"Why not ask him?" suggested Monk.

"Take a look at him," said Thaddeus. "He's off in Dodge City or Tombstone, protecting proper young ladies and their maiden aunts from the Clanton Brothers."

I wouldn't have bet against it. He had that faraway look on his face, the look of a dreamer at work. I guess this business makes dreamers of us all; the Dancer just gives in to it more readily. But Monk dreams of working in the center ring of a real circus, Alma dreams of respectability, Thaddeus dreams of God knows what. And me—I dream of being six feet tall and having perfect diction. The only thing we have in common is that none of us is ever going to realize those dreams.

"Well," said Monk, taking a final swallow and setting his empty glass down on a table, "I've got to go and clean up after my animals."

"Take Wild Bill Hickok with you," said Thaddeus.

Monk poked the Dancer on the shoulder, and he rose with the same animal grace as one of the leopards.

"Thank you for the beer, Thaddeus," he said, touching his fingers to his Stetson and walking out the door. Monk just chuckled, shook his head, and followed him.

"How about you?" Thaddeus asked me. "Are all your animals clean?"

"They're not animals," I said.

"How about the Elephant Woman? Have you found a way to bathe her?"

"Yes. I had Gloria stop at a pet store when she went into town to do some shopping. She bought a kind of dry shampoo they use on show dogs."

"Good," said Thaddeus.

"I'm surprised that you give a damn," I said.

He looked uncomfortable. "I've got to protect my investment," he said hastily.

I didn't know what to say next, but something about his attitude led me to believe that he wanted to talk further, and I knew that if he did he certainly wouldn't think twice about physically restraining me if I tried to leave.

"You never mentioned that you were from California," I said, trying to make conversation.

"Is it that hard to believe?"

"No. It's just that you never speak about your past."

"It's not important," he said. "Today and tomorrow are all that count. You start thinking about yesterday and you're likely to wind up like the Dancer."

"Was it nice out there?"

"It was warmer," he said with a smile. "And the girls—well, the song is right.

There really is something different about California girls. I used to lay on the beach and watch them go bouncing by, spilling out of their bikinis. It was a nice way to grow up. I'll tell you something Tojo: California girls never say No. Never once."

He leaned back, his eyes half closed, a smile on his face as if he were reliving his days in the sun.

Suddenly he sat up. "I'll tell you something else, too you'd never catch one of them working in a meat show. They've got too much class."

"You shouldn't talk about the strip show like that," I said. "They're decent people, Alma and the others—and they pay your bills."

"You look at it all wrong, Tojo," he said. "Someday it'll drive you crazy."

"What do you mean?"

"Decent people don't do what they do for a living," he said slowly, taking a long swallow from the bottle. "You've heard them talk about it. It's like they're spectators and the audience is providing the show. It's the only way they can live without going nuts—they've got to shut off all their emotions. You've got to do the same thing. You start thinking of them as decent people and suddenly you can't let them go on, and then where would we all be?"

Suddenly he looked embarrassed, as if he said more than he meant to. "Talk about something else, you goddamned dwarf," he said irritably. "And stop staring at me like that."

"What do you want me to talk about, Thaddeus?" I asked him.

"I don't know. How are the freaks doing?"

"They're unhappy. And they're not freaks—they're aliens."

"Whatever," he muttered. He finished his beer and opened another. "Why the hell do you suppose they came here? I mean, wherever they lived, it couldn't be this grubby."

"Curiosity," I said.

"Just like the girls," he said. "They let the audience put on a show for them."

A frown crossed his face, and I could tell that he had just drawn the parallel one step further, and realized that he was forcing himself to view them as he viewed the strippers.

"You know, you're pretty lousy company tonight," he said.

"I'm sorry."

He rose unsteadily to his feet.

"I think I'll hunt up Alma and bring her back here," he announced.

"I don't think it would be a good idea," I said.

"Why the hell not?"

"She's mad at you."

"Big deal," he said. "She's always mad at me."

"This time is different."

"Every time is different," he said, lurching toward the door.

I walked over and stood in front of the door.

"Don't, Thaddeus," I said.

"You're hiding something, you little wart," he said. "What is it?"

"Nothing."

"Out with it!" he yelled.

"She's spending the night in Queenie's trailer," I said.

"Are you trying to tell me she's a fluff butch?" he demanded with a harsh, unbelieving laugh. "Because I happen to be in a position to know that she's not.

"No," I said. "I'm trying to tell you that she's hurt and lonely, and that she's found a way to feel less hurt and less lonely."

He frowned again, and for a minute I thought he was going to hit me. Then he uttered a deep sigh and walked back to his chair.

"You're really not kidding," he said quietly, after staring out the window for well over a minute.

"No, Thaddeus."

"She hates me that much?"

"It's not a matter of love or hate," I said. "It's a matter of need."

"But Queenie, for Christ's sake?"

"Queenie cares."

"Queenie can afford to care," he said bitterly.

We sat in total silence while he drank two more beers and started in on a bottle of rye. Then, almost without warning, he passed out.

I knew I wasn't strong enough to carry or even drag him to the bedroom, so I covered him with a blanket, turned out the lights, and returned to the dormitory tent, wondering if he was dreaming about Alma or about goldenskinned California girls with tasteful bikinis and gently swelling breasts and ready blushes, who would live and die without knowing that anyone like Alma even existed.

Chapter 8

The Cyclops—I think I'd better start calling him Four-Eyes, like everyone else does—was very sick the next morning.

Mr. Ahasuerus shook me awake just before dawn, apologized for disturbing me, and led me over to where Four-Eyes was sitting. I didn't have to be an alien physiologist to know he was in a bad way. He was trembling violently, his pupil was completely dilated, his tongue was coated, sweat was pouring down his body, and he felt hot to the touch.

"How long has he been like this?" I asked.

"About two hours," said Mr. Ahasuerus. "I hadn't wanted to bother you, but it's too serious to leave him unattended."

"What's the matter with him?"

"I think his system finally rebelled against the food he's been eating," replied Mr. Ahasuerus. "When I told you that we could tolerate a certain amount of your native food, I should have pointed out that our entire stay on your planet was to be no more than fourteen days."