it. Have you got it?"

Ed sighed. "I've got it," he said. "But, Charley: there are some things
you don't lick."

"I'll find out," Charley said. "Believe me, Ed. I'll find out."

* * * * *

But nobody else knew a thing--or, at least, nobody was willing to talk.
Ned and Ed offered any help they could give--but said nothing that
helped. Erma was puzzled, but ignorant; Senor Alcala knew nothing, and
no one else was any better off, as far as Charley could discover.

After a week, Charley decided there was only one person for him to see.
Ed Baylis had recommended him, and so had the little Santa Claus.
Professor Lightning didn't look like much of a lead, but there was
nothing else left. The audience was still dropping, little by little,
and Charley knew perfectly well that something had to be done, and fast.

Getting a leave of absence was even easier than he'd expected it to be;
and that was just one more proof of how far his standing with the show
had dropped. People just didn't care; he wasn't a draw any more.

And his standing with the carny was all he had left. He had caught
himself, lately, wondering if he would really be so badly off with two
arms, like everybody else. The idea frightened him, but the way it kept
coming back frightened him even more.

Leaving the carny lot, of course, he put on his sandals; outside the
carnival, he had to wear shoes. They were laceless, of course, and made
to be kicked off easily. Charley slipped into them and thought wryly of
the professor and his "scientific Renaissance." The shoes were a new
plastic, lightweight and long-lasting, but the dyeing problem hadn't
quite been solved. Instead of a quiet, dull brown, they were a garish
shade that almost approached olive drab.

[Illustration]

Well, he thought, nothing's perfect. He shrugged into a harness and had
his single suitcase attached to it; the harness and case were
lightweight, too, and Charley headed for the station walking easily.

He climbed aboard the train and dropped his suitcase into the Automatic
Porter, and then went to find a seat. The only one available was next to
a middle-aged man chewing a cigar in a sour silence. Charley slipped
into his seat without a word, and hoped the man would ignore him. He had
a face like an overripe summer squash, and his big hands, clasped in his
lap, were fat and white, covered with tiny freckles. Charley leaned back
and closed his eyes.

A minu