Melome

to be always better. Slack and he comes down hard. Keep slacking and you're out.'

She was talking from the viewpoint of an artiste; her opinion conditioned by her work. Dumarest wanted finer data.

'Do you know of anyone who defied him and got away with it?'

'No. Zucco likes to give the impression he had but he's lying. He might act the boss but Shakira is the one who cracks the whip. When they are together there is no doubt who is the real master.'

'What does he eat?'

'What?'

Dumarest was patient. 'What kind of food does Shakira eat? How often? Does he have any unusual habits? Any personal dislikes? Things like colors,' he explained. 'Loud noises. Certain kinds of music. Smells. Does he play cards? Gamble? Encourage others to take risks? Has he ever struck anyone? Lost his temper in public? Is he easily amused? Does he-'

'No,' said Reiza. 'He isn't amused, I mean. I've never seen him appear happy. Even when he smiles it's more like a grimace and I've never heard him laugh. As for the rest-' She shrugged. 'I don't know,' she admitted. 'When young I was too busy working to take any notice and, later, well minding your own business gets to be a habit. I've no time for gossip and rumor.'

Two things which would have helped the most.

Dumarest said, 'When you guided me around there was a part of the circus we didn't enter.'

'Shakira's private quarters,' she explained. 'They're strictly out of bounds.'

'To everyone? Cleaners? Servants?'

'Everyone.' She frowned. 'At least that's what I thought. Come to think of it someone has to do the cleaning.'

And someone had to take care of the other sensitives. There had to be others; why else had Shakira bought Melome if not to add to his collection? But why did he want such a collection at all? Circuses were for the display of trained animals and skilled people before a large audience. Sensitives were unable to entertain more than a few at a time and, like physical freaks, their attraction was limited. An expensive luxury-and a man who retained the old name of the circus because of profit would not waste money.

'Earl?'

'A moment, Reiza.'

He wanted to look at the pattern from a different viewpoint and, suddenly, the pieces fell into place. If Melome was alone then she must have been set as a lure; one he could never resist.

Following her he had walked into the trap and now it had snapped tight around him.

Did Shakira know the value of what he held?

If so he had been cunning even to the extent of offering a free choice. Dumarest wondered what would have happened had he decided to leave. An academic point now and he wasted no time considering it. Set against what he hoped to learn from Melome the risk had been acceptable. A gamble that Shakira was what he seemed and would keep his word. That his threat had been a bluff. That the luck which had turned sour would become sweet again.

'Earl!' Reiza was impatient. 'What's the matter with you? You wake me up, get me to talk, then forget I'm alive.'

'Sorry.' Dumarest lifted himself in the bed. 'I was thinking.'

'About us?'

'Of course.'

'Of our future together?' A smile banished the last of her irritation. 'Darling, why didn't you say? What had you in mind? Shall-no!' She snapped her fingers. 'Why guess when there's no need? Krystyna can tell us.'

From somewhere came a low snuffling, the sound of a laugh quickly suppressed, a rumble which could have been a snore. Sounds Reiza ignored as she led the way through narrow passages flanked with doors. Living quarters little better than cubicles but cheap and acceptable to those inside.

'She's good, Earl. Really good. She even foretold the way Hayter would die. I didn't believe her then and now I wish I had. Not that it would have made any difference.'

Dumarest remembered the talking photograph.

'You were close?'

'Hayter and I? Yes.' Her tone ended the subject. 'I saw her again recently. I was having some trouble with my act and she gave me some good advice. She even mentioned a stranger coming into my life. It must have been you, Earl. If nothing else I owe her for that.'

The weakness of her kind; to confuse prediction with performance. A trait of all who were superstitious and those who lived on the razor-edge of danger were always prone to become that.

Dumarest said, 'What does she do? Stare into a crystal ball?'

'Don't scoff, darling. She's clever. You'll see.'

She pressed on, through the rollers of an air-lock, down a gallery, into the outer section dominated by booths and sideshows. The place was empty now; the circus had yet to come to life. Beyond a flap painted with garish symbols a candle flickered in a crested bowl. In its light the cowled figure sitting hunched in a chair behind a table looked shrunken and dead.

'Krystyna?' Reiza stepped closer to the table. 'Are you asleep? I know it's a bad time but-'

'Step aside, child. I know why you are here.'

An elementary trick of the trade; why else should people come to a fortune teller but to have their fortunes told? One augmented by others; the candle with its flickering, disguising flame, the tang of incense with its misting fumes, arcane symbols and mysterious objects. The woman herself.

She was old, gnarled with passing years, her face seamed and scored deep with a mesh of lines. The cowl framed it with kindly shadows and provided a setting for her eyes. Small, deep-set, palely blue and as penetrating as a tempered blade.

'Sit!' The hand matched the face, twisted, a blunted claw marred with lumps. Her voice was the thin rustle of dried leaves in a winter's gale. 'Sit!' Again the hand stabbed at the chair facing her across the table. 'You hesitate, young man. Do you doubt my powers?'

'No, Mother.' Dumarest sat in the proffered chair. 'I know you are expert at what you do.'

'A sly tongue. Do you mock me?'

'No.' Dumarest was genuine in his denial. 'I would never do that.'

A woman, old, twisted with crippling infirmities, fighting the hampering effect of her afflictions. One alone or with a youngster to whom she would teach her trade. Paying her way and giving her clients what they expected. For that, if nothing else, she deserved respect.

'There is truth in you,' she said. 'And kindness. And, I think, some mercy.'

'And love,' said Reiza. 'That too.'

'Love,' said the old woman. 'Always they want to be loved. To find love and be given it. Well, I tell them what they want to hear and more often than not things they would be better not knowing. A fault, but I grow old and impatient. Why peer into the future if you are afraid of what you might see? Death, despair, pain, betrayal-such things are inevitable. But I try to be kind. Always I try to be that.'

Conning the punters with slick words and facile phrases. Quizzing them by indirection, milking them of details to be fed back later in different words and subtle suggestions. Using misdirection, hesitation, ambiguity and guile to weave the client into a mesh of self-betrayal. An art at which Dumarest guessed she was an expert.

'You know too much,' she said. 'And, at the same time, not enough. For those I choose I give genuine service. But, you understand, I cannot be precise as to moments of time. Nor as to exact means of action. Events take their own time and operate in their own manner. For example, that you will die is inevitable. But just how and when-'

'You warned of Hayter's death,' said Reiza. 'You said how he would end.'

'A man plays with fire-what are the chances of his getting burned?' A shrug moved the fabric of the cowled robe. 'Some things are obvious and cast their shadow before them. Others-' Again the shrug. 'Give me your palm.'

Dumarest felt the twisted fingers grasp his own as he obeyed. A nail traced a path, paused, traced another.