Robert Heinlein - Stranger in a Strange Land

She associated with grifters and sinners and did not hold herself aloof from them. But her own integrity was untouched. She and her husband had been converted by Foster himself, she kept her membership in San Pedro and attended services at the nearest branch of the Church of the New Revelation no matter where she was.

Patricia Paiwonski would gladly have dispensed with the protection of Honey Bun in the blow-off not merely to prove that she was honest (that needed no proof, since she knew it was true) but because she was serene in her conviction that she was the canvas for religious art greater than any on the walls or ceilings of the Vatican. When she and George had seen the light, there was still about three square feet of Patricia untouched. Before he died she carried a complete pictorial life of Foster, from his crib with the angels hovering around to the day of glory when he had taken his appointed place among the archangels.

Regrettably (since it might have turned many sinners into seekers of the light) much of this sacred history had to be covered up, the amount depending on the local lawmen. But she could show it in closed Happiness meetings of the local churches she attended, if the shepherd wanted her to, which he almost always did. But, while it was always good to add to Happiness, the saved did not need it; Patricia would rather have saved sinners. She couldn’t preach, she couldn’t sing, and she had never been called to speak in tongues but she was a living witness to the light.

In the ten-in-one, her act came next to last, just before the magician; this gave her time to put away unsold photographs of herself (a quarter for black & white, half a dollar in color, a set of special photographs for five dollars in a sealed envelope sold only to marks who signed a printed form alleging that they were doctors of medicine, psychology, sociology, or other such entitled to professional material not available to the general public—and such was Patricia’s integrity that she would not sell these even for ten dollars if the mark did not look the part; she would then ask to see his business card—no dirty dollars were going to put her kids through school—and also gave her time to slip behind the rear canvas and get herself and her snakes ready for the blow-off.

The magician, Dr. Apollo, performed on the last platform nearest to the canvas fly leading to the blow-off. He started by passing out to his audience a dozen shiny steel rings, each as wide as a plate; he invited them to convince themselves that each ring was solid and smooth. Then he had them hold the rings so that they overlapped. Dr. Apollo walked along the platform, reached out with his wand and tapped each overlap—the solid steel links formed a chain.

Casually he laid his wand in the air, rolled up his sleeves, accepted a bowl of eggs from his assistant, and started to juggle half a dozen of them. His juggling did not attract too many eyes; his assistant was more worthy of stares. She was a fine example of modern functional design and, while she wore a great deal more than did the young ladies in the posing show, nevertheless there seemed to be a strong probability that she was not tattooed anywhere. The marks hardly noticed it when the six eggs became five, then four three, two—until at last Dr. Apollo was tossing one egg in the air, with his sleeves still rolled up and a puzzled look on his face. At last he said, “Eggs are getting scarcer every year,” and tossed the remaining egg over the heads of those nearest the platform to a man in the back of the crowd. “Catch!”

He turned away and did not seem to notice that the egg never reached its destination.

Dr. Apollo performed several other tricks, while wearing always the same slightly puzzled expression and with the same indifferent patter. Once he called a young boy close to the platform. “Son, I can tell you what you are thinking. You think I’m not a real magician. And you’re right. For that you win a dollar.” He handed the kid a dollar bill. It disappeared.

The magician looked unhappy. “Dropped it? Well, hang on to this one.” A second bill disappeared.

“Oh, dear. Well, we’ll have to give you one more chance. Use both hands. Got it? All right, better get out of here fast with it—YOU should be home in bed anyhow.” The kid dashed away with the money and the magician turned back and again looked puzzled. “Madame Merlin, what should we do now?”

His pretty assistant came up to him, pulled his head down by one ear, whispered into it. He shook his head. “No, not in front of all these people.”

She whispered again; he looked distressed. “I’m sorry, friends, but Madame Merlin insists that she wants to go to bed. Will any of you gentlemen help her?”

He blinked at the rush of volunteers—“Oh, just two of you. Were any of you gentlemen in the Army?”

There were still more than enough volunteers. Dr. Apollo picked two and said, “There’s an army cot under the end of the platforms just lift up the canvasflow, will you set it up for her here on the platform? Madame Merlin, face this way, please.”

While the two men set up the cot, Dr. Apollo made passes in the air at his assistant. “Sleep… sleep… you are now asleep. Friends, she is in a deep trance. Will you two gentlemen who so kindly prepared her bed now place her on it? One take her head, one take her feet. Careful, now—“ In corpse-like rigidity the girl was transferred to the cot.

“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?”