Sound struck him in the face like a thrown chunck-flower: the massed roar of voices, the shrill clangor of the noisemakers, the rustle of scaled and leathered bodies, the grating of feet—shod, horned, clawed, hooved. The cries of shills and hucksters . . .
It was dark now. Twenty feet below Roan, the heads of the crowd stretched in a heaving sea of motion, surging around the pooled light of the midways, alive with color and movement. There, a jeweled harness sparkled on tandem hitched bull-devils; there a great horned body, chained by one leg, pranced in an intricate dance; and beyond, caged dire-beasts paced, double jaws gaping.
Roan forgot to breathe, watching as a procession of scarlet-robed creatures with golden hides strode into view from a spotlighted arch, fanned out to form a circle, dropped the red cloaks, and rushed together, cresting up into a living pyramid, then dropping back to split and come together like a wave breaking against a wall, and then . . .
He had to get closer. He raised his head and looked along the broken wall, following its great arc to the far side where it loomed black against the luminous amber twilight. He could jump down easily enough, but not without landing on a bad-tempered gracyl or a wide-jawed Yill. He rose and moved off, stepping carefully among the rubble. It was almost full dark now. Ahead, he made out the heavy sagging line of an anchor cable, its end secured to a massive iron capstan set in the stone coping. He clambered up, followed the cable with his eye as it dipped, then rose up to meet a slender tower. This was almost too easy: the base of the tower was hidden in shadow behind a cluster of polyarcs. No one would notice if he walked across and slipped down there . . .
He stepped out on the taut cable; it was much easier than the branch had been; it was only as big as his finger, but it was steady. No one looked up from below; he was above the polyarcs, invisible against their glare. He walked out across the crowd, reached the tower, swung quickly down—
A hand like an iron clamp locked on his ankle. He looked down. A face like a worn-out shoe blinked up at him. Gill flaps at either side of the wide head quivered.
"Come down, come down," a curious double voice said. "Caught you—ought—you good—ood."
Roan held on and pulled; it was like trying to uproot an anvil tree.
"Let go," he said, trying to make his voice sound as though it were used to being obeyed by beings with old-shoe faces and hands like ship grapples.
"You're—re—going to see—ee the boss-oss." The iron hand—which was bright green, Roan noticed, and had three fingers—tugged, just gently, and Roan felt his joints creak. He held on.
"Want me—ant me to pull—ull your leg—eg off—off?" the hollow voice echoed.
"All right," Roan said. He lowered himself carefully until his other foot was on a level with his captor's hand. Then he swung his free leg back and kicked the creature in the eye.
The grip was gone from his ankle, and he leaped clear, landed in dust, turned to duck away—
And slammed against a wide, armored body that gathered him in with arms like the roots of the grizzlywood tree.
It was dark inside the big tent, and hot, and there were odors of seaweed and smoke. Roan stood straight, trying not to think about the way his hands were numb from the grip on his wrists. Beside him, the shoe-faced creature flapped its gills, blinking its swollen eye. "Ow—ow," it said, over and over. "Ow—ow."
The being behind the big, scarred, black-brown desk blinked large brown eyes at him from points eight inches apart in a head the size of a washtub mounted on a body like a hundred gallon bag of water. Immense hands with too many fingers reached for a box, extracted a thick brown cigar, peeled it carefully, thrust it into a gaping mouth that opened unexpectedly just above the brown eyes.
"Some kind of Terry, aren't you?" a bass voice said from somewhere near the floor.
Roan swallowed. "Terry stock," he said, trying to sound as though he were proud of it. "Genuine Terrestrial strain," he added. The big head waggled. "I saw you on the wire. Never saw a Terry walk a wire like that before." The voice seemed to come from under the desk. Roan peered, caught a glimpse of coiled purplish tentacles. He looked up to catch a brown eye upon him; the other was rolled toward the gilled creature.
"You shouldn't have hurt Ithc," the deep voice rumbled. "Be quiet, Ithc." The wandering eye turned back to Roan. "Take off your tunic."
"Why?"
"I want to see what kind of wings you've got."
"I don't have any wings," Roan said, sounding as though he didn't care.
"Terries don't have wings; not real original Terrestrial stock, anyway."
"Let's see your hands."
"He's holding them."
"Let him go, Ithc." The brown eyes looked at Roan's hands as he opened and closed them to get the blood going again.
