Stranger in a Strange Land (44 page)

While the men set up the cot, Dr. Apollo made passes in the air. “Sleep . . . sleep . . . you are asleep. Friends, she is in deep trance. Will you gentlemen who prepared her bed now place her on it? Careful—” In corpselike rigidity the girl was transferred to the cot.

“Thank you, gentlemen.” The magician recovered his wand from the air, pointed to a table at the end of his platform; a sheet detached itself from piled props and came to him. “Spread this over her. Cover her head, a lady should not be stared at while sleeping. Thank you. If you will step down—Fine! Madame Merlin . . . can you hear me?”

“Yes, Doctor Apollo.”

“You were heavy with sleep. Now you feel lighter. You are sleeping on clouds. You are floating—” The sheet-covered form raised about a foot. “Wups! Don't get too light.”

A boy explained in a whisper, “When they put the sheet over her, she went down through a trap door. That's just a wire framework. He'll flip the sheet away and the framework collapses and disappears. Anybody could do it.”

Dr. Apollo ignored him. “Higher, Madame Merlin. Higher. There—” The draped form floated six feet above the platform.

The youngster whispered. “There's a steel rod you can't see. It's where that comer of the sheet hangs down and touches the cot.”

Dr. Apollo requested volunteers to remove the cot. “She doesn't need it, she sleeps on clouds.” He faced the floating form and appeared to listen. “Louder, please. Oh? She says she doesn't want the sheet.”

(“Here's where the framework disappears.”)

The magician snatched the sheet away; the audience hardly noticed that it disappeared; they were looking at Madame Merlin, sleeping six feet above the platform. A companion of the boy who knew all about magic said, “Where's the steel rod?”

The kid said, “You have to look where he doesn't want you to. It's the way they've got those lights fixed to shine in your eyes.”

Dr. Apollo said, “That's enough, fair princess. Give me your hand. Wake up!” He pulled her erect and helped her step down to the platform.

(“You saw where she put her foot?
That's
where the rod went.” The kid added with satisfaction, “Just a gimmick.”)

The magician went on, “And now, friends, kindly give your attention to our learned lecturer, Professor Timoshenko—”

The talker cut in. “Don't go 'way! For this one performance only by arrangement with the Council of Universities and the Department of Safety of this wonderful city, we offer this twenty-dollar bill absolutely free to any one of you—”

The tip was turned into the blow-off; carnies started packing for tear-down. There was a train jump in the morning, living tops would remain up for sleep, but canvas boys were loosening stakes on the sideshow top.

The talker-owner-manager came back into the top, having rushed the blow-off and spilled the marks out the rear. “Smitty, don't go 'way.” He handed the magician an envelope and added, “Kid, I hate to tell you—but you and your wife ain't going to Paducah.”

“I know.”

“Look, it's nothing personal—I got to think of the show. We're getting a mentalist team. They do a top reading act, then she runs a phrenology and mitt camp while he makes with the mad ball. You know you didn't have no season's guarantee.”

“I know,” agreed the magician. “No hard feelings, Tim.”

“Well, I'm glad you feel that way.” The talker hesitated. “Smitty, want some advice?”

“I would like to have your advice,” the magician said simply.

“Okay. Smitty, your tricks are good. But tricks don't make a magician. You're not really with it. You behave like a carnie—you mind your own business and never crab anybody's act and you're helpful. But you're not a carnie. You don't have any feeling for what makes a chump a chump. A real magician can make the marks open their mouths by picking a quarter out of the air. That levitation you do—I've never seen it done better but the marks don't warm to it. No psychology. Now take me, I can't even pick a quarter out of the air. I got no act—except that one that counts. I know marks. I know what he hungers for, even if he don't. That's showmanship, son, whether you're a politician, a preacher pounding a pulpit—or a magician. Find out what the chumps want and you can leave half your props in your trunk.”

“I'm sure you're right.”

