Leaving the carny lot, of course, he put on his sandals; outside the carnival, he had to wear shoes. They were laceless, of course, and made to be kicked off easily. Charley slipped into them and thought wryly of the professor and his "scientific Renaissance." The shoes were a new plastic, lightweight and long-lasting, but the dyeing problem hadn't quite been solved. Instead of a quiet, dull brown, they were a garish shade that almost approached olive drab. [Illustration] Well, he thought, nothing's perfect. He shrugged into a harness and had his single suitcase attached to it; the harness and case were lightweight, too, and Charley headed for the station walking easily. He climbed aboard the train and dropped his suitcase into the Automatic Porter, and then went to find a seat. The only one available was next to a middle-aged man chewing a cigar in a sour silence. Charley slipped into his seat without a word, and hoped the man would ignore him. He had a face like an overripe summer squash, and his big hands, clasped in his lap, were fat and white, covered with tiny freckles. Charley leaned back and closed his eyes. A minute or so passed in silence. Then a voice said: "Heading for New York?" "That's right," Charley said tiredly. He opened his eyes. The middle-aged man was leaning toward him, smelling of his cheap cigar. "Likewise," the man said. His voice was hoarse and unpleasant. "I thought you might be." "That's right," Charley said. "Long trip." He hoped desperately that the man would leave him alone. He wasn't on display now; he wanted the time to think, to try and figure out what had been happening. He had to have some questions to ask Professor Lightning, and that meant that he had to have some sort of plan of action. "Going to see that doctor," the middle-aged man said. "That right?" "That's right," Charley said. Apparently Professor Lightning had become a nine-day wonder; anyone going to New York was presumed to be going to see him. Then Charley corrected himself. Not anyone. Any cripple. "Get the arms fixed, right?" the middle-aged man said. "That's right," Charley said for the third time. Maybe the man would take the hint. But he had no such luck. "That's a fine thing the doctor is doing," he said. "I mean, helping all these people. Don't have to be ... well, look, bud, don't take me personally." "I don't mind," Charley said. "I'm used to it." "Sure," the man said. "Hey, by the way. My name's Roquefort. Al Roquefort." "Charley de Milo," Charley said. "Glad to know you," the man said. "So while we're traveling companions, you might say ... might as well get to be friendly." "Sure," Charley said tiredly. He looked round the car. A great many people seemed to be heading East. There were no other seats. Charley sighed and shrugged himself deeper into the upholstery. "You know," Roquefort said suddenly, "I can't help thinking." "Oh?" Charley said, fidgeting his feet.