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 ove