The Wizard of Karres

'They work long shifts here. And you have to get a pass to travel anywhere outside your official place of residence and work.'

'So how do they get to know we're here, Mannicholo?'

The chameleon man stopped hauling on the banner rope for a moment. His colors rippled. 'Word gets through the dormitory towns like lightning, the sultan's rules be damned. That's why the sultan's satraps don't let ships set down too close to the last spot a showboat visited. It'll be a year or so since these people have had anything more than a game of cards to entertain them. When the next shift ends we'll have 'em in droves. We only sell cheap tickets when we come here. Himbo says it's too close to the bone to exploit these poor devils.'

'At least it'll be short shows,' said Timblay grumpily. 'All we'll get out of this place is refueling money, you watch and see.'

'Maybe so,' said the chameleon man tersely. 'But at least we'll give them something to forget about this dump for a while.'

'Dump' was certainly the right word. The place was an industrial garbage heap. The air burned in the captain's lungs. The sky was a brown color, and the rows of factory chimneys belched out more of it. He was glad they wouldn't be staying.

Sure enough, that evening was a full house. It was also one of the most depressing crowds that Pausert had ever seen. There was a beaten look about the people buying the one-price special-offer tickets.

It even infected the actors. The first scene of A Midsummer Night's Dream was, Pausert thought, completely flat. But the audience still drank it up as if it were the honeydew of paradise.

Never had Helena's 'How happy some o'er other some can be!' seemed more appropriate.

Cravan was backstage, snapping like an irate turtle. 'They paid to be lifted up from this misery—not have you join them! Now, scene change is coming. You'—he pointed—'Bottom, Snug, Flute, Quince, Snout and Starveling. You go out there and give the punters the show of their lives.'

So Pausert, AKA Bottom the passionately pursued . . . did. So did his fellow actors. The audience loved it.

Well, most of them loved it. But there were some people sitting in the front row who didn't seem to be enjoying anything. That worried Pausert. Pausert, the new thespian, because members of an audience who don't enjoy the show are always worrisome. Pausert, the captain entrusted with a vital mission, was a lot more worried.

So, as he changed costumes in the dressing room, Pausert wasn't surprised at all when Silver-eyes showed up and echoed his own anxieties.

I think there's more trouble, Big Real Thing, squeaked the little vatch inside his head. There are some strange dream things here—or maybe real things. It's hard to tell. They're like not-things. Like those tiny bits of klatha stuff you feed me, except different.

That was confusing, although . . .

Now that he thought about it, it struck Pausert that 'not things' was a fairly accurate description of the oddly impassive bunch of people sitting in the front of the house tonight.

They are waiting back at your ship, too.

That was another unpleasant report.

Like the ones in the front rows out there?

The vatch disappeared briefly, before returning to the dressing rooms. Yes. But there are more than that at the ship. And some more still at the edge of the lattice. Digging.

Digging what? Well, whatever they were up to, it would be no good. He didn't need Pul's Nanite-sniffing nose to tell him the Nanite-infected ISS had almost certainly caught up with them. Thoughtfully, Pausert sucked his teeth.

You feel like some mischief, Silver-eyes?

I always feel like mischief. I'm like the littlest witch.

That was true enough. The vatch had grown but it was still barely a hand-sized creature. Obviously the thing's mental age was still preteen, even if it could think. The Leewit certainly could, whenever she chose to, and Goth's ability to think was sometimes downright scary.

Mischief's fun! What do you want me to do to them? I'm still little, though. I can't do big stuff yet.

Pausert went over to the store cupboard in the props section. He found some of the luminous virulent yellow-green paint they'd used for the posters a few days earlier. Here. He pointed. Can you put a big splash of this on all of the 'not-things'? Maybe on the back of their heads or something.

Sure! Big fun! The little vatch vanished. Pausert went off in hasty search of the others. He still had a few minutes before he was due onstage again, and that would be the last show for the night.

The captain was willing to bet that whatever the Nanites had planned was supposed to happen after the punters had gone . . . one couldn't exactly say 'home,' but back to their miserable bunks. Both Vezzarn and Hulik had assured him that the sultan did not take kindly to the ISS sticking its nose into his territory, so Pausert had thought them safe enough here. But the Nanite-infected agents apparently ignored the conventional bounds.

He found the Leewit first. Or rather she found him. She'd just come backstage. 'We got troubles, Captain,' she said quietly. 'Vezzarn sent me to tell you. The Petey B's engine room is in a shambles. Old Vezzarn found one of the engineers unconscious, the drive control boxes trashed, and whole lot of other stuff busted.'

Someone intended to make sure the Petey B didn't do a hasty retreat, obviously. Pausert winced. 'There are also a bunch of them waiting for us at the Venture, and some in the audience. And they're digging at the perimeter struts for some reason. I've got the little vatch tagging them with some of that lime-green luminous paint.'

The Leewit grinned. That was the kind of trick she adored.

'See if you can get the others together here,' the captain said. 'I'm due onstage in a minute. Where's Vezzarn?'

'Reporting the incident to Himbo. He's coming down here next.' The littlest witch shivered. The captain gave her brief squeeze. 'The show's got to go on. But stay here, backstage.'

The curtain call was enthusiastic. But Pausert noticed that the 'not things' had already left.

A few minutes later, as the factory workers streamed hastily into the night to get a few hours sleep before returning to work, Pausert came backstage and unobtrusively joined the rest of Venture's crew and the Sedmons.

'I think we need to head for the Thunderbird,' said one of the Sedmons. 'She's well enough armored and armed to hold off a fairly serious assault.'

'We could flee in her too, if need be,' said the other Sedmon. 'It'd be crowded, but we could manage.'

Himbo Petey arrived on the scene then, looking grim. 'I need to talk to you about—'

Something exploded.

The lattice pole the captain was leaning against shivered. One of the main lattice legs caved in with the terrible sound of shredding synthasilk; the stage canted sideways, spilling screaming people and terrified animals.

In a flash, Pausert understood why the Nanites had been digging. The entire exercise was designed to cause maximum chaos and send the Venture's crew scurrying for shelter in their ship. The Sedmons were right.

'Come on. To the Thunderbird!' he yelled.

He had to yell. With the destruction of one of her main struts, the old Petey B's structure was under terrific stress. Things were breaking loose, and falling everywhere. Some of the power-cables snapped, plunging the tented area into darkness except for showers of sparks and cascading and exploding lights. And the din produced by the people and animals was even worse than that produced by the inanimate objects.

In a tight-knit bunch, they left the chaos of the dressing rooms and headed out.

The first thing that Pausert saw was that the vatch had exceeded its mandate. The bunch of people shooting