By LEIGH BRACKETTShannon'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.
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."
I looked at him. I said sourly, "You're kidding!"
"Kidding." Shannon put his elbows on the table and peered at me through a curtain of ver
