* * * * *
After the show, that night, Charley went hunting for Ed Baylis. Ed had
been around Wrout's a long time, and if anything were going on Ed would
know about it. Charley went down to the girlie tent, and found Ed just
clearing up. All over the midway, the lights were going out, and the
Mars Race game gave one final roar and came to a halt. The last
customers were leaving.
Ed looked up when he came over. Charley didn't ease into the subject; he
couldn't. "Something's wrong," he said at once. "I'm off the bally, and
the crowds are going down. I don't like it, Ed."
Baylis shrugged. "Who would?" he said.
"But--something's wrong," Charley said. "Ed, you know what's happening.
You get the word. Let me in on it."
"I don't know anything about this," Ed said at once. But his face was
still, his eyes shuttered in the darkness.
Charley kept after him. They went behind the girlie tent, talking
softly. Overhead a rocket burned by, but neither man looked up.
At last Ed sighed. "Just forget about it," he said. "Just do your job.
That's all that matters. You don't want to know anything else."
"Why don't I?" Charley said. "Sure I do. And it's no good telling me to
do my job. The way things are running, Ed, I'm not going to _have_ a job
very long."
"There's nothing you can do about it," Ed said. "Believe me. You don't
want to know because knowing wouldn't do you any good. And you wouldn't
believe me if I told you."
"Try me," Charley said. "Go ahead." He scratched at one shin with the
other foot.
"Well," Ed began, and then stopped. He shook his head. "Look, Charley,
let me tell this my way. Something like this happened before. A long
while back--before the Cold War started, let alone ended."
"Go ahead," Charley said. A drop of sweat ran slowly down his forehead.
He tried to ignore it.
"Did I ever tell you I used to talk for a strong-man act?" Ed said. "Not
a sideshow talker, nothing like that; this guy had an act of his own,
full tent and flies. Gondo, his name was, and I can still see those
flies: _Eighth Wonder of the World_ up on top, red on blue, and just
_Gondo_ underneath, pure white with red outlining. Class, but flashy, if
you see what I mean. You never saw the like, kid."
Charley shook his head. "O.K.," he said. "But what does this have to do
with--"
"Well," Ed cut in, "that was years ago; I was a youngster, pretty well
just setting out. And Gondo drew crowds--big crowds. Lifting a wagonload
of people on his back--that was one of his tricks. I think Sandow
himself used to do it, but he had nothing on Gondo; the guy had style.
Class. And he was a draw; I was working for J. C. Hobart Shows then, and
there was nothing on the lot to top him."
Ed paused, rubbing at his chin reflectively.
"Then the crowds started to fall off," he said. "Just like with you,
Charley. And nobody knew why. Gondo was doing the same act--no change
there. So the change had to be some place else."
"Same with me," Charley said.
"Sure," Ed said. "The same with you. Charley, do you follow the
papers?"
"I guess so," Charley said. "One, anyway. My mother sends it to me from
Chicago. She likes the--"
"Sure," Ed said. "Well, did you ever hear about a Dr. Schinsake? Edmund
Charles Schinsake?"
Charley snorted in surprise. "Who do you think you are?" he said. "Santa
Claus?"
"What?"
"Nothing," Charley said. "It's just ... well, nothing. But sure, I know
the guy. And so do you." He explained.
"Professor Lightning?" Ed said. "I never saw a picture. But it doesn't
matter--except maybe it'll make the guy easier to see. Because this is
it, Charley; I think you ought to go and see him."
There was a little silence.
"You, too?" Charley said. "You mean, so I can stop being a poor, poor
cripple and stop making lots of money? Is that what you're talking
about?"
"Listen, Charley," Ed said. "I--"
"Just give up," Charley cut in. "That's what you want me to do. Just
give up and go to the good old doctor and ask him to give me some arms.
Is that what you wanted to tell me about this Gondo of yours? How he
just gave up and got a nice little white cottage some place and got a
nice little low-paying job and lived unhappily ever after, because a
carny isn't a healthy, well-adjusted life? Is that it, Ed?"
Ed Ribbed at his chin. "No, Charley," he said. "No, kid. Not at all. But
I think you ought to--"
"Well, I won't," Charley said. "Look, Ed: I want you to get this
straight. I don't care who's against me, or what they've got planned.
I'm not going to give up. I'm going to find out what's going on, and I'm
going to lick it. Have you got it?"
Ed sighed. "I've got it," he said. "But, Charley: there are some things
you don't lick."
"I'll find out," Charley said. "Believe me, Ed. I'll find out."
* * * * *
But nobody else knew a thing--or, at least, nobody was willing to talk.
Ned and Ed offered any help they could give--but said nothing that
helped. Erma was puzzled, but ignorant; Senor Alcala knew nothing, and
no one else was any better off, as far as Charley could discover.
After a week, Charley decided there was only one person for him to see.
Ed Baylis had recommended him, and so had the little Santa Claus.
Professor Lightning didn't look like much of a lead, but there was
nothing else left. The audience was still dropping, little by little,
and Charley knew perfectly well that something had to be done, and fast.
Getting a leave of absence was even easier than he'd expected it to be;
and that was just one more proof of how far his standing with the show
had dropped. People just didn't care; he wasn't a draw any more.
And his standing with the carny was all he had left. He had caught
himself, lately, wondering if he would really be so badly off with two
arms, like everybody else. The idea frightened him, but the way it kept
coming back frightened him even more.
Leaving the carny lot, of course, he put on his sandals; outside the
carnival, he had to wear shoes. They were laceless, of course, and made
to be kicked off easily. Charley slipped into them and thought wryly of
the professor and his "scientific Renaissance." The shoes were a new
plastic, lightweight and long-lasting, but the dyeing problem hadn't
quite been solved. Instead of a quiet, dull brown, they were a garish
shade that almost approached olive drab.
[Illustration]
Well, he thought, nothing's perfect. He shrugged into a harness and had
his single suitcase attached to it; the harness and case were
lightweight, too, and Charley headed for the station walking easily.
He climbed aboard the train and dropped his suitcase into the Automatic
Porter, and then went to find a seat. The only one available was next to
a middle-aged man chewing a cigar in a sour silence. Charley slipped
into his seat without a word, and hoped the man would ignore him. He had
a face like an overripe summer squash, and his big hands, clasped in his
lap, were fat and white, covered with tiny freckles. Charley leaned back
and closed his eyes.
A minute or so passed in silence.