?"

"Well," Santa Claus said, seeming oddly embarrassed, "it can't hurt, you
know. And it might help. Really it might. And then ... then you might
not 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 very
politest 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 guess
you'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 just
leaving 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 be
done about it. It was always "the way you _have_ to be," and "the things
you _have_ to do." It never seemed to enter their heads that pity was
unnecessary baggage where a born freak was concerned, any more than it
had 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 of
the question. Charley knew of some very happy ones.

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

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

Charley nearly grinned. The crowd of marks moved on down the other side
of the tent, and Charley watched them. Ned and Ed drew the biggest
crowd, an attentive, almost rapt crew who could be suckered into buying
anything the Siamese twins wanted to sell them. Dave milked them for all
they were worth, and Charley nodded quietly to himself. Dave was a good
carny 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