“I know I am. He wants sex and blood and money. We don't give him blood—but we let him hope that a fire eater or a knife thrower will make a mistake. We don't give him money; we encourage his larceny while we take a little. We don't give him sex. But why do seven out of ten buy the blow-off? To see a nekkid broad. So he don't see one and
still
we send him out happy.

“What else does a chump want? Mystery! He wants to think the world is a romantic place when it damn well ain't. That's
your
job ... only you ain't learned how. Shucks, son, the marks know your tricks are fake ... only they'd like to believe they're real, and it's up to you to help 'em. That's what you lack.”

“How do I get it, Tim?”

“Hell, you have to learn for yourself. But—Well, this notion you had of billing yourself as ‘The Man from Mars.' You
mustn't
offer the chump what he can't swallow. They've
seen
the Man from Mars, in pictures or on stereo. You look a bit like him—but even if you were his twin, the marks
know
they won't find him in a ten-in-one. It's like billing a sword swallower as ‘President of the United States.' A chump
wants
to believe—but he won't let you insult what intelligence he has. Even a chump has brains of a sort.”

“I will remember.”

“I talk too much—a talker gets the habit. Are you kids going to be all right? How's the grouch bag? Hell, I oughtn't to—but do you need a loan?”

“Thanks, Tim. We're not hurtin'.”

“Well, take care of yourself. Bye, Jill.” He hurried out.

Patricia Paiwonski came in through the rear, wearing a robe. “Kids? Tim sloughed your act.”

“We were leaving anyhow, Pat.”

“I'm so mad I'm tempted to jump the show.”

“Now, Pat—”

“Leave him without a blow-off! He can get acts ... but a blow-off the clowns won't clobber is hard to find.”

“Pat, Tim is right. I don't have showmanship.”

“Well ... I'm going to miss you. Oh, dear! Look, the show doesn't roll until morning—come back to my top and set awhile.”

Jill said, “Better yet, Patty, come with us. How would you like to soak in a big, hot tub?”

“Uh...I'll bring a bottle.”

“No,” Mike objected, “I know what you drink and we've got it.”

“Well—you're at the Imperial, aren't you? I've got to be sure my babies are all right and tell Honey Bun I'll be gone. I'll catch a cab. Half an hour, maybe.”!

They drove with Mike at the controls. It was a small town, without robot traffic guidance; Mike drove exactly at zone maximum, sliding into holes Jill did not see until they were through them. He did it without effort. Jill was learning to do it; Mike stretched his time sense until juggling eggs or speeding through traffic was easy, everything in slow motion. She reflected that it was odd in a man who, only months earlier, had been baffled by shoelaces.

They did not talk; it was awkward to converse with minds on different time rates. Instead Jill thought about the life they were leaving, calling it up and cherishing it, in Martian concepts and English. All her life, until she met Mike, she had been under the tyranny of the clock, as a girl in school, then as a big girl in a harder school, then the pressures of hospital routine.

Carnival life was nothing like that. Aside from standing around looking pretty several times a day, she never had to do anything at any set time. Mike did not care whether they ate once a day or six times, whatever housekeeping she did suited him. They had their own living top; in many towns they never left the lot from arrival to teardown. The carnival was a nest where troubles of the outside world did not reach.

To be sure, every lot was crawling with marks—but she had learned the carnie viewpoint; marks weren't people; they were blobs whose sole function was to cough up cash.

The carnie had been a happy home. Things had not been that way when first they had gone out into the world to increase Mike's education. They were spotted repeatedly and sometimes had trouble getting away, not only from the press but from endless people who seemed to feel that they had a right to demand things of Mike.

Presently Mike thought his features into mature lines and made other changes. That, plus the fact that they frequented places where the Man from Mars would not be expected to go, got them privacy. About that time, while Jill was phoning home a new mailing address, Jubal suggested a cover-up story—and a few days later Jill read that the Man from Mars had gone into retreat, in a Tibetan monastery.

