The Blue Behemoth
By LEIGH BRACKETT
Shannon's Imperial Circus was a jinxed
space-carny leased for a mysterious tour
of the inner worlds. It made a one-night
pitch on a Venusian swamp-town—to
find that death stalked it from the
jungle in a tiny ball of flame.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories May 1943.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Bucky Shannon leaned forward across the little hexagonal table. Heknocked over the pitcher of thil, but it didn't matter. The pitcherwas empty. He jabbed me in the breastbone with his forefinger, notvery hard. Not hard enough to jar the ribs clean loose, just enough tospring them.
"We," he said, "are broke. We are finished, through. Washed up anddown the drain." He added, as an afterthought, "Destitute."
I looked at him. I said sourly, "You're kidding!"
"Kidding." Shannon put his elbows on the table and peered at me througha curtain of very blond hair that was trying hard to be red. "He saysI'm kidding! With Shannon's Imperial Circus, the Greatest Show inSpace, plastered so thick with attachments...."
"It's no more plastered than you are." I was sore because he'd been alot quicker grabbing the pitcher. "The Greatest Show in Space. Phooey!I've wet-nursed Shannon's Imperial Circus around the Triangle foreleven years, and I know. It's lousy, it's mangy, it's broken-down!Nothing works, from the ship to the roustabouts. In short, it stinks!"
I must have had the pitcher oftener than I thought. Nobody insultsBuckhalter Shannon's Imperial Circus to Buckhalter Shannon's faceunless he's tired and wants a long rest in a comfy fracture-frame.
Shannon got up. He got up slowly. I had plenty of time to see hisgrey-green eyes get sleepy, and hear the quarter-Earth-blood Martiangirl wailing about love over by the battered piano, and watch theslanting cat-eyes of the little dark people at the tables swing roundtoward us, pleased and kind of hungry.
I had plenty of time to think how I only weigh one-thirty-seven toShannon's one-seventy-five, and how I'm not as young as I used to be.
I said, "Bucky. Hold on, fella. I...."
Somebody said, "Excuse me, gentlemen. Is one of you Mister BuckhalterShannon?"
Shannon put his hands down on his belt. He closed his eyes and smiledpleasantly and said, very gently:
"Would you be collecting for the feed bill, or the fuel?"
I shot a glance at the newcomer. He'd saved me from a beating, even ifhe was a lousy bill-collecter; and I felt sorry for him. Bucky Shannonsettled his shoulders and hips like a dancer.
The stranger was a little guy. He even made me look big. He was dressedin dark-green synthesilk, very conservative. There was a powdering ofgrey in his hair and his skin was pink, soft, and shaved painfullyclean. He had the kind of a face that nice maiden-ladies will trustwith their last dime. I looked for his strong-arm squad.
There didn't seem to be any. The little guy looked at Shannon with paleblue eyes like a baby, and his voice was softer than Bucky's.
He said, "I don't think you understand."
I felt cold, suddenly, between the shoulders. Somebody scraped a chairback. It sounded like he'd ripped the floor open, it was so quiet. Igot my brassies on, and my hands were sweating. Bucky Shannon sighed,and let his fist start traveling, a long, deceptive arc.
Then I saw what the little guy was holding in his hand.
I yelled and knoc