Wormbender's Circus

Sebastian returned home after the funeral. Media crews had been there in droves, filming him from every angle. There had even been a tomb-cam staring up at him from the damp earth. He had been asked all kinds of questions, some sensible, some downright ludicrous. He had largely stonewalled, being as non-committal as possible. It was his first taste of celebrity status, and it came as a shock. As he walked back to the aircar after the ceremony, his knees had been wobbling in a way they had never done on the monopod.

The most predictable question that had been fired at him - and repeatedly at that - was about what he was going to do with the money, and he had fended it off by saying that he had not yet decided. But once he had recovered from his initial surprise, it didn’t actually take him long to decide how to spend it. Or part of it, at any rate. It seemed to him that a dozen lifetimes would not be enough to spend it all. By the time Harry’s wealth had been transferred to Sebastian’s previously meagre bank account, already racking up more in interest alone than he could get to grips with, he had been at work at his computer, drawing plans and elaborating details. He had long nurtured a dream, but until that time it had been just that, a dream. Sebastian had dreamed of running a circus, but not just any circus, a circus for the stars. A travelling show to take from planet to planet, system to system, entertainment for all.

And now, suddenly, he could afford to do it. It was most assuredly not what Great Uncle Harry would have wanted, and Sebastian reflected that the old fellow was probably spinning in his grave already, and that was half the fun!

The first priority was a ship. A good sized freighter with masses of hold space and big cargo ports. Something like a big ore carrier, that sort of thing. ( He would be the first to admit that it was something he knew next to nothing about ). It would nevertheless require customising, rearranging and probably renovating. Sebastian’s plans were based on assumptions about the kind of ship he could get. But where should he look for one?

As he pressed his nose to the window of his apartment, a garish advertising drone drifted unbidden into his field of view and his reverie. Wishing it away, he was about to turn and get a cup of instant when he read what it said on the side of the drone. In large letters, he read:

FOR PRE-LOVED SPACECRAFT THAT ARE A CUT ABOVE AT A DOWN-TO-MOON PRICE, YOU CAN’T GO PAST CASEY’S OF FARSIDE.

Underneath, in much smaller lettering, it said:

IF YOU CAN FIND THE SAME PRODUCT AT A LOWER PRICE ELSEWHERE, WE WILL CHEERFULLY ADMIT IT.

Casey’s, eh? Impulsive as ever, he threw some clothes into a bag and got a taxi to Aldgate. There he bought a ticket for a Moon shuttle, walked on board and took his seat. Such awkward, ungainly things, the Moon boats, he reflected. Designed to work mostly in space, they moved in Earth’s atmosphere like penguins out of water. He watched the bustle of the pad, the supply lines feeding into the shuttle, the tractors and robots criss-crossing. A studious looking young man came along the aisle, wriggling past the automated food dispenser, and took the seat next to him.

Soon the doors closed. The usual safety notice played out in holovision over the seat backs, and Sebastian wondered, as he had whenever he travelled offworld, how much of it anyone was likely to remember when a panel had blown off and the passengers were all about to be sucked out into space. Then the shuttle took off, pointing its nose into a steep climb into space. Sebastian stared out of the window at the curve of the Earth, while the studious young man sat and read.

Sebastian flicked idly through some of the trendier e-zines, such as ‘Weird’ and ‘Rolling Asteroid’ and ‘Planetary Fair’, sitting up with a jolt when he realised that he now owned at least some of them.

His sudden jerky motion made the young man next to him look up from his bookpad.

“Are you all right?” the young man asked.

“Yes. Yes,” Sebastian answered, embarrassed. “I just suddenly thought of something that gave me a start, that’s all.”

“Oh,” said the young man. “I understand. I do that all the time. Assignments I’ve forgotten to hand in, that sort of thing.” He looked at Sebastian more closely. “Aren’t you...?”

Sebastian put his finger to his lips and looked about anxiously. “Shhh!” he hissed.

The man lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Why aren’t you travelling on your own private ship?”

“It’s in spacedock,” Sebastian answered hastily. “Having a refit.”

“Couldn’t you have chartered something?”

“Sure,” said Sebastian. “But no one got rich by wasting money, you know.” It was a good line. It made him sound like one of those eccentric billionaires he had read about. He wondered if he was going to turn into one.

“Sounds fair enough,” said the young man, somewhat bewildered at finding himself in the presence of such a celebrity. “Though I’ll probably never know.” He extended his hand. “Bill van den Bosch.”

Sebastian shook his hand. “I’m... well, you know who I am. Pleased to meet you, Bill.”

Bill turned back to his bookpad. Sebastian was suddenly keen to engage him in conversation. Being preoccupied with his own affairs made him uncomfortable, and he was enjoying the young man’s company. “Something good?” he asked.

“Part of my study”, Bill replied. “I’m doing the masters of middle and late 20th Century literature”.

“An interesting period, certainly,” said Sebastian politely, racking his brains trying to remember something of his school culture lessons.

“People like Asimov and Clarke. They had quite amazing foresight for those times. Did you know Clarke actually invented the communications satellite?”

“No, I didn’t,” Sebastian admitted. It hadn’t occurred to him that anyone had actually invented those things, any more than the light tube or the wheel.

“Clarke and others wrote what was called science fiction. From our perspective, it seems like the most obvious thing, and certainly the most relevant. It asked the big questions that what they then considered mainstream literature was incapable of. But it was regarded as trivial.” He stabbed the bookpad with his finger. “There’s a quotation here. One of the writers of the time, a Gregory Benford, talks about them being “still camped outside the walls of literary Rome”. What a great turn of phrase. But it was the writing that best reflected the times. And what times! People lived in constant fear of a war that would wipe out the whole world. Imagine that. Even after the world stopped being polarised into “us and them”, people still lived in fear of total destruction. There were all these deadly weapons in circulation, and crazies who wouldn’t hesitate to use them. All in all, it’s a miracle we survived.”

“I’m sure nobody thought that anyone would really trigger off something like that.”

“They had some pretty unstable leaders.”

“Huh!” snorted Sebastian. “The ones we’ve got now are pretty far gone!”

“I guess you’re right,” said Bill, suddenly self-conscious about his own passionate ranting. “But I don’t really follow politics. What’s taking you to the Moon?”

“I’m looking to buy a ship,” said Sebastian. “A cargo tub.”

“Oh,” said Bill. “I didn’t think you were in that line of business as well as media.”

“Diversification is the key,” said Sebastian. “You just can’t afford to have all your eggs in the one basket.”

“If you say so,” Bill said. “But I thought you owned the whole henhouse.”

The conversation flagged. The two men helped themselves to lunch from the dispenser. Sebastian went back to thinking about his ship. The student went back to his bookpad.