"Earl!" Her lips found his own, pressed, fell moistly away. "You're wonderful. Such a man. A hero. So satisfying. Take me, darling. Take me!"

Mechanical words used in an automatic response but beneath them was something more. A feeling expressed by the movement of her body, the hunger of her lips even as she spoke the ritual of commercial love. Dumarest recognized it, knew that she was hampered by lack of true experience, unable to do more than use words and phrases learned by rote. A woman basically a stranger to love but learning and learning fast.

"Darling! Darling!" She heaved against him in demanding fury. "Hold me! Hold me, Earl! Hold me!"

Against the fears and terrors of the unknown; the frightening abyss which lay beyond the boundaries of mechanical sex. A region which demanded emotional surrender and gave in return a hint of paradise.

After, when again the fires had died and she lay snug in the crook of his arm, she said. "Did you mean it when you said you loved me?"

"Yes."

A moment then, as a statement, she said, "You've known a lot of women. You know too much not to have done. Did you love them?"

"Does it matter?"

"You loved them. You had to love them. Some men are like that; with them it's all or nothing. Others are like machines.

They aren't interested in you as a person but simply as a body to be used. There's a difference-God, what a difference!" She reared to lean over him, breasts hanging like succulent fruit. "Am I really your woman?"

For answer he stroked her hair.

"I'd be all you could ever want," she said. "I promise that. And I wouldn't want anyone else but you, ever."

A lie though she didn't know it; her own nature and intense femininity would drive her along the path she had chosen. To love and be loved-even the facsimile of true affection would govern her life.

Dumarest said, "It's nice to think about, but don't you have commitments? A contract?"

"It can be broken. If you've enough money they'd let me go."

The moment he'd been waiting for. He said, casually, "It's a thought. Who would I have to see to make the deal?"

"I could arrange it."

"No, things like that are best done personally." A smile made the remark innocuous, a smile he retained as he said, with equal casualness, "How does it work? I mean, if someone's sold to the circus what happens to them?"

"They have to be trained. Washed, fed, dressed, healed sometimes and taught to walk and stand and smile." Her eyes narrowed a little. "Why the interest?"

"Curiosity. I guess they must be kept in a special place. That dome with the false stairs?"

"That's the infirmary." She stooped to trail her breasts across his face. "Kiss me, lover."

He obliged. "The one with the spirals?"

"You're close. Again."

"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.