The Wizard of Karres

The chief engineer brightened. He'd seen the prices of merely ordinary objects here. A souvenir of the showboat could be marked up a bit more than that. Still, he was cautious. 'So—what do you get out of this?'

'I need my ship fixed,' Pausert said bluntly. 'I know you patched her to keep her from leaking too much, but I need her fixed right. You boys get the poles and the cloaks and anything else that used to be in the holds to peddle as souvenirs, and in your off-shift time, you fix my ship right and tight. But—oh, you'd better not try to do anything with those educational toys,' he added hastily. 'They tend to explode.'

'Can we take 'em apart and do something with the bits?' the chief engineer asked.

'So long as you don't get blown up, you're welcome to,' Pausert replied, wondering if he was finally going to get rid of the wretched things after all. 'Is it a deal?'

'Let me get the crew together and you can put it to them,' the chief said. 'But on the surface of it, I like it.'

'And I'll get my niece.'

With Goth doing the negotiating, an agreement was soon reached that was satisfactory for both sides. Even Himbo Petey approved when he was approached for permission.

'That's a cut above fluffy clown-dog toys and whirligigs,' he said, rubbing his hands with pleasure. 'With no children on this planet, I was wondering what we were going to do for souvenirs. In fact, I ought to canvas the rest of the ship to see if anyone has any more ideas, besides programs.'

They did. Recordings of the circus music. Banners to brighten up Spartan quarters, cut from spare synthasilk and printed with the same images as the posters and fliers. Badges for coveralls, of animals and clown-faces. Carryalls and cups and drink-bottles with 'Petey, Byrum and Keep' blazoned across them. Copies of the scripts of the plays, with holos of the performers in costume. The showboat began to buzz with frenzied activity as those who hadn't come up with acts, or whose acts were marginal at best, began working frantically to produce souvenirs aimed at adult pockets, rather than children's. And in the meantime, there was a showboat crammed full of things—unused or duplicate personal items, stuff that was still in the holds of the ships that had been bought and incorporated into the frame, forgotten bits and bobs that people had brought aboard and discovered they didn't need—much of which could be branded with the showboat name and logo and put into a stall until the real souvenirs were ready. Himbo Petey beamed with approval upon it all, for the ship got a cut of the profits from every stall, and he got a cut of the ship's portion.

In fact, he elected to keep the show dark for an unprecedented second day to allow the merchandise stalls to take the place of those who decided that they would rather peddle souvenirs than compete on talent alone.

Meanwhile, the rumors outside the gates continued to swell. Curious and increasingly impatient miners began to show up at the ticket office to demand schedules and ask about advance tickets for particular shows. So when the gates did open at last, at dawn on the third day, there was a gratifyingly large crowd.

Which Pausert didn't see, of course, because he was in morning rehearsal. But when the cast broke for lunch, he was gratified to see several of his allweather cloaks and one or two of those dratted fishing poles going past in the possession of new owners.

He inhaled his food, and headed for Sideshow Alley. The stalls were never actually empty. The morning shift in his stall was being maintained by one of the aerial contortionists from the Big Top who was part of the curtain act and the Spanish web ensemble. Here she performed solo contortion and balancing on the tiny stage. As Pausert entered the stall from the back, she passed him, dressed in her street clothes, with a friendly wave. 'No accolades yet,' she said cheerfully. 'But I'm getting a full house every turn.'

'Excellent,' he replied, and ducked inside.

There was just enough room behind the stage for him to change into his Escapist costume—in his case, a skin-tight shirt in silvery synthasilk and looser breeches in electric blue. As he put his own props up on the stage, he heard the talker outside, running his pitch, talking up the act. Sometimes, when things were slow, acts would come out in front for a free-see. Pausert had the feeling that would not be the case here.

Then he relled vatch.

Do you need me? asked Silver-eyes.

Are you willing to be my assistant, the way Second Littlest is usually?

Sure. You don't even need to feed me.

Unbelievable. A cooperative vatch; at least, for as long as it wasn't bored. But maybe the reactions of the audience would keep it from being bored. He could hope, anyway.

The persona he had cooked up for this act was, in truth, based a bit on the way he used to think of himself, and a lot on some of the overinflated egos of his superiors on Nikkeldepain. He waited a bit nervously behind the curtain for the talker to give him the signal that the stall was as full as it was going to get—a flashing red light just above his head. Then it was his turn to toe the control that set the automated lights and his recorded music going and the curtain to rise.

Then he struck a pose. As the curtain came up, the stage lights brightened and the house lights dimmed, the audience of miners saw a fellow in flamboyant costume in an exaggerated 'strong-man' pose. He took a couple more—equally exaggerated—poses, while his recorded music played, until the audience began to chuckle, realizing that he was 'playing' someone who was altogether too full of himself.

Then his talker came in, and began doing the spiel, and he went into his act.

The first couple of escapes were done 'straight,' though with a ridiculous amount of flourish. Then came the comic sequence.

He wasn't altogether certain that the vatch was going to help—until, practically on cue!—he felt the cool breath of air on his hands that told him that Silver-eyes was doing Goth's job exactly. The roar of laughter as he struggled, while the talker pretended consternation, came as a relief and a surprise. There were a lot of people in here!

He finished the act exactly as scripted, and went into the 'blow-off' poses to gales of laughter as the curtain went down.

Perfect! he thought at the vatch.

That was fun! replied Silver-eyes with enthusiasm. I like the watchers! But what was that noise they were making?

It's called laughing, and it means that they are having fun, too.

Will the next ones laugh too?

As long as we do the act right. Pausert kept part of his attention on the barker outside as he cleaned up and replaced all of his props. For a while, he had been unhappy with this act, until he'd hit on the idea of creating a kind of character to play. It might have been silly, but once the audience was laughing at the pompous character, rather than at him, it became a lot more enjoyable to put on the shows.

Then we have to do the act right. The vatch sounded quite determined on that score. Can we change it when we get tired of doing the same thing?

I think that's a good idea, he told it, cautiously. But you need to talk to me beforehand about the changes you want to make, or they might not laugh when you do them.

He sensed its agreement, and then the light flashed and it was time to do the show again.

Three shows an hour, with a break for fifteen minutes, for four hours; that was his shift in the stall, and every show was full up. The tent stall held fifteen or twenty people at a time—probably fifteen the size of the miners he'd been seeing—and it seemed as if the audience was completely new each time. It was astonishing. Even without tips or accolades, he was earning a good pile of cash this afternoon. His talker (with whom he split the take, since the talker was as important in a way as the act) had never, ever been able to fill the stall at every show before!

Every time the audience laughed, the vatch giggled with pleasure; the little thing was actually enjoying performing! By the third hour it was suggesting small, cosmetic changes—like holding the drape down when he'd freed his hands so that he had to 'fight' his way out of it—that increased the comedic impact of the blow-off. When his turn in the stall was finally over, and he made way for an exotic dancer who was one of the glamour-riders with the fanderbag act, the vatch was practically glowing with happiness as it popped away.

And it was a little—just a little—bigger.

Now that was interesting. He hadn't fed it. So how had it gotten bigger? Could it be that something about strong human emotions also fed it?

He was going to ask Goth about that when they met for dinner, but the four little, heavy knots of scrap cloth