Circus: Fantasy Under the Big Top (26 page)

Shart shook his head, then nodded. “Even a Moman can understand, where the Warlords do not.” The Vorilian sighed. “You must understand, Pulsit, that no one is more loyal to the Warlords of the Tenth Quadrant than I. But . . . ” Shart shrugged, then held out his hands to indicate his laboratory. “This is the work of a lifetime—a lifetime of too little appreciated struggle and privation.” The Vorilian walked to a rack of clear tubes that towered from the floor to the overhead. The tubes were coiled with dark wires and were filled with a pink, cloudy vapor. “Do you know what this is?”

Pulsit walked to the rack, stopped next to it, and shook his head. “I know not, Doctor.”

Shart placed a hand on one of the braces supporting the tubes, and caressed it as he answered. “This . . . this is the work of thirty years—much of it financed out of my own meager resources. No one had my insight—my
vision!
As only a mere student at the Vorilian Academy of Total Warfare, I formed the theories that made all this possible.” Shart made two fists and shook them. “But it took all these years to acquire for my effort the limited attention I now have. This station and myself for an assistant!”

Pulsit frowned and nodded. “Excellent.”

Shart raised his brows. “Excellent?”

“I mean, your life—its circumstances—make excellent material for a storyteller.”

“A what?”

Pulsit bowed. “I am Pulsit of the Sina storytellers.” The old man stood up and rubbed his bearded chin. “I also do biographies.” The storyteller held out a hand toward the rack. “What is this? To do your life and play it before the crowds on Momus, I should be familiar with your work.”

Shart smiled, exposing his triple rows of pointed teeth.

“My life?”

“Certainly. The lives of great heroes are very popular. Your struggle, your achievement—these are the things of heroics.”

Shart looked at the rack, then placed a hand on his cheek. “That’s true, old Moman. A hero. Yes, that
is
true!” The Vorilian held out his hands toward the rack. “This is my work—a virus, each one for the infection of a different life form.” Shart rubbed his hands together. “Once a life form is infected I can control it—make it do what I want, or go anywhere I choose. And, once a life form is infected, it will spread the virus among others of its kind. By directing the movements of just a few infected creatures, in time I will be able to control all the life forms on this planet—with the exception of the humans.”

Pulsit raised his brows. “Quite an accomplishment! Indeed, yes. Quite an accomplishment. But, what could you do with such a power?”

Shart held out his hands. “If one controls the animal life on a planet, one controls the planet. Plagues can be directed to any part of the globe’s surface, ecological balances disrupted, causing crop failures, great masses of predatory creatures can be used as an army to lay waste vast populations—Just think of the weapon it would make!”

Pulsit nodded. “It would have even more uses of a peaceful nature, Doctor.”

Shart shrugged. “Yes, I suppose so, but the Warlords are interested in my work only as a weapon. Still, its success as a weapon will make my name. Then, perhaps, it can be incorporated into plans of a peaceful nature.”

Pulsit held out his hands. “Doctor, as important and impressive as this work is, why do you not have at least one assistant?”

“Hah! The Warlords have no idea of the complications. This is why my work does not include the control of humans—the complications are too vast to untangle by myself. Each strain of the virus must be suited to each life form, which is difficult even for the simple creatures. My experiments take time, and the Warlords want results now.” Shart shook his head. “They are skeptical of my work, and plan to cut off my funds if I can’t show them . . . well, you understand.”

Pulsit nodded. “Doctor Shart, I would like to tell the story of your life to the people along the roadside fires. To do this, I must know all about you.”

Shart rubbed his hands together. “No one knows more than I that my story needs telling, Pulsit, but there is so much to do, and the Warlords—”

“Tut, tut, Doctor. These few tasks I am to do to work off my debt will not take up all of my time. I can work on your biography in my spare time.”

Shart nodded, then grinned. “I have kept a daily journal since the Academy, and I have my old yearbooks—would they be of any assistance?”

Pulsit clapped his hands together. “Wonderful! Do you have them here?”

“Yes. One moment, and I’ll get them.” Shart turned and all but ran from the laboratory.

Pulsit walked once around the lab, his mind trying out bits and snatches of narrative.
Almost from his first day, the young Shart knew he was destined for greatness. What the brilliant Vorilian scientist did not know was how he would have to fight, claw, and struggle to achieve his due . . .
Pulsit nodded as he decided that the bio would find many willing listeners at the fires. “It will definitely play.”

