“I don't think they'll be good at all,” David said.

There had been roughly twenty people at Hilly's FIRST GALA MAGIC SHOW.

There were only seven at the second: his mother, his father, his grandfather, David, Barney Applegate (who was, like Hilly, ten), Mrs Crenshaw from the village (Mrs Crenshaw had dropped by in hopes of selling Marie some Avon), and Hilly himself. This drastic drop in attendance was not the only contrast with the first show.

The audience at that first one had been lively-even a little cheeky (the sarcastic applause which greeted the Munchie Money when it fell from Hilly's sleeve, for instance). The audience at the second was glum and listless, sitting like department-store mannequins on the camp chairs that Hilly and his “assistant” (a pale and silent David) had set up. Hilly's dad, who had laughed and applauded and raised hell at the first show, interrupted Hilly's opening speech about “the mysteries of the Orient” by saying that he couldn't spare a whole lot of time for those mysteries, if Hilly didn't mind; he had just finished mowing the lawn and weeding the garden, and he wanted a shower and a beer.

The weather had changed, too. The day Of THE FIRST GALA MAGIC SHOW had been clear and warm and green, the most gorgeous sort of late spring day northern New England can offer. This day in July was hot and sullenly humid, with hazy sun beating down from a sky the color of chrome. Mrs Crenshaw sat fanning herself with one of her own Avon catalogues and waited for this to be over. A person could faint, sitting out here in the hot sun. And that little kid up there on a stage made of orange-crates, wearing a black suit and a shoepolish moustache… spoiled… showing off… Mrs Crenshaw suddenly felt like killing him.

The magic this time was much better-startling, really-but Hilly was stunned and infuriated to find he was nonetheless boring his audience to tears. He could see his father shifting around, getting ready to leave, and this made Hilly feel frantic, because he wanted to impress his father above all others.

Well what do they want? he asked himself angrily, sweating just as freely as Mrs Crenshaw under his black wool Sunday suit. I'm doing great-better than Houdini, even-but they're not screaming or laughing or gasping. Why not? What the heck's wrong?

At the center of Hilly's orange-crate stage was a small platform (another orange-crate, this one covered with a sheet). Hidden inside this was a device that Hilly had invented, using the batteries David had seen in his room and the guts of an old Texas Instruments calculator that he had stolen (with no compunction at all) from the bottom of his mother's desk in the front hall. The sheet covering the orange-crate was pooled around its edges, and concealed in one of these pools of cloth was another of Hilly's out-of-character thefts-the foot-pedal of his mother's Singer sewing machine. Hilly had connected the pedal to his gadget. He used two of the spring-connectors his mother had bought at the Radio Shack in Augusta to do it.

The device he had invented first made things disappear, then brought them back again.

Hilly found this spectacular, mind-boggling. The reaction of his audience, however, started low and went downhill from there.

“For my first trick, the Disappearing Tomato!” Hilly trumpteted. He pulled a tomato out of his box of “magic supplies” and held it up. “I would like a volunteer from the audience to verify this is a real tomato and not just a fake or something. You, sir! Thanks!” He pointed at his father, who just waved wearily and said, “It's a tomato, Hilly, I can see that.”

“Okay! Now watch as the Mysteries of the Orient… take hold!”

Hilly stooped, put the tomato in the center of the white sheet covering the crate, and then covered it with one of his mother's silk scarves. He waved his magic wand over the circular hump in the blue scarf. “Presto-majesto!” he yelled, and stepped surreptitiously on the concealed sewing-machine pedal. There was a brief low hum.

The hump in the scarf disappeared. The scarf itself settled flat. He removed the scarf to show them the top of the platform was bare, and then waited complacently for the gasps and shouts of amazement. What he got was applause.

Polite applause, no more.

Clearly, from Mrs Crenshaw's mind, this came: A trapdoor. Nothing to that. I can't believe I'm sitting out here in the sun, watching this spoiled brat put tomatoes through trapdoors just so I can sell a bottle of perfume to his mother. Really!

Hilly began to get mad.

“Now another Mystery of the Orient! The Return of the Disappearing Tomato!” He looked formidably at Mrs Crenshaw. “And for those of you who're thinking anything stupid like trapdoors, well, I guess even stupid people must know that a person could make a tomato go down through a trapdoor, but he'd have a pretty hard time trying to make it come back up, wouldn't he?”

Mrs Crenshaw just sat there, buttocks shlomping over the edges of the lawn chair she was slowly driving into the sod, smiling pleasantly. Her thoughts had faded from Hilly's head like a bad radio signal.

He put the scarf on top of the platform again. Waved his wand. Stepped on the pedal. The blue scarf pushed up in a sphere. Hilly whipped it triumphantly off to reveal the tomato again.

“Ta-daaa!” he shouted. Now the gasps and shouts would come.

More polite applause.

Barney Applegate yawned.

Hilly could have cheerfully shot him.

Hilly had planned to work his way up from the tomato trick to his Grand Finale, and it was a good plan, as far as it went. It just didn't go far enough. In his forgivable excitement at having invented a machine that actually made things disappear (he thought he might give it to the Pentagon or something after he had gotten his picture on the cover of Newsweek as the greatest magician in history), Hilly overlooked two things. First, that no one but infants and morons at any magic show believe the tricks are real, and second, he was doing essentially the same trick over and over again. Each fresh instance differed from the last only in degree.

From the Disappearing Tomato and the Return of the Disappearing Tomato, Hilly pushed grimly on to the Disappearing Radio (his father's, considerably lighter with its eight D-cell batteries now in the guts of the gadget under the platform) and the Return of Same.

Polite applause.

The Disappearing Lawn Chair, followed by the Return of the YouGuessed-It.

His audience sat lumpishly, as if sun-stunned… or perhaps stunned by whatever was now in the air of Haven. If anything was oxidizing from the ship's hull and entering the atmosphere, it was surely heavy that day, which was without even a slight stir of wind.

Got to do something, Hilly thought, panicked.

He decided on the spur of the moment to skip the Disappearing Bookcase, the Disappearing Exer-Cycle (Mom's), and the Disappearing Motorcycle (Dad's, and in his dad's present mood, Hilly doubted if he would volunteer to drive it up onto the platform anyway). He would go right to the Grand Finale:

The Disappearing Little Brother.

“And now-”

“Hilly, I'm sorry, but-” his father began.

“-for my final trick,” Hilly added quickly, and saw his father settle back reluctantly into his chair, “I need a volunteer from the audience. C'mere, David.”

David came forward with an expression in which fear and resignation were perfectly balanced. Although he had not been precisely told, David knew what the final trick was. He knew too well.

“I don't wanna,” he said to Hilly.

“You're gonna,” Hilly said grimly.

“Hilly, I'm scared.” David was pleading, his eyes filled with tears. “What if I don't come back?”

“You will,” Hilly whispered. “Everything else did, didn't it?”