by Don Wilcox
My new life as a part of the carnival was very strenuous; there was no end of noise, much inconvenience of moving from place to place, a complete lack of the pleasant contemplative atmosphere and the privacy I had enjoyed at Frank Prentice’s mountain home.
But if I sometimes winced from the disagreeable, Windy McKean was always there to give me a walloping slap on the back and reassure me that this was what a fellow had to go through to put himself over on the public.
“I’ll run ’em in, George,” he would say with a flourish of his red megaphone. “You lecture ’em to your heart’s content. Together we’ll pull a lot of wool over a lot of eyes.”
That phrase about wool over the eyes mystified me at times. An old carnival man told me that Windy McKean was pulling the wool over my eyes. When I asked Windy what this meant he said it was just an expression. “Plenty of wool is what you need, George. It’s what everyone needs so they can unlax and take it easy when the razzle-dazzle gets too thick.”
I understood, as time went on, that Windy was being generous toward me with this soothing wool treatment. He was good at explaining troubles and doubts away and making everything crystal clear.
I might have doubted whether my fenced-off pen inside this big flapping yellow tent was the ideal working arrangement for the accomplishment of my mission. But Windy McKean was quick with the answers. Did I want to see the people of the Earth? The carnival was the place. Sooner or later everybody came to the carnival. Did I want to gain some insights on the Earth’s governments? All the great governments were democracies. That meant they were made up of all the people. Where could all the people be found at their brightest and best? At the carnival. The Earth’s liveliest music, its art, its physical prowess, its curiosities and wonders? They were all here in abundance.
So, thanks to Windy McKean, I stuck to my pen with its brown canvas fence inside the big yellow tent with the gaudy paintings on the front.
Those paintings, by the way, were an unforgettable sample of the art that fascinates the eyes of Earth people. Personally I was disappointed because they were grossly inaccurate. The artist, whether for humor or some esoteric motive, had given my body a width three times as great as my height, a skin color of brilliant red, muscles like gnarled tree trunks, and teeth with hooks like eagles’ beaks. The painting of the space ship bore no resemblance to my craft whatsoever. And that weird sky scene showed Venus hung between the horns of a crescent moon. But whatever the inaccuracies, this work of art had a compelling effect upon the crowds.
I stuck, and it was a great satisfaction to me to see that many people were impressed by what I had to say.
Occasionally I would receive a letter from Pauline with news of her flying lieutenant and some mention of Professor Neff’s interest in me.
Frank Prentice also sometimes wrote. Once he inquired at some length as to whether I was satisfied with my adventures with the great American public, whether I found time to continue my studies, and especially whether my attitudes toward the deeper values of Earth life were changing. On sixteen neatly penned pages he reechoed our many discussions of that second long winter following my Venusian revelation.
Although he did not ask explicitly whether I had ever cut my hair, I could see he still hoped his missionary efforts had proved effective. For the strain of our friendship in those last months together had come to a focus most often upon our differences in faith. Prentice, ever the teacher, was determined that what he could give me in beliefs and creeds would prove still more valuable than my richest acquisitions from the mail order catalog. For him, my first and most faithful Earth friend, I would have done almost anything; but as a Venusian I couldn’t give up my hair.
Our tour took us westward across America and eventually we came to the city of Pauline Neff’s university. My heart quickened as I read her brief note: “Put on your best bib and tucker, George. I’m coming tonight and I’ll try to bring father . . .”
As she entered the tent with the crowd, her eyes shining straight at me, I thought she was the loveliest Earth creature of all my many audiences. And I knew she was the most understanding. She made a funny gesture of surprise at the native garments I wore, complete with green and purple metallic decorations.
“I tried to bring father,” she whispered as the swarm of onlookers crowded her along the fence. “He may come later.”
“And your lieutenant?”
“Overseas, fighting hard. I’ll visit with you after the show.”
My lecture of that night topped anything I had ever done. Back on Venus I had grown up in the tradition of professional speaking, and had followed it to the neglect of most of my sportive avocations, wrestling excepted. Now my command of the new Earth language, the idioms and inflections and gestures, had matured so that the audience followed me with perfect ease. I could see Pauline applauding me with her eyes.
I traced my course to the Earth on a chart of the inner planets. I demonstrated the workings of my ship from a diagram. I answered questions.
For the first time I told a few of the exciting experiences that befell me when I first broke away from mountain solitude and adventured into the cities unheralded. Then I contrasted the cities of the Earth with the continent-wide Streets of Venus, compared our mode of transportation, pointed out similarities in our use of electric power and chemicals and natural resources.
The crowd went away happy, and Windy McKean bounced in to give me a wallop on the back. Even the skeptics, he said, were half convinced, and if I could keep up the good work—He broke off, widening his eyes at Pauline. He removed his cigar and shoved his hat back and looked pleased as I offered introductions.
“Say, maybe you’re the reason George spread himself,” Windy grinned. “Maybe we oughta give you a season ticket.”
Pauline smiled. Then, “Mr. McKean, I hoped my father would come. You didn’t see a very straight, dignified man with thick spectacles?”
