"Tell me."
"It's next to the one you said." Straightening, she frowned. "Why the interest?"
Dumarest shrugged. "There could be money in it. A man I met in town has lost his daughter and thinks she may have been sold to the circus. He's willing to pay well to get her back."
"His daughter?"
"That's what he said. She's young, bleached hair, thin, washed-out, half-starved. Her name's Melome. Maybe you've seen her."
"No."
"You could find out about her. Find out where she is. Fix it to buy her back."
Dumarest felt his anger rising as Helga shook her head. "Why not? Damn it, woman, why not?"
His anger betrayed him, was reflected in her face, her eyes, the rising tempo of her voice.
"You came here looking for her. Your girl. Lying to me. Using me. Making me feel I was something special. Promising- you bastard! You dirty bastard! Out! Get out! Out!"
"The girl!" Dumarest reared as she came at him, hands extended, fingers hooked, nails aiming at his eyes. "Melome!"
His hand thrust out in a defensive blow to save his eyes. The blow slammed against the woman's jaw and sent her rolling from the bed to lie shrieking on the floor.
"Rube! Rube! Hey Rube!"
The warning carny cry which spelled trouble and the need for help. Any circus worker within earshot would answer on the run.
Dumarest snatched at his clothes, found his knife, rose with it in his hand as men burst into the cubicle. Three of them armed with clubs. They halted as they saw the gleam of the blade, the man holding it in a fighter's stance. Their leader, a man with close-cropped hair and the massive bulk of a weight-lifter, glanced at the girl.
"Helga?"
"A pervert! The bastard hit me!"
"She's lying," said Dumarest. "If I hit her where's the mark?" The pad of his hand had cushioned the blow. "I'll leave but when I do I'll be dressed and walking." He turned the knife, light from the overhead lantern splintering from the steel, fuzzed on the edges and point. "Anyone have other ideas?"
"I'll handle this." The big man lowered his club as his companions left. To Dumarest he said, "I'll take you to a raft and, mister-don't ever try to come back!"
The shop was a cave of wonders; of ruffles and flounces, leather, plastic, feathers, belts glowing with filigree, garments heavy with fictitious gems. In the dim lighting the owner was a snuffling wasp who stared and shook his head in disapproval.
"A clown?"
"A clown." Dumarest was patient. "Nothing too elaborate. I want to crash a party," he explained. "It's a fancy dress affair and I'm not too popular with the host. His wife, you understand." He saw the thin face crease in a frown and quickly adapted the story. "She doesn't like the plans I've made for her sister. If she hadn't interfered we'd have been married by now."
"An affair of the heart?" The costumer beamed, mollified. "But a clown?"
"It seems appropriate-all men in love are fools."
"True, but there is an art in these things. A soldier, now, or a great lord or a captain from space-you have the look and bearing of such. But a clown-who can take such seriously?"
"Exactly. You can supply me?"
"Of course. But you had better strip." The costumer gestured at the tuin Dumarest wore, high-collared, tight at the wrists, falling to mid-thigh. The pants and high boots. "The art of costume is to dress from the skin-only then can you really slip into the part."
"I'm not acting, just pretending, and I won't be wearing the costume for long. Could we hurry?"
Minutes later Dumarest left the shop, stooping, his head and face hidden by a grotesque mask, his clothing by a loose garment of ragged tatters. One which led to flared pants trailing the ground and all in blotches of vibrant color. He swayed as he moved toward the area where the circus rafts were kept, using a bottle to daub himself with alcohol.
It was past midnight and the area was apparently deserted, but as he reached it a shape loomed from the shadows.
"You there! What do you want?"
"A ride." Dumarest halted, swaying, lurching closer to the guard. "Gotta get back to the cus… cir… gotta get back."
"You're drunk." The guard wrinkled his nose at the reek of spirit. "Stinking. Why don't you sleep it off?"
"Gotta get back."
"Sure. Tomorrow at first light." The clown was of the circus and the circus looked after its own. "Bed down in a raft." He gestured toward the grounded vehicles and laughed. "Pick a soft one."
Dumarest picked the one farthest from the light falling over the rail, muttering, changing the mutter to a snore. He heard the crunch of boots as the guard came to check and sensed the impact of the man's eyes. Satisfied he turned away and Dumarest relaxed, unclenching his hand, opening his eyes to look at the stars. They were blotched by patches of cloud but clear enough to check their wheeling. A clock which measured time for the guard to relax and fall into a doze. For the circus to bed down for the night.
The raft was locked, the key missing, as Dumarest had expected. The knife whispered from his boot and eased away the casing over the control panel. Wires lay exposed, black in the starlight, and he traced them with his fingers to select two pairs. Insulation shredded beneath the edge of the blade. A twist and the vehicle became alive.
Dumarest sent it upwards, rising like a shadow, soundless save for the hum from the antigrav units. A good vehicle and well-maintained-the circus could not afford accidents. When the town had fallen far below and the boulevard was a thin streak of brilliance he sent it toward the place where Melome would be waiting.
A short journey but one longer by night and he strained his eyes, searching the hills, grunting his relief as, far to the left, he saw the glow of massed bubbles. Poor navigation and he corrected it, swinging wide so as to approach from the far side. The lights were dim, the glow a pearly sheen which hid sharp detail, and he halted the raft as he examined his target.
Where had Helga said?
He thinned his lips as he remembered the woman, the incident her jealousy had caused. His own fault-he should have remembered the double standard of those who followed her profession. The sudden tempers and demanding passion. The brittle emotions and fierce possessiveness, but his own urgency had made him careless.
Where had she said?
A dome moved before him as he touched the controls; one daubed with lozenges of color now dulled by starlight. A walk which wasn't real, a sweeping arch, a winding path, a spire-all the products of illusion. A minaret circled with a staircase…
Stairs?
The infirmary, Helga had said-would Melome be there? The woman hadn't said and, at the time, she'd no reason to lie. There, perhaps? There?
Again the raft moved and Dumarest narrowed his eyes. Starlight and shadows altered perspective and robbed colors of distinctive hues. Was that dome white with red spirals or black with white? Close, Helga had said; the place he wanted was close to a spiraled dome. But which?
He had to take a chance. To drift was to invite discovery. The raft dropped as he made his decision, softly, lightly, coming to rest on taut membrane, indenting it, the plastic rising as he adjusted the lifting units. A delicate balance but shielding domes would protect it from any wind and those same domes would keep it hidden from the ground.
Dumarest left the raft and looked around. He'd landed on the roof of what he assumed to be a gallery; part of a convex web lying between soaring domes. One close to him was ridged in a pattern of fluted columns, another, smaller, bore snarling beast-masks, the mouths ugly with fangs. He left them behind as he walked to where the web branched, halting as he reached the target he had chosen; a cone which held a steady rustling, one set with a ladder that was real.
A vent, he guessed, or an induction tube feeding the pumps which maintained the internal pressure. The gilded summit would hold filters and the ladder was to allow access. The place should have a door yielding to inner mechanisms, and he found it on the far side, a narrow panel which jerked open to reveal a dimly lit interior filled with a louder murmuring and the scent of dust.