'Yes, Father.'
'Huh?'
'Jubal, there is no Martian word for 'father.' But lately I have grokked that you are my father. And Jill's father.'
Jubal glanced at Jill. 'Mmm, I grok. Take care of yourselves.'
'Yes. Come, Jill.' They were gone before he left the table.
XXVI
IT WAS THE USUAL SORT OF CARNIVAL in the usual sort of town. The rides were the same, the cotton candy tasted the same, the flat joints practiced a degree of moderation acceptable to the local law in separating the marks from their half dollars, whether with baseballs thrown at targets, with wheels of fortune, or what - but the separation took place just the same. The sex lecture was trimmed to suit local opinions concerning Charles Darwin's opinions, the girls in the posing show wore that amount of gauze that local mores required, and the Fearless Fentons did their Death-Defying (in sober truth) Double Dive just before the last bally each night.
The ten-in-one show was equally standard. It did not have a mentalist, it did have a magician; it did not have a bearded lady, it did have a half-man half-woman; it did not have a sword swallower, it did have a fire eater. In place of a tattooed man the show had a tattooed lady who was also a snake charmer - and for the blow-off (at another half dollar per mark) she appeared 'absolutely nude!? clothed only in bare living flesh in exotic designs!'-and any mark who could find one square inch below her neckline untattooed would be awarded a twenty dollar bill.
That twenty dollars had gone unclaimed all season, because the blowoff was honestly ballyhooed. Mrs. Paiwonski stood perfectly still and completely unclothed - other than in 'bare, living flesh'? in this case a fourteen- foot boa constrictor known as 'Honey Bun.' Honey Bun was looped around Mrs. P. so strategically that even the local ministerial alliance could find no real excuse to complain, especially as some of their own daughters wore not nearly as much and covered still less while attending the carnival. To keep the placid, docile Honey Bun from being disturbed, Mrs. P. took the precaution of standing on a small platform in the middle of a canvas tank - on the floor of which were more than a dozen cobras.
The occasional drunk who was certain that all snake charmer's snakes were defanged and so tried to climb into the tank in pursuit of that undecorated square inch invariably changed his opinion as soon as a cobra noticed him, lifted and spread its hood.
Besides, the lighting wasn't very good.
However, the drunk could not have won the twenty dollars in any case. Mrs. P's claim was much sounder than the dollar. She and her late husband had had for many years a tattooing studio in San Pedro; when trade was slack they had decorated each other - and, eventually, at some minor inconvenience to herself, the art work on her was so definitively complete from her neck down that there was no possible room for an encore. She took great pride both in the fact that she was the most completely decorated woman in the world (and by the world's greatest artist, for such was her humbly grateful opinion of her late husband) and also in the certainty that every dollar she earned was honest.
She associated with grifters and sinners and did not hold herself aloof from them. But her own integrity was untouched. She and her husband had been converted by Foster himself, she kept her membership in San Pedro and attended services at the nearest branch of the Church of the New Revelation no matter where she was.
Patricia Paiwoush would gladly have dispensed with the protection of Honey Bun in the blow-off not merely to prove that she was honest (that needed no proof, since she knew it was true) but because she was serene in her conviction that she was the canvas for religious art greater than any on the walls or ceilings of the Vatican. When she and George had seen the light. there was still about three square feet of Patricia untouched before he died she carried a complete pictorial life of Foster, from his crib with the angels hovering around to the day of glory when he had taken his appointed place among the archangels.
Regrettably (since it might have turned many sinners into seekers of the light) much of this sacred history had to be covered up. the amount depending on the local lawmen. But she could show it in closed Happiness meetings of the local churches she attended, if the shepherd wanted her to, which he almost always did. But, while it was always good to add to Happiness, the saved did not need it; Patricia would rather have saved sinners. She couldn't preach, she couldn't sing, and she had never been called to speak in tongues but she was a living witness to the light.
In the ten-in-one, her act came next to last, just before the magician; this gave her time to put away unsold photographs of herself (a quarter for black amp; white, half a dollar in color, a set of special photographs for five dollars in a sealed envelope sold only to marks who signed a printed form alleging that they were doctors of medicine, psychology, sociology, or other such entitled to professional material not available to the general public - and such was Patricia's integrity that she would not sell these even for ten dollars if the mark did not look the part; she would then ask to see his business card - no dirty dollars were going to put her kids through school - and also gave her time to slip behind the rear canvas and get herself and her snakes ready for the blow-off.
The magician, Dr. Apollo, performed on the last platform nearest to the canvas fly leading to the blow-off. He started by passing out to his audience a dozen shiny steel rings, each as wide as a plate; he invited them to convince themselves that each ring was solid and smooth. Then he had them hold the rings so that they overlapped. Dr. Apollo walked along the platform, reached out with his wand and tapped each overlap - the solid steel links formed a chain.
Casually he laid his wand in the air, rolled up his sleeves, accepted a bowl of eggs from his assistant, and started to juggle half a dozen of them. His juggling did not attract too many eyes; his assistant was more worthy of stares. She was a fine example of modern functional design and, while she wore a great deal more than did the young ladies in the posing show, nevertheless there seemed to be a strong probability that she was not tattooed anywhere. The marks hardly noticed it when the six eggs became five, then four three, two - until at last Dr. Apollo was tossing one egg in the air, with his sleeves still rolled up and a puzzled look on his face. At last he said, 'Eggs are getting scarcer every year,' and tossed the remaining egg over the heads of those nearest the platform to a man in the back of the crowd. 'Catch!'
He turned away and did not seem to notice that the egg never reached its destination.
Dr. Apollo performed several other tricks, while wearing always the same slightly puzzled expression and with the same indifferent patter. Once he called a young boy close to the platform. 'Son, I can tell you what you are thinking. You think I'm not a real magician. And you're right. For that you win a dollar.' He handed the kid a dollar bill. It disappeared.
The magician looked unhappy. 'Dropped it? Well, hang on to this one.' A second bill disappeared.
'Oh, dear. Well, we'll have to give you one more chance. Use both hands. Got it? All right, better get out of here fast with it - YOU should be home in bed anyhow.' The kid dashed away with the money and the magician turned back and again looked puzzled 'Madame Merlin, what should we do now?'
His pretty assistant came up to him, pulled his head down by one ear, whispered into it. He shook his head. 'No, not in front of all these people.'
She whispered again; he looked distressed. 'I'm sorry, friends, but Madame Merlin insists that she wants to go to bed. Will any of you gentlemen help her?'
He blinked at the rush of volunteers - 'Oh, just two of you. Were any of you gentlemen in the Army?'
There were still more than enough volunteers. Dr. Apollo picked two and said, 'There's an army cot under the end of the platforms just lift up the canvasflow, will you set it up for her here on the platform? Madame Merlin, face this way, please.'
While the two men set up the cot, Dr. Apollo made passes in the air at his assistant. 'Sleep? sleep? you are now asleep. Friends, she is in a deep trance. Will you two gentlemen who so kindly prepared her bed now place her on it? One take her head, one take her feet. Careful, now - ' In corpse-like rigidity the girl was transferred to the cot.
'Thank you, gentlemen. But we ought not to leave her uncovered, should we? There was a sheet here, somewhere. Oh, there it is.' The magician reached out, recovered his wand from where he had parked it, pointed to a table laden with props at the far end of his platform; a sheet detached itself from the pile and came to him. 'Just spread this over her. Cover her head, too; a lady should not be exposed to public gaze while sleeping. Thank you. Now if you will just step down off the platform. Fine! Madame Merlin? can you hear me?'