“Yeah. He took a look at the outside and got scared out.”
“Oh . . .”
“Or maybe he’ll come in for the next performance after the big tent show lets out.”
“I’ll wait,” Pauline said.
I thought I had told everything, but as soon as we got down to visiting over hamburgers and pop I found I’d just begun. Then I took my turn at asking questions, and after she’d finished with the news of John Vonada and Frank Prentice she turned some new spotlights on me by getting out some clippings. There were two or three Sunday supplement articles, differing widely in their revelations about my hidden nature and secret motives and obscure origin, but containing in common some tantalizing questions such as, suppose this freak of nature actually did come from Venus . . . and after all, who knows?
There was a crisp paragraph from a weekly news magazine’s column of miscellany that described me as a “bronzed, broad-shouldered mountain hermit” whose “delusions of Venusian origin” hadn’t prevented my becoming the town’s most faithful chicken feeder.
Finally there was an editorial from a big daily newspaper demanding that carnivals should be investigated for propaganda activities, since rumor had it that “so-called men of Venus” were making speeches to undermine American institutions.
On the surface this was all very amusing, and yet I could see that Pauline was disturbed.
“These aren’t good publicity,” she said. “They make conservative people dubious. Take father, for example, and his fellow professors in the university. They have to be so careful.”
“I don’t understand. Is Windy right? Was your father afraid to come in and see me?”
Pauline crumpled the paper sandwich plate and twisted it in her tinted fingers. “George, I don’t suppose you’ve heard how people laughed at a Martian invasion panic a few years ago. But you can understand that any professor who sticks his neck out to believe something new may get his throat cut.”
“Lose his job for seeking new knowledge?”
“It may sound absurd to you, but professors
learn to stay with their books and statistics and play safe. Any university board learns to be terribly careful how it spends the taxpayers’ money. So . . .”
“So your father may not come?” I tried to conceal my disappointment. It wasn’t easy. In my mind I had built the strong hope that Professor Neff, whose job was to be interested in the ways of all different peoples, would be as eager for Venus news as even Windy McKean.
Pauline and I left the tent by the side entrance, and there, by the line of parked cars, a few yards away, a very straight and dignified middle-aged gentleman was pacing in agitation.
“It’s my father,” Pauline said. She called, and we met him under the light at the edge of the parking lot.
CHAPTER VIII
Windy Has Ideas
I’m uncertain whether he ever actually saw me. He seemed rather to be looking through me, staring at something distant which could only be seen through my shoulders; and all the while his words were directed at Pauline.
“This escapade was a mistake, Pauline.” His voice was low and rather more kindly than his expressionless face. “I trust the faculty won’t hear of it.”
“Father, this is George that I’ve told you so much about. He’s come to us all the way from Venus. Please talk with him.”
“Come, Pauline. This is no time or place for professional conferences.”
“You can at least make an appointment,” she pleaded.
I added my voice to this suggestion. “I would appreciate that very much, Professor Neff.”
For a moment he hesitated, and I thought his eyes were going to find a focus on me. Perhaps my voice had only startled him. He took Pauline by the hand. “They’ve just given me another committee, dear. I can’t take on any more responsibilities.”
There were tears in Pauline’s eyes as she looked back. “Father isn’t usually this way . . . I’m sorry . . . Please don’t give up hope.”
A few days later she repeated these sentiments through a brief letter. I had come at an especially difficult time. In another year things would be different. I must set my hopes high. The learned men of the country might be slow to recognize me but in time they would elevate me to my rightful place.
At this I smiled the smile I had learned from Frank Prentice, an answer to things I was not capable of understanding.
Through the late fall and winter we toured southward. In this past year I’m afraid my performance never again attained the high spirit of that night of Pauline’s visit. There were always skeptics aplenty, and now I turned a more attentive ear to their cruel comments.
“Fake.” “What they can’t think of to get your quarters.” “Next year they’ll say he’s from Mars.” “If he came from Venus I came from the moon.” “My cousin said he used to be the auctioneer down on the river. He’s painted his face and put on some false hands.” “I wish they’d pay me to give that speech.”
“Bunkum . . . Hog-wash.”
What made these remarks endurable were the few eager and curious listeners who would stay to ask questions—small boys, clear thinking adolescents, and occasionally a shabby elderly man with courage and youth in his eye. The youngsters had a strange phobia about invasions and conquests; if I really came from Venus why didn’t I get busy with my ray guns and start blasting the population off the Earth? To this
I could only answer that the Earth’s own war populations were already committing destruction beyond any Venusian’s wildest dream. I had come simply to establish an acquaintance between Venus and the Earth. Yes, I planned to go back. When? Well, my hidden ship was ready whenever I felt that my mission had been fulfilled.
“The whole damned carnival needs a new coat of paint,” Windy McKean said to me one day. “You’re a hellova good show, George, but you and I can’t carry more than two ends of this outfit.”
Toward spring we expected business to improve but it didn’t. War requirements had cut deep, we were short-handed, our muscles worked overtime between performances. Windy was as worried as the big boss himself. The big tent show was limping, and some of the sideshows had become dead weight.