The retreat had been “Hank's Grill” in a “nowhere” town, with Jill as a waitress and Mike as dishwasher. Mike had a quick way of cleaning dishes when the boss was not watching. They kept that job a week, moved on, sometimes working, sometimes not. They visited public libraries almost daily once Mike found out about them—Mike had thought that Jubal's library contained a copy of every book on Earth. When he learned the marvelous truth, they remained in Akron a month—Jill did a lot of shopping, Mike with a book was almost no company.

But Baxter's Combined Shows and Riot of Fun had been the nicest part of their meandering. Jill recalled with a giggle the time in—what town?—when the posing show had been pinched. It wasn't fair; they always worked under prearrangement: bras or no bras; blue lights or bright lights; whatever the fix was. Nevertheless the sheriff hauled them in and the justice of peace had seemed disposed to jail the girls. The lot closed down and the carnies went to the hearing, along with chumps slavering to catch sight of “shameless women.” Mike and Jill had crowded into the back of the courtroom.

Jill had impressed on Mike that he must never do anything out of the ordinary where it might be noticed. But Mike grokked a cusp—

The sheriff was testifying to “public lewdness”—and enjoying it—when suddenly sheriff and judge were stripped bare.

Jill and Mike ducked out during the excitement; all the accused left, too. The show tore down and moved to a more honest town. No one connected the miracle with Mike.

Jill would treasure forever the expression on the sheriff's face. She started to speak to Mike in her mind, to remind him of how funny that hick sheriff had looked. But Martian had no concept for funny; she could not say it. They shared a growing telepathic bond—but in Martian only.

(“Yes, Jill?”
) his mind answered.

They neared the hotel, she felt his mind slow down as he parked the car. Jill preferred camping on the lot—except for one thing: bath tubs. Showers were all right, but nothing could beat a big tub of hot water, climb in and
soak!
So sometimes they checked into a hotel and rented a car. Mike did not, by early training, share her hatred for dirt. He was now as clean as she was—but only because she had retrained him. He could keep himself immaculate without washing, just as he never had to see a barber once he knew how Jill wanted his hair to grow. But Mike enjoyed immersing himself in the water of life as much as ever.

The Imperial was old and shabby but the tub in the “Bridal Suite” was big. Jill went to it as they came in, started to fill it—was unsurprised to find herself stripped for her bath. Dear Mike! He knew she liked to shop; he forced her to indulge her weakness by sending to never-never any outfit which he sensed no longer delighted her. He would do so daily had she not warned him that too many new clothes would be conspicuous around the carnival.

“Thanks, dear!” she called out. “Let's climb in.”

He had either undressed or vanished his clothes—the former she decided; Mike found buying clothes without interest. He could see no sense in clothes other than for protection against weather, a weakness he did not share. They got in facing each other; she scooped up water, touched it to her lips, offered it to him. The ritual was not necessary; it simply pleased Jill to remind them of something for which no reminder could ever be necessary, through eternity.

Then she said, “I was thinking how funny that horrid sheriff looked in his skin.”

“Did he look funny?”

“Oh, yes indeed!”

“Explain why he was funny. I do not see the joke.”

“Uh ... I don't think I can. It was not a joke—not like puns and things which can be explained.”

“I did not grok he was funny,” Mike said, “In both men—the judge and the lawman—I grokked wrongness. Had I not known that it would displease you, I would have sent them away.”

“Dear Mike.” She touched his cheek. “Good Mike. It was better to do what you did. They'll never live it down—there won't be another arrest for indecent exposure there for fifty years. Let's talk about something else. I have been wanting to say that I'm sorry our act flopped. I did my best in writing the patter—but I'm no showman, either.”

“It was my fault, Jill. Tim speaks rightly—I don't grok chumps. But it has helped me to be with the carnie . . . I have grokked closer to chumps each day.”

“You must not call them chumps, nor marks, now that we are no longer with it. Just people—not ‘chumps.' ”

“I grok they are chumps.”

“Yes, dear. But it isn't polite.”