Stranger in a Strange Land

“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?”

“Yes, Doctor Apollo.”

“You were heavy with sleep. Now you are resting. You feel lighter, much lighter. You are sleeping on a bed of clouds. You are floating away on clouds—“ The sheet-covered form raised slowly up about a foot. “Wups! Don’t get too light. We don’t want to lose you.”

In the crowd, a boy in his late teens explained in a loud whisper, “She’s not under the sheet now. When they put the sheet over her, she went down through a trap door. That’s just a light framework, doesn’t weigh as much as the sheet. And in a minute he’ll flip the sheet away and while he does, the framework will collapse and disappear. It’s just a gimmick—anybody could do it.”

Dr. Apollo ignored him and went on talking. “A little higher, Madame Merlin. Higher. There—“ The draped form floated about six feet above the platform.

The smart youngster whispered to his friends, “There’s a slender steel rod but you can’t see it too easily. It’s probably where one corner of the sheet hangs down there and touches the cot.”

Dr. Apollo turned and requested his volunteers to remove the cot and put it back under the platform. “She doesn’t need it now. She sleeps on clouds.” He faced the floating form and appeared to be listening. “What? Louder, please. Oh? She says that she doesn’t want the sheet—it’s too heavy.”

(“Here’s where the framework disappears.”)

The magician tugged one corner of the sheet, snatched it away; the audience hardly noticed that the sheet disappeared without his bothering to gather it in; they were looking at Madame Merlin, still floating, still sleeping, six feet above the platform. The platform stood in the middle rear of the tent and the audience surrounded it on all sides. A companion of the boy who knew all about stage magic said, “Okay, Speedy, where’s the steel rod?”

The kid said uncertainly, “You have to look where he doesn’t want you to look, it’s the way they’ve got those lights fixed to shine right into your eyes.”

Dr. Apollo said, “That’s enough sleep, fairy princess. Give me your hand. Wake up, wake up!” He took her hand, pulled her erect and helped her step down to the platform.

(“You see? You saw how stiff she got down, you saw where she put her foot? That’s where the steel rod went.” The kid added with satisfaction, “Just a gimmick.”)

The magician went on talking, “And now friends, if you will kindly give your attention to our learned lecturer, Professor Timoshenko—”

The talker cut in at once. “Don’t go ’way! For this one performance only by arrangement with the Council of Colleges and Universities and with the permission of the Department of Safety and Welfare of this wonderful city, we are offering this twenty dollar bill absolutely free to any one of you—”

Most of the tip was turned into the blow-off. A few wandered around, then started to leave as most of the lights in the main tent were turned off. The freaks and other carnies started packing their props and slum preparatory to tear-down. There was a train jump coming in the morning and living tops would remain up for a few hours sleep, but canvas boys were already loosening stakes on the sideshow top.

Shortly the talker-owner-manager of the ten-in-one came back into the semi-darkened tent, having rushed the blow-off and spilled the last marks out the rear exit. “Smitty, don’t go ’way. Got something for you.” He handed the magician an envelope, which Dr. Apollo tucked away without looking at it. The manager added, “Kid, I hate to tell you this—but you and your wife ain’t going with us to Paducah.”

“I know.”

“Well… look, don’t take it hard, there’s nothing personal about it—but I got to think of the show. We’re replacing you with a mentalist team. They do a top reading act, then she runs a phrenology and mitt camp while he makes with the mad ball. We need ’em… and you know as well as I do you didn’t have no season’s guarantee. You were just on trial.”

“I know,” agreed the magician. “I knew it was time to leave. No hard feelings, Tim.”

“Well, I’m glad you feel that way about it.” The talker hesitated. “Smitty, do you want some advice? Just say no if you don’t.”

“I would like very much to have your advice,” the magician said simply.