In the endless black of deep space, far beyond the charts of any known star, the Jupiter II drifted in a lonely orbit around a world of purple skies and silver dunes. After several years lost in space it was Will Robinson's 18th birthday. The Robinson family had set down only long enough to gather water and repair a damaged sensor array. Young Will Robinson, the ever-scheming Dr. Zachary Smith, and the Robot had wandered a short distance from the ship when the ground beneath them shimmered like heat haze.

A figure stepped from the shimmer.

He was tall, thin, and dressed in a long coat of shifting colors that never quite settled on one shade. A top hat of living crystal sat upon his head. He bowed with theatrical flourish, cane tapping the sand.

“Welcome, travelers,” he said, voice smooth as stage velvet. “I am The Showman. This world is my theater, and you have just wandered onto my stage.”

Dr. Smith’s eyes narrowed. “Another alien with delusions of grandeur. How tiresome. Robot, scan this preposterous creature and confirm what I already know-he is nothing but a interstellar charlatan.”

The Robot’s bubble sensors whirred. “Sensors indicate an advanced energy matrix of unknown origin. Caution is advised, Dr. Smith.”

“Caution is always advised when *you* are involved,” Smith snapped. “Now stop hovering and do something useful for once.”

The Showman merely smiled. With a sweep of his cane the sand rose and formed a broad, gleaming stage of polished white stone. Soft lights bloomed in the air above it. Music-strange, rhythmic, and strangely familiar-began to play from nowhere.

“I require a performance,” The Showman said. “A dance. You two will provide it.”

Dr. Smith drew himself up, one hand pressed theatrically to his chest. “Impossible. I am a man of science and dignity, not some circus performer. My body is far too old and frail for such nonsense. The very idea is absurd.”

The Showman’s smile widened. “Then we shall remedy that.”

He raised the cane. A ribbon of light coiled around Dr. Smith.