"All these shows," Roquefort said, "why, there isn't any need for them any more. I mean the people without legs, or arms, anyhow. See? Because this doctor—"
"I see," Charley said.
"Why, anybody works in a show like that, I mean without arms or legs—why, he's just crazy, that's all. When he can get help, I mean."
"Sure," Charley said uneasily. "Sure, he's just crazy."
Roquefort chomped on his cigar and looked solemn and well-informed. Charley shivered slightly, and wondered why.
"Just crazy." Was that what they thought, he wondered. Was that what they were thinking when they looked up at him?
He shivered again and slipped his shoes off quietly. Immediately, he felt a little better.
But not very much.
New York was a madhouse worse than any carnival Charley had ever seen. He made his way, harness and suitcase on his back, through the station crowds and out into the taxi ramp. A line of the new cabs stood there, and Charley managed to grab one inches ahead of a woman with a small, crying child in tow. He gestured to the driver with his head, and the door slid open. He stepped inside, released the catch that let his suitcase thump to the floor, and sat down with a sigh.