Part 4 (1/2)

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 s.h.i.+n 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. Cla.s.s, 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.

Cla.s.s. 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 n.o.body 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.