“We’ve got to pep up the act, George. I wish to gosh you did have a space flivver like the one in your picture. That would pull ’em in.”
“I do have, but I’m not to display it.”
“Yeah, yeah. Same words, same tune. We won’t argue that all over.” He chewed his cigar thoughtfully and sifted confetti through his hands. “We gotta think of something. If you could work up a song and dance and say it came from Venus—”
I assured him that I had chosen neither singing nor dancing for an avocation on Venus. My mission here would be fulfilled only through speaking.
He gave a sullen growl. “Hell, man, don’t you ever take your mask off? How can you stay so damned serious? You’re among friends. You don’t have to pull no wool over my eyes.”
“I’d be glad to,” I said, “if the razzle-dazzle of Venus gets too thick for you.” before. I know how we’ll pep up the “Skip it. Go ahead with your act. I’ll never give you away. I’m not a guy to talk, even when I’m drunk . . . Hmmm.” Windy opened his mouth at the wrong side and let his cigar drop. “There. Why didn’t I think of that before. I know how we’ll pep up the act. We’ll prime you with a shot of gin.”
He was so well satisfied with this plan of action that I was glad to cooperate. That night before the first show I emptied some glasses for him—and such a strange effect! I plunged into my first performance with only a tiny shiver of stage fright, and suddenly I was swaying the crowd with words. Everything was starting off wonderful, and that was the last I remembered.
Windy awakened me with a dash of water. It was noon, he said, and not a good noon either.
“Didn’t it work?”
“Brother, you went off the deep end,” he said dolefully. “You gave them an overdose of Venus mathematics and they left with indigestion.”
“I can’t imagine what I said.”
“You had the whole crowd counting in unison on their fingers. The place was a regular convention of centipedes. The worst was you kept saying it was simple. The Venus decimal system, you said, came off of people’s twelve fingers, just like ours came off our ten. Six and six, you said, made a Venus ten. You held up your twelve fingers and said, ‘Ten,’ and the crowd started heckling. ‘Ten times ten on Venus,’ you said, ‘makes a hundred forty-four on the Earth.’ The people got mad but they couldn’t roar you down. You ran it on to the thousands and then millions. That’s when they got their gizzards full and walked out. But by george there was no stopping you. When the last show was done you hounded me through cube and root logarithms, all the time wiggling your devilish fingers, in my face. I finally fell asleep trying to follow you through some problem.”
“Do you remember the answer?”
“I remember it ain’t a shot of gin,” said Windy.
Summer rolled around to find the carnival still limping on its course.
At last we were in the university town again, cramped on the same grounds, stirring up the same dust, and bally-hooing to what might have been the same swarms of potential customers.
Once again I caught the gleaming eyes of Pauline as she entered with the crowd. My pulse leaped with hope. She had brought her father, and I thought his thick-lensed eyes betrayed a glint of interest in me.
A tent boy mentioned in passing that a lot of important people were on hand tonight and the new act should go over big.
The new act! My nerves tightened with an instinctive rebellion. In recent days my pen had been changed. It had iron bars around it now, and in one corner an animal cage containing a chimpanzee. Windy McKean had pepped up the act.
I caught the tent boy by the sleeve. “Tell Windy I’m not going to wrestle tonight. I’m going to talk. I want all the charts on deck.”
“I’ll tell him but he won’t like it.”
A moment later Pauline had found her way to the fence and seized my hand. “George, it’s so good to see you a
gain. Why, you’re in an athletic costume tonight. It’s very becoming. You know that father’s here? . . . No, I didn’t bring him against his will Anyway he’ll see the light when he hears your talk.”
She rambled on excitedly, and with the sure stimulation of her presence to guile me I suddenly knew that I would speak tonight as I had never spoken before. These people were about to be carried away on a veritable tour of the Streets of Venus.
Presently Pauline noticed the chimp. “What’s that for?”
“Just a pet.”
“John should have one of those. He’s in the jungles now, you know. He sends you his best regards.”
“Give him mine.”
“I had hoped we might all have a reunion at the mountain lodge this year. But that will have to wait.”
“Friends come and go,” I said. “Something came between Prentice and me.”
“It was your hair, George. You and Frank Prentice are both as stubborn as mules. And I’ll tell him so too. Which reminds me—are all Venusians like you? If so, you aren’t a lot better off than Earth folks.”
I laughed. “I suspect we’re all made out of the same clay. Won’t the future scientists have a wonderful controversy over whether our evolutions have been distinct or related? . . . There’s my bell. The crowd’s all in.”
During this brief chat Professor Neff had kept his distance. Obviously he was somewhat revolted by the noises and smells and tawdry surroundings and shuffling crowds that made up a carnival. But now he made ready with a notebook and pencil. Pauline pointed this out to me. “You see, I’ve won.”
So she thought.
But in the next minute or two while I sorted my charts at the opposite corner, a final check-up before Windy would announce my speech, I caught a wisp of conversation that chilled my Venusian bones to the marrow. Three well dressed, sharp-faced men were talking about Professor Neff.
