Elephant Song

ELEVEN

After all had assembled in the clearing next to Tarzak to begin The Season, they sat surrounding a large log fire. First they ate cobit and freakfish, prepared by the cookhouse gang, then they worked on jugs of sapwine. As the sun moved toward the horizon, Blacky Squab, the lithographer, and his printer's devil, Meph, handed out the printed maps of Momus.

"Now, don't you bend that paper too much; it'll break."

"Holy... Blacky, you smell like year-old sardines!"

"That's the ink. Careful you don't smear it. It's not quite dry yet."

"How long's it going to take to dry?"

"Don't know. I haven't had any dry yet."

"Jeez, Blacky, stand downwind!"

"What's this paper made out of?"

"Cobit milk, clay, and a stringy plant that grows in the wetland down in the delta—there, I told you not to bend it. Here's another."

"Phew!"

"Blacky, what's these little squiggles? Damn paper is lumpy."

"Those're the roads. Put your glasses on. You—don't bend that!"

"My glasses got busted in the Snake Mountain Gap." "You just never learned to read. Here, don't bend the paper, and don't smear the ink..."

The longer they studied the maps, the quieter they became. The marks of their year's work were small in comparison with the size of the planet. They, in turn, felt small; helpless. The sapwine began to flow at an increased rate. When the sun fell below the horizon, the sky still tinted with bluish-red, the fire in the center of the clearing was replenished with fresh wood. They sat and watched the fire. Shiner Pete Adnelli sat next to Little Will. They stared into the fire and held hands.

Across the fire from them, Stretch Dirak, the advance manager, weaved to his feet and walked into the clearing; a sapwine jug dangling in his hand. He looked around the circle of faces. "Well, what in the hell are we going to do? What's next?"

Packy Dern looked up from the fire and shouted across the clearing. "The Miira-Kuumic Road."

"Bah!" Stretch shook his head. ."I don't want to hear about any more damned roads! What're we going to do about getting off this mudball?" He searched the circle of faces. "Leadfoot, where are you?"

Leadfoot waved a hand. "Over here. And we're not going to do a damned thing about getting off the skin. We're stuck."

"Stuck?" Stretch walked around the fire until he stood before Leadfoot. "What about Number Ten?"

Leadfoot shrugged. "What about it?"

"Can't you rig something?"

Leadfoot shook his head, then laughed. "I'm a pilot, Stretch. Just for the hell of it, let's say that we can make up the fuel that bird eats, which we can't. No one here knows how. But let's say we can. Then what? We can get up into orbit. Sightseeing tours, and that's it. Maybe we can get a couple of million miles away before the air runs out. If only a couple of us goes, maybe more."

"What about an air recycler?"

Leadfoot shook his head, then looked up at Stretch. He shook his head again, then stood and walked out into the clearing. "Let's say there's no air problem—and no water problem—and no food problem. At Number Ten's top speed, it would take thousands—thousands—of years just to make it to a trade route." He shook his head, then looked around at the circle of faces.

"While I'm at it I might as well ex the idea of a light drive." He held out his hands. "Does anyone here know how to build one?" He looked around at the silent faces. "Anyone?" Leadfoot thrust his hands into his pockets and faced the fire. "I know this much about light drives. Just to build it, providing someone knew how, takes a huge industrial base just to manufacture the components. It would take generations just to put together that industrial base."

He stared at the fire a moment longer. "Besides, the only drive I know anything about is too big for Number Ten. See... we'd have to build a ship, as well." He looked at the advance manager. "Hell, Stretch, we don't even have the know-how or the parts to put together a deep space radio." Leadfoot went back to his place and sat down.

Stretch rubbed the back of his neck, then threw his empty jug into the fire. "Damn!" He turned away from the fire, went back to his place and sat down.

Again silence, save the crackle of the fire, then a slender figure across the fire from Stretch stood up. "Most of you don't know me. I'm Rhoda Lerner, in wardrobe. I joined the show in Ahngar just before... this." She frowned and placed her hands on her hips. "Well, I just want to know something. What happened? I've been with this down at the corners, hard luck gang for most a year now, and nobody talks about it. What happened? Why?" She looked around the fire until Warts Tho stood up and moved into the clearing.