"The feet," the basso voice said. Roan kicked off a shoe and put his foot up on the desk. He wriggled his toes, then put his foot back on the floor.
"You walked the wire with those feet?"
Roan didn't answer.
"What were you doing up there?"
"I was getting in without a ticket," Roan said. "I almost made it, too."
"You like my little show, hey?"
"I haven't seen it—yet."
"You know who I am, young Terry?"
Roan shook his head.
"I'm Gom Bulj, Entrepreneur Second Class." One of the broad hands waved the cigar. "I'm owner of the Extravaganzoo. Now—" the heavy body hitched forward in the wide chair. "I'll tell you something, young Terry. I haven't seen a lot of Terries before, but I've always been a sort of admirer of theirs. Like back in ancient times, the wars and all that. Real spectacles." Gom Bulj thumped his desk. "This desk—it's made of Terry wood—woolnoot, I think they call it. Over six thousand years old; came out of an old Terry liner, a derelict on—" He cut off.
"Never mind that. Another story. What I'm getting at is—how would you like to join my group, young Terry? Become a part of the Grand Vorplisch Extravaganzoo! Travel, see the worlds, exhibit your unusual skills to appreciative audiences of discerning beings all over the Western Arm?" Roan couldn't help it: he gasped.
"Not much pay at first," Gom Bulj said quickly. He paused, one eye on Roan. "In fact, no pay—until you learn the business." Roan took a deep breath. Then he shook his head. Gom Bulj was still looking at him expectantly.
"No," he said. "Not until I ask Dad . . . " Suddenly Roan was remembering Ma, waiting, with his dinner ready now, and Raff . . . Raff would be worried, wondering where he was . . .
"I've got to go now," he said, and wondered why he had such a strange, sinking feeling.
Gom Bulj drummed his tentacles under the desk. He sucked on a stony-looking tooth, eyeing Roan thoughtfully.
"No need to trouble old Dad, young Terry. You're big enough to leave the burrow, no doubt. Probably he'll never miss you, new litters coming along—"
"Terries don't have litters; only one. And Ma only had me."
"You'll write," Gom Bulj said. "First planetfall, you'll write, tell them what a mark you're making. A featured sideshow attraction in the finest 'zoo in this part of the Galaxy—"
"I'll have to ask Dad's permission first," Roan said firmly. Gom Bulj signaled with a finger. "You'll surprise him; come back some day, dressed in spangles and glare-jewels—"
Ithc's reaching hand grazed Roan's arm as he ducked, whirled, darted for the tent flap. Something small, with bright red eyes, sprang in front of him; he bowled it over, ran for the tower, darting between the customers milling in the way between the bright colored tents under the polyarcs. He veered around a cage inside which a long-legged creature moaned, jumped stretched tent ropes, sprinted the last few yards—
A hulking, gilled figure—a twin to Ithc—bounded into his path; he spun aside, plunged under an open tent flap, plowed through massed gracyls who hissed and struck out with knobbed wing bones. A vast gray creature with long white horns growing from its mouth teetered on a tiny stand; it trumpeted nervously and swung a blow with a heavy gray head-tentacle as Roan darted past; then Roan was under the edge of the tent, up and running for the wall. Behind him, an electric voice crackled, deep tones that rattled in a strange tongue.
He saw the gate rising up, light festooned, above the surging pack. To one side, another of the gilled creatures worked its way toward him, knocking the crowd aside with sweeps of its three-pronged hands. Roan threw himself at the mass before him, forcing passage. Another few yards—
"Roan!" an agonized voice roared. By the gate, Raff's massive white-maned head loomed over the crowd. "This way, boy . . . !"
"Dad!" Roan lowered his head, threw himself against the slow-moving bodies in his way. The gill thing was close now—and there was another—
And then he was at the gate, and Raff's hand was stretched out to him above the crutch—
The gilled creature thrust itself before Roan, arms spread wide. Roan whirled—and saw the other—and beyond, a third, coming up fast. He feinted, dived between the two nearest—
The steel grip caught his arm; he looked up into the old-shoe face, swung his doubled fist—
Both hands were caught now. He kicked, but only bruised his toes against the horny shins.
