Froth cupped in a fold of the hills. Bubbles laced and striped with gaudy candy colors; vivid purples, reds, greens, blues, sickly yellows, lambent violet. Spires bearing floating pennants. Twisted towers topped with flags. Walks and slides and curving spirals. Peaked roofs graced with undulating crests.

The circus of Chen Wei.

Dumarest studied it as the raft dropped to the landing. Much of what he saw had to be mirage; illusions created with paint and fabric, using distorted perspective to give the impression of buildings and space where none existed. A spire vanished as he looked at it, became a blur of lines and blotches, became a spire again as he turned his head. An optical illusion repeated on all sides as cubes, stairs, landings shifted and took on other dimensions.

"Welcome to the circus!" A clown like a ball bounded toward them, another on stilts stood, beaming, as a man with a crested headpiece took their tickets, tore them, returned the stubs. "Enter and enjoy! Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!"

Entry was through a giant, laughing mouth, the passage forming the throat set with a series of spongy rollers; air traps which kept the internal pressure high. Dumarest pushed his way through them to emerge in a playground filled with seats, stalls, niches holding bizarre statues. A fountain shone with shifting luminescence while filling the air with crystalline merriment. Sideshows ran to either side, barkers shouting their spiel. A place of fun and games and assorted entertainment.

All that the initial entry ticket would buy.

Dumarest checked the sideshows and moved on, paying for admission to a curving gallery set with tableaux depicting a variety of horrific torments. Whispering voices gave graphic details while informing him that, for an extra fee, he could take advantage of the sensatapes which would allow him to experience the agonies of the victims.

A popular entertainment; each bench held customers, heads wreathed with silver bands, faces twisted as they suffered on a subjective plane. A place where Melome could have been but the tableaux were static models and Dumarest moved on.

To a hall where mirrors reflected his image in a thousand grotesque distortions.

To a misted cavern filled with invisible forces which caused him to sweat, to shiver, to feel the heat of passion and the chill disgust of self-contempt. To sigh and laugh and, with sudden fury, to scream curses.

A place yielding to another filled with drifting balloons which chuckled and cried, pleading, fuming, groaning, whimpering, tittering, sneering. Voices of suggestive intent and others mouthing abrasive insult. Hit, they burst to dispel sweet scents or acrid vapors. One clung, stinging, to his hand, the memory-plastic shriveling to mould itself into a plaque.

STUPID! The word it bore glowed with golden flame. It was followed by others, smaller; "This token entitles you to a free gift."

A blank-faced doll which he gave to a child gawking at a caged clown who mimicked the antics of a fierce and savage beast.

A gift easily disposed of but the accusation remained. Stupidly compounding his initial mistake-Melome would not be found by a frantic searching of public areas. She would need to be groomed, taught the finer arts of showmanship, tested to gauge her powers. Things he had overlooked in his urgent need to find her.

Dumarest slowed, turning at the sound of a bell. A girl with long raven hair, alabaster skin, a body shaped like an hourglass came slowly toward him. Her legs and arms were bare, a sequined dress hugging her figure with ebon brilliance. The bell was silver, its tone no sweeter than her voice.

"Get your tickets for the big show. Available at all barriers and booths. Half-price for children. Take your places for the most exciting, unusual, entertaining and overwhelming spectacle ever to be seen on Baatz. The performance will commence within the hour. Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!"

She halted as Dumarest touched her arm.

"I need help," he said, and swayed a little as he smiled; a man bemused a trifle but harmless enough. "I'm looking for a friend. She works for the circus but I can't seem to find her."

"Maybe she's off-duty, sir. Resting."

"I doubt it. She said to ask for her." He frowned, searching for a name. "Hilda. She said to ask for Hilda-no, Helga. That's it. Her name is Helga. Young, gold hair, nice smile. She was in town. On the boulevard. Advertising the circus. She said to be sure to ask for her and, well, here I am. You know her?"

She said, coldly, "Not personally. Ask an attendant to direct you to the information desk. They will send for her. If she's free she may meet you there."

She came after an hour, smiling, eyes searching his face. A mechanical smile and a look devoid of recognition; she must have spoken to more than a hundred men on the boulevard-he was just one of a crowd. Then, as she studied the neutral grey of his clothing, the lines and planes of his face, the smile changed, became warmer, more genuine.

"So it's you. I'm glad you came."

"That makes two of us. How long are you free?"

"For as long as you want-if you can pay."

"That's no problem." He smiled as he looked into her eyes, projecting his personality, his obvious admiration. "I've money and I'm in no hurry. But I am hungry and I guess you are too. Something to eat, maybe?"

"That would be nice."

"You'll make the food taste twice as good." He looked at her clothing, a simple dress belted at the waist, one devoid of ornamentation as was her throat, her wrists, her fingers. The bells and chains and displaying garment she had worn on the boulevard were for a different kind of work. "I've been lucky," he said. "And I like to share my good fortune. I'd also like you to remember me. Let's buy something to make sure you do that."

Smiling, she led him to a booth where he bought a bracelet of precious metal set with scintillant gems. An item worth the cost of a High passage but one he could afford. As he could afford the expensive meal, the wine, the liqueurs. Bribes augmented by his charm, his attention and courtesy so that later, in the privacy of her cubicle, she clung to him with genuine passion.

"Earl, my darling! Hold me! Hold me!"

She writhed in the circle of his arms, the warmth of her nudity burning against him, the softness of her flesh triggering his own desire so that it grew to dominate the universe, to flower, to fade in soft murmurings as her fingers searched his face, his naked body.

"A man, Earl. God, you're a man!"

"As you are a woman."

"Do you mean that? Do you really like me?"

"More than like you." He touched in turn and she sighed her pleasure, snuggling close to him. "You are a beautiful woman, Helga."

"Your woman, Earl."

"Mine."

She sighed again and walked her fingers over his torso, soft pads which traced the pattern of scars marring the skin. Old cicatrices; the medals of wounds won in the arena and visible proof of his skill and ability to survive.

"A fighter," she said. "Is that how you won your money?"

"Have you known many fighters?"

"A few."

"Here?"

"No," she was scornful. "Baatz is too soft. How did you get your money?"

He said, blandly, "How did you get to work for the circus?"

"Luck." She stretched against him, her hand sliding over his chest to the muscled plane of his stomach. "I developed fast and had a friend who told me to use what I had. The circus gave me an opportunity. I worked a dance routine for a while then settled for this." Her hand began to move in small circles. "And you?"

"I had a stake in a ship and sold out."

"A good deal?"

"The best." His arm closed around her. "Who buys for the circus?"

A question she ignored as her hand moved faster, lower, her chest heaving as her breath accelerated to a sudden, unaccustomed wave of desire.