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. He
knocked over the pitcher of _thil_, but it didn't matter. The pitcher
was empty. He jabbed me in the breastbone with his forefinger, not
very hard. Not hard enough to jar the ribs clean loose, just enough to
spring them.
"We," he said, "are broke. We are finished, through. Washed up and
down the drain." He added, as an afterthought, "Destitute."