The Show Must Go On By HENRY SLESAR Illustrated by ENGLE Actors wanted: experience unnecessary, salary excellent, life expectancy brief.... [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Infinity July 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] He awoke in darkness, trembling with the thought of escape. His hands groped around the floor, trying its solidity. Then he crawled forward with agonizing slowness until his fingertips found a wall. He raised himself to his feet, his cheek scraping the cool surface of the enclosure. An idea came to him, and he slapped at the pocket of his shirt. His palm struck the outline of something. Matches! He lit one, and raised it to the level of his wide, frightened eyes. He was facing a door, a barricade of steel, without sign of latch or doorknob. But there was a sign, and he read it in the flicker of the matchflame. It said: PUSH He made a noise in his throat, and shoved against the door. It gave in to his weight, and he was outside the building, standing in a courtyard washed softly by moonlight. He circled where he stood, and knew he was a prisoner still. A wire fence, four times his height, surrounded him. He came closer to it, and plunged his fingers through the mesh, rattling it helplessly in his misery. Then he saw the second sign, and held his breath. It read: YOU CAN DO IT Encouraged, he began his climb. The toes of his rubber-soled shoes fit neatly into the openings, and he gained the summit of the fence quickly. He swayed uncertainly at the top, and almost dropped the twenty-five feet to the other side. But he regained his balance, clambered down the mesh, and dropped panting to the ground. A voice boomed at him. "_All right, let's go! We haven't got all night!_" He forced himself to his feet, and looked for the source of the sound with wild movements of his head. He could see nothing but the menacing shadows of a crowded forest. With a frightened glance over his shoulder, he plunged into the thick of it, hoping to find a pathway to the unknown freedom he sought. He thrashed through the tangled vines for a small eternity, and then gave up with a sob. He fell against a tree trunk, dampening the bark with his tears. This time, the voice was quieter, but its tone was impatient. "_Keep going, keep going! To the right. The right!_" He clung to the tree as if for protection, and then, with a gasp, plunged once more into the darkness. He found the clearing, to the right. It was like an arena, with spectator trees, and with bright eyes winking at him through the leaves. There was a log to the left of the cleared green circle, and a frail young girl in torn clothing sat on it, huddled with either fear or cold. She was clutching something like an infant to her chest.