And then Raff was there, his brown face twisted, his mouth open. Over the mob roar, Roan couldn't hear what he was shouting. He saw Raff's thick arms swing up, and the crutch came down in a crashing arc on the gilled head, and for an instant the grip loosened, and Roan pulled a hand free—
And then a gray-green figure loomed behind Raff, and a three-fingered hand struck, and now Raff's face was twisted in a different way, and he was falling, going down, and the white head was flushed suddenly crimson, and he lay in the yellow dust on his face, and Roan felt his throat screaming—
His hand was free, and he struck, felt something yield, and he ripped at it, feeling his jaws open, teeth hungry for the enemy, and then both hands were free, and he smashed at the old-leather face, seeing it reel back, and then the other was at him with three-taloned hands clutching, and Roan seized two long fingers in his two hands and tore at them and felt them break and rip—
And then he was falling, falling, and somewhere voices called, but they were far away, too far, and they faded, and were gone . . . And he was alone and very small in the dark.
Gom Bulj's diamond stickpin glittered like his eyes, and he smoked his cigar as though he had tasted and wearied of all other cigars in the universe.
"You're a wild one, Terry," he said, both eyes staring at Roan. "What was the idea of crippling up Ithc? You should see his hand. Terrible!"
"I hope he's ruined," Roan said, not crying, not thinking about the ache that made the side of his head feel as big as Gom Bulj's. "I wish I'd been able to kill him. I will kill him the first chance I get . . . " He had to stop talking then, remembering Dad, trying to help, then falling . . . and the dust on his face . . .
"There was no need for the dramatics; no need at all. If you'd come along quietly, you'd have found life in the Extravaganzoo most rewarding—and I'd still have the use of Ithc. Did you know you nearly tore his finger off?"
"He killed Dad," Roan said, and now there were tears; his face tried to twist and he felt dried blood crack on his skin; but he stood as straight as the Ythcan's grip on his arms would let him and looked Gom Bulj in one eye, the other being busy now with some papers spread on the desk.
"I know everything you're going to say," the entrepreneur said, "so don't bother to say it. Just let me indicate to you that you are a very lucky Terry, Terry. If you weren't a valuable Freak, I'd put you out the nearest lock for the trouble you've caused me. But I'm a businessman. You'll start in as a scraper-punk and double in green-face." He jerked his huge head at the three-fingered guard. "Take him along to a cubicle on number two menagerie deck with the other Freaks—and see there's a stout lock on the door."
Green arms like cargo cranes turned Roan and propelled him into the corridor. The vibration of the engines and the stink of ozone were more noticeable here than in the deep-carpeted office of the 'zoo owner. For a moment Roan felt a surge of excitement, remembering that he was aboard a ship, in deep space. He wanted to ask where they were bound, how long the voyage would last, but he wouldn't ask the Ythcan. He might be one of the ones who'd helped to kill Raff. Roan couldn't tell them apart. But there was one he would recognize . . .
Roan sat in the limp hay that was his bed. The metal-walled cell smelled of animals and old air. He was sore all over but his mind was clear, and he listened to the sound that had awakened him with a feeling of suspense that was almost pleasurable. Something was working at the latch to his door, and he looked about for a weapon, but there was nothing. Nothing but four stark walls and the used hay. Not even clothes: they had taken his tunic away; and he thought, I'll have to fight with my hands and teeth, and he crouched, ready.
But the door didn't open; instead, a metal panel swung back and suddenly Roan was looking through bars into ocher eyes in an oval face with skin as pale and smooth as a Tay-tay leaf, and a cloud of soft hair the color of early sunshine.
She laughed, a sound like soft night rain, and Roan stared at the tender red mouth, the white teeth, the tip of a pink tongue.
"You're . . . " Roan said, "you're a human woman . . . " She laughed again, and he saw a delicate purple vein that throbbed faintly in her white throat. "No," she said in a voice that seemed to Roan like the murmur of evening wind in the crystalline leaves of the Never-never tree.
"I'm a mule."
Roan came close to the barred window. He looked at her: the slender neck, the shapes of yielding roundness under the silver clothes, the tiny waist, the long, slim lines of her thighs.
"I've seen pictures," Roan said. His voice seemed to catch in his throat.
"But I never, ever saw . . . "
"You still haven't. But Pa said I could pass for Pure Strain in a bad light." She put her hands on the bars, and they were small and smooth, and Roan put out a hand and touched her.