Pulsit stopped before a bank of dials, readouts, meters, and switches. The console had a swept panel that enabled an operator seated before it to reach and see all the controls easily. Mounted above the console was a large screen. “Hmmm.” Pulsit stepped before the chair and lowered himself to the seat.
Captain Nova seated himself before the ship’s controls, set his square-cut jaw, then placed a thick-knuckled hand on the override switches to the ship’s reactors. He waited until the enemy formation swung, presenting its side to his ship, then he jammed the switches, throwing power to his engines. “Now, you’ll see this possum come to life!” His hand flew among the controls, turning dials, flicking switches, forcing the ship to seek and destroy the enemy ships. Smoke filled the cockpit, and Captain Nova saw, almost too late, the enemy ship that had opened fire on him. Flicking another row of switches, Nova launched a salvo of torpedoes at the enemy, held his breath, then laughed as the rogue ship vaporized . . .

“Wha . . . what are you doing?”

Pulsit turned to see Shart standing in a doorway with his arms loaded with books. The Vorilian was looking around at the laboratory, which Pulsit noticed was filled with a grey-yellow haze of smoke. The storyteller turned back to the console, then removed his fingers from it as though they had been burned. “I apologize, Doctor. I must have been carried away with a new kind of story I was thinking—”

Shart dropped the journals and yearbooks with a crash. “You . . . you tripped the vector purge!” He walked to the rack of tubes. The vapor inside was no longer pink; it was now grey. Shart shook his head, placed a hand on the rack brace, then leaned his weight against it. “The work of thirty years . . . gone. All gone.”

Pulsit stood, walked over to the rack and placed a gentle hand upon Shart’s shoulder. “I am very sorry, Doctor. Had I the coppers, I would lay a handsome apology in your hand.”

“Gone. All gone.”

“But, Doctor—” Pulsit rubbed his hands together, then slapped Shart’s back. “Just think how this will help your biography.”

Shart looked at Pulsit, a dazed expression on his face. “Help?”

“Indeed!” Pulsit held out his hands. “So close to success, only to have victory snatched from you. The determined scientist, however, is not defeated. He gathers himself together and begins again the task.” Pulsit patted the Vorilian on the back. “It does much to strengthen the hero’s character, don’t you think?”

Shart pushed himself away from the rack, stared at Pulsit with ever-widening eyes, then began patting his pockets. “My gun! Where is it? Where’s my gun?”

Pulsit looked around the laboratory. “I don’t know, Doctor. Where did you have it last?” The storyteller turned and began looking in the vicinity of the swept control console. “When we have a spare moment, Doctor, I have a new kind of story I’d like to discuss with you. As a scientist, your opinion would be very useful.” Pulsit took a last look, shrugged, then turned around. “I don’t see your gun over here, Doc—” The old man saw Shart, gun in hand, taking aim between the storyteller’s eyes.

“All gone. All my work
—gone!”

Pulsit held up his hands. “Now, Doctor . . . ”

Shart fired, but anger shook the hand that held the gun, causing the weapon to ignite the magnesium front panel on the control console. The thick white smoke, intense heat, and blinding light—more than the gun—caused Pulsit to pull up his robe and head for the nearest door. “I’ll
kill
you, you old maniac!”

Pulsed beams deflected off the walls and deck as the old storyteller sped through the door, then closed it behind him. Pulsit leaned against the door, took several deep breaths, then noticed that he was in one of the animal compounds. Through the door, he heard Shart crashing in his direction. The old man pushed himself away from the door, then ran for the fence. Squawks, hisses, and growls assaulted his hearing as feathered, furred, and scaled creatures ran to get out of his way. The fence around the compound was double his own height, and he knew he could never climb it. He heard a snoring, looked in the direction of the sound, and saw one of the great lizards of Arcadia sleeping next to the fence. He ran over to it, stopped and kicked the huge lizard in the shoulder. “Wake up!”

The lizard opened one slitted eye and observed the human. “Uf?”

More squawks and growls told Pulsit that Shart was close on his heels. “Quick. Lift me over the fence.”

The lizard sat up. “’Ow much?”

