Earthblood by Keith Laumer, Rosel George Brown

off a shoe and put his foot up on the desk. He wriggled his toes, then put his foot back on the floor.
    "You walked the wire with those feet?"
    Roan didn't answer.
    "What were you doing up there?"
    "I was getting in without a ticket," Roan said. "I almost made it, too."
    "You like my little show, hey?"
    "I haven't seen it—yet."
    "You know who I am, young Terry?"
    Roan shook his head.
    "I'm Gom Bulj, Entrepreneur Second Class." One of the broad hands waved the cigar. "I'm owner of the Extravaganzoo. Now—" the heavy body hitched forward in the wide chair. "I'll tell you something, young Terry. I haven't seen a lot of Terries before, but I've always been a sort of admirer of theirs. Like back in ancient times, the wars and all that. Real spectacles." Gom Bulj thumped his desk. "This desk—it's made of Terry wood—woolnoot, I think they call it. Over six thousand years old; came out of an old Terry liner, a derelict on—" He cut off.
    "Never mind that. Another story. What I'm getting at is—how would you like to join my group, young Terry? Become a part of the Grand Vorplisch Extravaganzoo! Travel, see the worlds, exhibit your unusual skills to appreciative audiences of discerning beings all over the Western Arm?" Roan couldn't help it: he gasped.
    "Not much pay at first," Gom Bulj said quickly. He paused, one eye on Roan. "In fact, no pay—until you learn the business." Roan took a deep breath. Then he shook his head. Gom Bulj was still looking at him expectantly.
    "No," he said. "Not until I ask Dad . . . " Suddenly Roan was remembering Ma, waiting, with his dinner ready now, and Raff . . . Raff would be worried, wondering where he was . . .
    "I've got to go now," he said, and wondered why he had such a strange, sinking feeling.
    Gom Bulj drummed his tentacles under the desk. He sucked on a stony-looking tooth, eyeing Roan thoughtfully.
    "No need to trouble old Dad, young Terry. You're big enough to leave the burrow, no doubt. Probably he'll never miss you, new litters coming along—"
    "Terries don't have litters; only one. And Ma only had me."
    "You'll write," Gom Bulj said. "First planetfall, you'll write, tell them what a mark you're making. A featured sideshow attraction in the finest 'zoo in this part of the Galaxy—"
    "I'll have to ask Dad's permission first," Roan said firmly. Gom Bulj signaled with a finger. "You'll surprise him; come back some day, dressed in spangles and glare-jewels—"
    Ithc's reaching hand grazed Roan's arm as he ducked, whirled, darted for the tent flap. Something small, with bright red eyes, sprang in front of him; he bowled it over, ran for the tower, darting between the customers milling in the way between the bright colored tents under the polyarcs. He veered around a cage inside which a long-legged creature moaned, jumped stretched tent ropes, sprinted the last few yards—
    A hulking, gilled figure—a twin to Ithc—bounded into his path; he spun aside, plunged under an open tent flap, plowed through massed gracyls who hissed and struck out with knobbed wing bones. A vast gray creature with long white horns growing from its mouth teetered on a tiny stand; it trumpeted nervously and swung a blow with a heavy gray head-tentacle as Roan darted past; then Roan was under the edge of the tent, up and running for the wall. Behind him, an electric voice crackled, deep tones that rattled in a strange tongue.
    He saw the gate rising up, light festooned, above the surging pack. To one side, another of the gilled creatures worked its way toward him, knocking the crowd aside with sweeps of its three-pronged hands. Roan threw himself at the mass before him, forcing passage. Another few yards—
    "Roan!" an agonized voice roared. By the gate, Raff's massive white-maned head loomed over the crowd. "This way, boy . . . !"
    "Dad!" Roan lowered his head, threw himself against the slow-moving bodies in his way. The gill thing was close now—and there was another—
    And then he was at the gate, and