Charley de Milo Read online

Charley in the eye once. But when Charleyasked what was wrong, he got no answer.

  Or none that meant anything. "It's just the way things are," Wroutmuttered. "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 manand the fire-eater and the rest, while Erma and Ned and Ed and thetop-liners took their bows out before the crowd, pulling them in, andgot the gasps and the applause.

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

  His first idea was that somebody was out to get him. He could feel themuscles of his shoulders and back bunching up when he tried thinkingwhat to do about the sabotage that had struck him; but an Armless Wonderhas one very real disadvantage. He can comb his own hair and brush hisown 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 hecan't engage in a free-for-all fight, not without long and carefultraining in that style of battle known as _savate_, or boxing with thefeet. Charley had never learned _savate_; he had never needed it.

  For the first time since he could remember, he felt helpless. He wasn'tnormal; he couldn't do what any normal man could do. He wanted to findthe man who was sabotaging his show, and beat him into a confession, andthrow 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 torelax, sweating. There were four or five people behind Dave, ordinarymarks with soft, soft faces and round eyes. While Dave talked Charleywent through his act; perhaps ten other marks were scattered in thetent, standing at other platforms, watching other acts even without Davethere to guide them and talk them up.

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

  * * * * *

  _Something's wrong_, he thought stupidly, and he must have said it aloudbecause, 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 manwas staring up at him. "Show's over," Charley said, more curtly than hemeant. He took a deep breath and set his feet more firmly on theplatform, 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 didwant 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 ofthe words as soon as he brought them out; that was no way to treat anystranger, not even a mark. But it was a long second before he could sayanything else. Santa Claus stood watching him patiently, holdingCharley's sketch by one corner in his left hand.

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

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

  There was a little silence. Dave and the crowd trailed away from Ermaand 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: "Youwanted 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 tohelp if I can, help anyone who needs help."

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

  "It's your ... infirmity," Santa Claus said. "Boy, have they beenkeeping 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 canhelp people like you. He has a new technique. I was reading in thepapers just the other day--there was a man injured in a railroadaccident, who lost one arm and one leg. This doctor used him as hisfirst 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 goand see this doctor. Is that right?"

  "Well," Santa Claus said, seeming oddly embarrassed, "it can't hurt, youknow. And it might help. Really it might. And then ... then you mightnot 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 verypolitest 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 guessyou'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 justleaving 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 bedone about it. It was always "the way you _have_ to be," and "the thingsyou _have_ to do." It never seemed to enter their heads that pity wasunnecessary baggage where a born freak was concerned, any more than ithad 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 ofthe question. Charley knew of some very happy ones.

  But the marks pitied you, Charley thought. And maybe it wasn'tespecially smart to tell them anything different; pity, as much asanything else, keep them coming. Pity, and a kind of vicarious victory.When Charley threaded a needle, he was telling all the marks: "Itdoesn't matter what kind of accident happens to you--you can overcomeit. You can go on and do anything. It's all what you makeit--everything, every bad turn life hands you can be made into somethingbetter. If I can do it, you can do it."

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

  Charley nearly grinned. The crowd of marks moved on down the other sideof the tent, and Charley watched them. Ned and Ed drew the biggestcrowd, an attentive, almost rapt crew who could be suckered into buyinganything the Siamese twins wanted to sell them. Dave milked them for allthey were worth, and Charley nodded quietly to himself. Dave was a goodcarny 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. Andif Dave did turn out to be behind everything that was happening, Charleyknew 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 hadbeen around Wrout's a long time, and if anything were going on Ed wouldknow about it. Charley went down to the girlie tent, and f
ound Ed justclearing up. All over the midway, the lights were going out, and theMars Race game gave one final roar and came to a halt. The lastcustomers were leaving.

  Ed looked up when he came over. Charley didn't ease into the subject; hecouldn't. "Something's wrong," he said at once. "I'm off the bally, andthe 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