu. "You were right about the Hazb being the best part of the Goatha. After the investigation, when none of the Nuumiians were looking, I caught Karl Arnheim's eye and gave him this." Billy bugged his eyes and stuck out his tongue.

Havu laughed. "I take it that is a gesture of disrespect."

Billy nodded. "I thought Karl Arnheim would blow a blood vessel. It was... wonderful."

O'Hara placed an arm across Billy's shoulders. "Well, I guess we better be getting the show on the road. Right Patch?"

Billy nodded. "Right, Mr. John."