“Two sacks of roots, and another of tung berry cakes.” The lizard smiled and held out his palm. “Payup.” Pulsit looked around the lizard’s shoulder and saw Shart dashing around the compound, weapon in hand. He pointed at the Vorilian. “He’ll pay for both of us.”

The lizard nodded, grabbed Pulsit by the back of his robe, and hoisted him over the fence. The storyteller’s feet were running before they touched the ground.

The lizard turned and looked back into the compound at Shart. “Doc’or.” Shart looked at the lizard, then looked to where the reptile was pointing. Through the fence he could see Pulsit running down the road. He turned to head toward a gate, but stopped short as a great green foot grabbed his shoulder.

“Wawk! What are you doing? Let me go!”

The lizard shook its head. “You payup. Two sack roots, sack tungarry cake.”

Pulsit came to a turn in the road, slowed, then stopped. “This . . . too much . . . old man.” He saw a rock, sat down and took several deep breaths. When his vision cleared, Pulsit looked back toward the station. The lizard had Shart by both ankles and was shaking the Vorilian. He could barely make out the lizard demanding “You payup! Payup!”

The storyteller nodded. “As well he should, too!” Still puffing, Pulsit pushed himself to his feet and began the long trek back to Mbwebwe.

Four days later, Pulsit sat at Azongo’s table, waiting for his companions’ reaction to his tale. Raster shook his head. “The doctor doesn’t seemed to have helped much.”

Azongo nodded. “Pulsit, I don’t know if you’ll ever chase the devils from your mind.”

Pulsit frowned, then held up his hands. “Wait! I am not seeing things—”

“Oh!” Raster smiled, then laughed. “Then, it was a fine story, Pulsit. A fine story.”

Azongo nodded. “It is good that you are well.” The wild man shrugged. “But, as a story . . . ” He shook his head.

Pulsit turned toward Durki. “What do you think?” Durki grimaced, then shook his head. “It was a terrible story, Pulsit. Just terrible!”

The old storyteller’s eyebrows went up a notch. “And, just what is so terrible about it?”

The apprentice shook his head. “Such a tale; it’s awful. First, it’s too . . . technical—all those knobs, tubes, coils, and such. Then, a being from another planet! That’s story fare for the likes of Raster.”

Pulsit frowned. “Doctor Shart
is
from another planet!”

Durki shook his head. “Which still doesn’t make it a story worth telling.” Durki clasped his hands together and spoke as though he were the master lecturing a none-too-bright apprentice. “The people only want to hear the classic tales: the circus, fights between white and black magic, great fortune tellers solving mysteries. This kind of stuff—this technical fantasy story—will never be popular.”

Pulsit rubbed his chin, then shrugged. “Nevertheless, Durki, this is the story I shall tell when we get back to the fires.”

Durki looked down. “Then, that decides me, Pulsit.”

“In what?”

“My screaming and growling are coming along so well that Raster and Azongo have asked me to join their act. Azongo will be the wild man, Raster the hero, and I shall be the victim.”

Pulsit thought a moment, then nodded. “I suppose you are all ready to head back to Sina.”

Durki shrugged. “I have had enough adventure, and we are anxious to take our act on the road. Will you devise a story for our act?”

Pulsit nodded. “Certainly.”

“How much?”

Pulsit stood, walked to the door, and turned back. “We can discuss that later. I would be alone for a while.”

Raster stood. “Pulsit?”

“Yes?”

“I thought it was a fine story.”

Pulsit nodded. “Thank you.”

“Even though you had no pretty girls in it. Perhaps, next time, you could add one or two?”

“Perhaps.” The old storyteller lifted the door curtain and left.

It is, of course, well-known that the new act of Azongo, Raster, and Durki became an overnight success in Tarzak, where it first played the Great Square, and was then commissioned to play the Great Ring as part of the circus there.

Less known is the old storyteller who brought a new kind of tale to the fires along the road from Kuumic to Tarzak. He spoke his tales of space, strange beings, and high adventure, and all listened in wonder. Few appreciated his tales at the beginning, but soon a following began to grow—small, but enough to keep the old fellow in coppers. It is said that he told his stories as though he actually lived them, but little heed should be paid to such things, for that is only part of the storyteller’s art. And, Pulsit of the Sina storytellers was an artist.

26 Monkeys, also the Abyss