The Outpost by Mike Resnick Page A

she had so many colors in perpetual motion that no one could tell. It didn’t matter much, though. When she laughed, she shook—and when she shook, strong men just naturally got a little weak in the knees.
    “What a delicate, tinkling laugh you got, Ma’am,” said Baker admiringly, putting his shirt back on. “I think I’ve only heard one other as engaging.”
    “Who did it belong to?” asked Max.
    “Strangely enough, to the only other carny performer I ever knew,” said Baker. “A woman of rare and delectable beauty, though lacking this charming lady’s exceptional superstructure.”
    “So tell us about her,” urged Max
    Baker shook his head. “It’s a long and tragic story and I don’t want to go into it.”
    “I’d like to hear it,” said Silicon Carny.
    Baker seemed to consider her request for a moment, then shrugged. “All right, Ma’am,” he said at last. “It brings back a lot of painful memories—but I make it my business never to say no to a lady, especially one put together even remotely like yourself, Ma’am, so if that’s what you want, that’s what you’ll get. But I warn you up front, it ain’t got no happy ending.”

    Catastrophe Baker and the Siren of Silverstrike
    It all began (said Baker) when I decided to pay a visit to my old friend Bloody Ben Masters, who’d been the first one to hit paydirt on Silverstrike. He’d made a few million credits off his silver mine, then sold it for a few million more, built himself a castle with an acid moat around it, and retired.
    When I got there I learned that poor Ben was no longer among the living—seemed he’d got a snootful one night and decided to see if he could swim the moat without taking a breath. He got the last part right, because I don’t believe there was enough of him left to breathe about three seconds after he dove in. Anyway, there I was with some time on my hands, so that night I moseyed into town to see what the locals did for entertainment besides jump each other’s claims, and that’s when I found Old Doc Nebuchadnezzar’s All-Star Carnival and Thrill Show.
    They had all the usual carny stuff: a null-gravity Ferris wheel, a Tower of Babel for the menfolk and a Gomorrah Palace for the ladies, a couple of fights to the death between Trambolians and a pair of the local Men, a magician who volunteered to cut your spouse in half—I don’t recall remembering him promising to put her back together, now that I come to think of it—and the usual surgically-altered six-armed jugglers and knife-throwers and the like, but none of ’em especially interested me.
    In fact, I was about to leave when I heard a trumpet blare and a little guy in a bright plaid suit got up on a floating platform and announced that the moment we were all waiting for had arrived, and that anyone with twenty credits to spend could come into his Bubble and see the Siren of Silverstrike in all her sensual glory.
    Well, the last time I saw so many people move so fast all at once was when me and Bloody Ben had had one of our little disagreements back on Bilbau II and I threw a couple of poker tables through a window and demanded a little more fighting room, and he threw the bartender out after the tables and allowed that that was a right good idea, and I figured anyone or anything that got everyone so motivated was probably worth twenty credits and then some, so I gently shoved a few folks out of my way, tried not to listen overmuch to their howls of anger and agony, and forked over my money.
    Once I got inside the Bubble, I kind of shouldered my way to the front, hardly discommoding anyone at all except six or seven men who refused to step aside as quick as they should have for a newcomer to their fair planet, and then I took a seat.
    I didn’t have long to wait, because the second I sat down the music started, and suddenly the Siren of Silverstrike appeared onstage, and you got to believe me when I tell you that she was about as lovely a critter of