Mr. Big frowned, looked at the paper, then looked back at the first official. "What about granting a permit for transportation off planet?"
The first official shook his head. "Impossible. It would involve thrusting those animals into totally alien environments. You must see that, sir."
Mr. Big looked at the reporters, looked at the picture of the strangling elephant, rubbed his shin, then studied the document. He looked again at the reporters, then returned his glance to the official. "A thing you appear to be unable to see, sir, is that I am an elective official, while you are appointed." He looked back at the picture. "I would venture that after our friends from the fourth estate"—he grinned at the reporters—"are finished with this, I will go down next to Adolph Hitler as the archfiend of the past two centuries." He shook his head. "But, still..."
The Patch leaned over and whispered into Mr. Big's ear. He finished, and the minister looked at him, pursed his lips, then nodded. "I see, but how..."
The Patch pulled a paper from his pocket and handed it to the official. Mr. Big read it, then nodded, then signed it. He faced official number one. "I have just signed an authorization to transport these animals off planet."
The official's eyebrows went up. "But, sir, the law—"
Mr. Big cleared his throat, looked at the Patch, then looked back at the official. "Since, on Earth, the environment provided by these people for the animals is unacceptable, and since the animals are unacceptable to the preserves because they are circus animals, I have decided to authorize their transportation off planet. After all"—he nodded at the Patch—"what environment for a circus animal is more appropriate than a circus?"
"But—"
Mr. Big held up his hand. "Be still, Beeker. I'm up for election in five months. What chance do you think I'll have if this happens?" He held out the photograph.
"Sir, there are more important things than an election!"
"To you." Mr. Big handed the paper to the Patch, then turned and exited, followed by the officials and reporters. O'Hara lifted his arm and placed it on the Patch's shoulder.
"I suppose you explained to the minister that bulls haven't been destroyed that way for over a century."
The Patch looked at the paper in his hands, closed his eyes, then opened them as his hands began to shake. "Mr. John..."
O'Hara grabbed the fixer by his elbow while Duckfoot rushed to hold his other arm. "Patch, are you all right?"
Patch cocked his head toward the center of the tent. "Put me down on one of those buckets, Mr. John. I've been on my dogs all day..."
Duckfoot and the Governor helped the fixer to one of the overturned buckets and lowered him. The Governor looked up at the Boss Animal Man. "Get Bone Breaker in here."
Patch held up a hand. "No, Pony. All I need is a little rest." O'Hara cocked his head toward the entrance, and Pony Red rushed out to get the circus surgeon. The Patch shook his head. "All I need is some rest. I don't think Bone Breaker has a cure for being a little over thirty, does he?"
O'Hara smiled. The Patch had been "a little over thirty" for at least thirty years. The old fixer's confidence had been shaken pretty badly, but was now on the mend: "Now that we can breathe easy for a while, you better go and lie down."
The Patch frowned, folded the off-planet authorization and placed it into his breast pocket. When his hand came out, it held another piece of paper. "We don't get to breathe easy for too long, Mr. John." He held out the paper. "All I've done is to buy a little time. This fix is up to you."
Duckfoot sighed. "What now?"
The Governor read the telegram, then looked up at Duckfoot. "The backers, Arnheim and Boon. They're closing the show." O'Hara crumpled up the sheet, threw it on the ground and stormed from the tent. Duckfoot looked down at the Patch.
"What do you think?"
The Patch smiled. "I was worried before with the Governor moping around. I think that shook me more than anything else. But now he's mad. I'm not worried."
TWO
You must understand, Mr. O'Hara, that Arnheim and Boon Conglomerated Enterprises cannot afford the liabilities of having a... circus among its numbers." O'Hara frowned around at the sixteen indifferent faces seated around the polished onyx conference table while the accountant consulted his memory. The walls were stark white and without windows. O'Hara felt caged. The accountant looked up from his wrist and turned his head in the direction of the others seated at the table. "It seems that we acquired the assets of O'Hara's Greater Shows in twenty-one thirty-seven when we merged with Tainco, the entertainments conglomerate. Since then, O'Hara's has made a net of fifty-six thousand credits."
O'Hara held out his hands in a gesture of vindication realized.
"See?"
The accountant grimaced and continued. "That is less than half a percent return on investment. And, last year..." He again consulted his wrist. "Last year O'Hara's was in the red to the tune of one hundred and eighty-seven thousand—"
"Point of order." One of the sixteen raised his hand and faced the head of the table. "Karl, haven't we voted on this already? I don't see the point of chewing this cabbage another time."
Karl Arnheim nodded. "Your point is well taken, Sid, but John—Mr. O'Hara—wasn't present when we discussed this. I think it's only right that we give him our reasons for snipping him from the corporate body, so to speak."
O'Hara held up a hand and waved. "Can I say my piece now?"
Arnheim nodded. "Of course you may, John, but you realize that the decision has been made."
O'Hara clasped his hands and rested them on the edge of the table. "What you're telling me is that you're just going to ax the show? You're not even going to try and sell it?"
Arnheim shook his head. "There are no buyers, at any price. And now the government has all but shut you down. What point is there in whipping a dead horse, so to speak?"
O'Hara bit his lower lip. "What if I bought it?"
A wave of chuckles and head shaking circled the table. Arnheim leaned back in his chair, rubbed his chin, then turned toward the accountant. "Milt, what will it cost us to discharge the show's liabilities and dispose of the animals and equipment?"
The accountant again consulted his wrist. "A little over a quarter of a million credits. Of course, with Mr. O'Hara's three-percent interest in the show, A&BCE is only liable for ninty-seven percent of that." The accountant looked at O'Hara with a genuine expression of concern on his face. "Mr. O'Hara, you must realize that absolutely no one wants to destroy your circus, but you can't take on sole responsibility." He shrugged. "It's just not done."
O'Hara looked at Arnheim. "Well?"
Arnheim clasped his fingers and twiddled his thumbs. "What kind of figure did you have in mind, John?"
"Even swap. A&BCE's interest in the show and I take on the liabilities."
Arneim looked around the table. "Gentlemen?"
One of the faces nodded. "We're not going to get a better offer."
Another face nodded. "I say, take it and run like a thief."
Arnheim nodded. "All in favor of accepting Mr. O'Hara's offer?" The vote was unanimous. Arnheim turned to the accountant. "Very well, Milt, see that the papers are drawn up and presented to Mr. O'Hara within the hour." Arnheim faced the Governor, then shook his head. "Explain something for me, John."
O'Hara shrugged. "If I can."
"You've just taken on a back-breaking debt, practically exiled yourself from this planet, and committed yourself and your show to a bleak future. I can't see where you'll go after Ahngar. There just aren't that many wealthy monarchs having birthday parties to keep you going." Amheim held out his hands. "All this for a threadbare tent show. Can you tell me why?"