The Pendiian rubbed his bumpy chin. "There's a lot of you that joined last season. Karl Arnheim sabotaged the City of Baraboo and marooned us here. Arnheim and John J. O'Hara had a long feud going. Arnheim's company built the ship for the Governor, but he never intended to deliver. Instead he was planning on selling the thing as a warship to someone else for about double what O'Hara contracted to pay him. In any event, O'Hara snatched the ship before Arnheim could complete the deal with the other party. O'Hara paid for the ship, but Arnheim lost his shirt all the same. Ever since, Arnheim's been after the show." Warts held out his hands. "Except Arnheim's dead now."

Mange Ranger, the veterinarian, stood up. "Warts, don't forget; Arnheim was crazier than a sock full of bedbugs." Mange looked around. "Bone Breaker told me that on the ship when he examined Arnheim's body." Mange sat down.

Warts shrugged. "That's about it." He returned to his place and sat down. Rhoda the wardrobe lady, hands still on hips, looked around at the silent faces, then sat down. Boss canvasman Duckfoot Tarzac sat shaking his head. Little Will leaned over and shook the huge man's arm.

"Duckfoot?"

The boss canvasman continued shaking his head. "Dammit. Dammit, Little Will. If we don't do something soon, we are whipped." He looked up at the troupers surrounding the fire and pointed his finger at them. "Look at them. This is supposed to be a celebration—a holiday." He lowered his arm. "Just look at them."

Little Will studied the faces. All of them were lost in thought. All of them read: whipped, done, defeated. In the cart.

A horrible aroma assaulted her nostrils and an ink-covered hand gave her one of the evil-smelling maps of Momus. The aroma moved on and she studied the lines and smears that represented the planet upon which she was sitting.

As she studied the map, the defeated faces around her fell into a collage of other impressions: the geological fault that had done away with a week's work in the Snake Mountain Gap, Goofy Joe at the fire talking about fighting ghosts, Packy crushed at seeing his temporary shelter turned into a permanent home, Shiner Pete saying that you can kill troupers and you can kill animals, but you can never kill the show.

On the map was represented the huge geological rift that extended from the harbor at Tarzak straight north off the end of the Central Continent. The formation had no name. All of it came together in her head: the place, the situation, the mood, what the name should be. It was also clear to her who should say the name. She closed her eyes and searched the crowd with her mind. When she found the one she was looking for, she planted the name.

"Ah-hah!"

Everyone looked toward the source of the exclamation. Cholly Jacoby, the tramp clown, sprang to his feet and walked quickly into the clearing. He stood next to the fire, held up his map in order that he could read by its light, then he lowered the map to his side. He looked around. "Blacky?"

The lithographer stood and walked over. "What?"

Cholly stabbed at the map with his finger. "What's that?"

Blacky shrugged. "I don't know. It's sort of a mountain. Leadfoot drew it that way."

Cholly nodded. "I see. I see." As Blacky returned to his place, everyone faced their maps toward the fire to try and see what had captured the clown's interest. Cholly turned toward Leadfoot. "Leadfoot, what is this thing?"

Leadfoot got up and walked over to the clown. He looked to see where Cholly's finger was pointing. "Oh. That's a long geological rift in the planet's crust. It begins a little north of Tarzak here"—he pointed—"and goes straight north right off the end of the continent as far as I could see from low orbit. See, it's a big fold in the crust. Maybe plates in the planet's crust grinding together. It probably means frequent quakes near the fault zone."

Cholly looked at Leadfoot. "How come it's not named?"

Leadfoot looked at Cholly, eyebrows upraised. "What was I going to call it?"

Cholly snorted. "It's obvious." He looked around at the faces. "Arnheim's Fault."

For ten full seconds the troupers stared at the clown; then the laughing began. Between their tears they borrowed the few pencils that remained, or used pieces of charcoal, and marked the name on their maps. True, it was Arnheim's Fault. Cholly bowed, doffed the derby that he no longer wore, then retired to the circle.

That night they ate, drank and sang the show songs. Dr. Weems borrowed a hostler and four horses, went to Number One, and came back with the calliope. The boiler was fired up, and then the shrieks of the steam music joined the laughter, the combination forever putting to rest the ghost of Karl Arnheim.

The next three days saw clowns, jugglers, riders and others perform their acts. Little Will proudly stood beside Reg as the bulls paraded tail-and-trunk around the crude ring of cut logs on The Show. On Teardown, the fourth day of The Season, the troupers headed back toward their towns to continue all the mundane tasks of day-to-day survival. No one could ever be accused of saying that they looked like one, but they were once again a show.