Or none that meant anything. "It's just the way things are," Wrout muttered. "Don't make no difference, kid."

But it did make a difference. Charley wasn't out in the bally any more, either; he was backstage among the second-rate acts, the tattooed man and the fire-eater and the rest, while Erma and Ned and Ed and the top-liners took their bows out before the crowd, pulling them in, and got the gasps and the applause.

The crowds in front of his own platform, inside during the show, were smaller, too. At first Charley thought that was due to the bally itself, but as the season began and wore on, the crowds continued to shrink beyond all expectation. Counting as he worked, combing his hair with one foot, drawing little sketches for the customers ("Take one home for only one extra dime, a treasured souvenir especially personalized for you by Charley de Milo")--counting the house, he discovered one evening that he was the smallest draw in the tent. The tattooed man did better than Charley de Milo, which was enough of a disgrace; the rest were so far ahead that Charley didn't even want to think about it.

His first idea was that somebody was out to get him. He could feel the muscles of his shoulders and back bunching up when he tried thinking what to do about the sabotage that had struck him; but an Armless Wonder has one very real disadvantage. He can comb his own hair and brush his own teeth; he can feed himself and--with proper clothing--dress himself; he can open doors and shut windows and turn the pages of books. But he can't engage in a free-for-all fight, not without long and careful training in that style of battle known as _savate_, or boxing with the feet. Charley had never learned _savate_; he had never needed it.

For the first time since he could remember, he felt helpless. He wasn't normal; he couldn't do what any normal man could do. He wanted to find the man who was sabotaging his show, and beat him into a confession, and throw him off the lot--

And he couldn't.

The muscles of his back pulled and pulled at him. He clenched his jaw.

Then Dave Lungs came over to his platform and he forced himself to relax, sweating. There were four or five people behind Dave, ordinary marks with soft, soft faces and round eyes. While Dave talked Charley went through his act; perhaps ten other marks were scattered in the tent, standing at other platforms, watching other acts even without Dave there to guide them and talk them up.

And when he was through Dave sold exactly one of the sketches Charley had done. One. An old man bought it, a chubby little Santa Claus of a man with eyes that twinkled and a belly that undoubtedly shook like a jelly bowl when it was freed from its expensive orlon confines. Dave went off to the next platform, where Erma stood, and the marks followed him, and more drifted over. Erma had ten customers, Charley noticed, and he grabbed a handkerchief from the platform floor and wiped his damp face with one foot.

_Something's wrong_, he thought stupidly, and he must have said it aloud because, at his feet, a high, thin old voice said: "What was that, son?

Did you say something?"

"Nothing at all," Charley mumbled, and looked down. The Santa Claus man was staring up at him. "Show's over," Charley said, more curtly than he meant. He took a deep breath and set his feet more firmly on the platform, but it didn't do any good. He was like a coiled spring, waiting for release.

"I don't expect any show," Santa Claus said. "Really I don't. But I did want to talk to you for a few minutes, if you don't mind."

"I'm not in a talking mood," Charley said. "Sorry." He was ashamed of the words as soon as he brought them out; that was no way to treat any stranger, not even a mark. But it was a long second before he could say anything else. Santa Claus stood watching him patiently, holding Charley's sketch by one corner in his left hand.

"I'm sorry," Charley said at last. "It ... must be the heat. I'm kind of on edge."

"Of course," Santa Claus said. "I understand. Really I do."

There was a little silence. Dave and the crowd trailed away from Erma and headed for Senor Alcala, the fire-eater at the end of the row.

Charley barely heard Dave's spiel; he licked his lips and said: "You wanted to talk to me."

"Now," Santa Claus said, "I don't want you to be ashamed of anything.

There's nothing personal in this, really there isn't. But I do want to help if I can, help anyone who needs help."

"I don't need help," Charley said. "I'm sorry." He tried to keep his voice gentle. The old man obviously meant well; there was no sense in hurting him.

"It's your ... infirmity," Santa Claus said. "Boy, have they been keeping the news from you?"

"News?" Charley said, with a sudden sick feeling.

"In New York," Santa Claus said. "There's a doctor there--a man who can help people like you. He has a new technique. I was reading in the papers just the other day--there was a man injured in a railroad accident, who lost one arm and one leg. This doctor used him as his first subject."

"He said he'd find another one," Charley put in without thinking.

"Another?"

"It doesn't matter," Charley said. "You were going to suggest that I go and see this doctor. Is that right?"

"Well," Santa Claus said, seeming oddly embarra.s.sed, "it can't hurt, you know. And it might help. Really it might. And then ... then you might not have to ... have to be the way you are, and do what you do."

Charley took a long breath. "I'll think about it," he said, in the very politest tone he could manage.

"I only want to help," Santa Claus said.

"I'm sure you do," Charley said. "And thanks."

"If there's anything I can do--"

Charley smiled down. "That's all right," he said. "Thanks. But I guess you'd better join the rest--if you want to see the show at all."

Santa Claus said: "Oh. Of course." He turned and found the group just leaving Senor Alcala's platform, and scurried off to catch up with them.

Charley stared at his retreating back, fighting to stay calm.

That was the way marks were, of course, and there wasn't anything to be done about it. It was always "the way you _have_ to be," and "the things you _have_ to do." It never seemed to enter their heads that pity was unnecessary baggage where a born freak was concerned, any more than it had entered Professor Lightning's head. A born freak, Charley reflected, had a pretty good life of it, all told; why, even marriage wasn't out of the question. Charley knew of some very happy ones.

But the marks pitied you, Charley thought. And maybe it wasn't especially smart to tell them anything different; pity, as much as anything else, keep them coming. Pity, and a kind of vicarious victory.

When Charley threaded a needle, he was telling all the marks: "It doesn't matter what kind of accident happens to you--you can overcome it. You can go on and do anything. It's all what you make it--everything, every bad turn life hands you can be made into something better. If I can do it, you can do it."

That was what the marks felt, Charley thought. It was wrong-headed, it was stupid, and it could be a simple nuisance--but it brought in the dough. Why argue with it? Why try to change it?

Charley nearly grinned. The crowd of marks moved on down the other side of the tent, and Charley watched them. Ned and Ed drew the biggest crowd, an attentive, almost rapt crew who could be suckered into buying anything the Siamese twins wanted to sell them. Dave milked them for all they were worth, and Charley nodded quietly to himself. Dave was a good carny man.

He worked for the good of the show. Or--did he?

Dave had taken him off the bally. Did Dave have some reason to hate him?

Could Dave be out to get him?

Charley couldn't think why, but it was a lead, the only one he had. And if Dave did turn out to be behind everything that was happening, Charley knew exactly what he was going to do.

He couldn't beat Dave himself.

But he had friends--

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.