Stranger in a Strange Land Page 4

  “Why not, Ben?”

  “It’s a nasty story. I got that much before my informant sobered up. Dr. Ward Smith delivered his wife by Caesarean section—and she died on the table. What he did next shows that he knew the score; with the same scalpel he cut Captain Brant’s throat—then his own. Sorry, hon.”

  Jill shivered. “I’m a nurse. I’m immune to such things.”

  “You’re a liar and I love you for it. I was on police beat three years, Jill; I never got hardened to it.”

  “What happened to the others?”

  “If we don’t break the bureaucrats loose from that log, we’ll never know—and I am a starry-eyed newsboy who thinks we should. Secrecy begets tyranny.”

  “Ben, he might be better off if they gypped him out of his inheritance. He’s very . . . uh, unworldly.”

  “The exact word, I’m sure. Nor does he need money; the Man from Mars will never miss a meal. Any government and a thousand-odd universities and institutions would be delighted to have him as a permanent guest.”

  “He’d better sign it over and forget it.”

  “It’s not that easy. Jill, you know the famous case of General Atomics versus Larkin, et al.?”

  “Uh, you mean the Larkin Decision. I had it in school, same as everybody. What’s it got to do with Smith?”

  “Think back. The Russians sent the first ship to the Moon, it crashed. The United States and Canada combine to send one; it gets back but leaves nobody on the Moon. So while the United States and the Commonwealth are getting set to send a colonizing one under the sponsorship of the Federation and Russia is mounting the same deal on their own, General Atomics steals a march by boosting one from an island leased from Ecuador—and their men are there, sitting pretty and looking smug when the Federation vessel shows up—followed by the Russian one.

  “So General Atomics, a Swiss corporation American controlled, claimed the Moon. The Federation couldn’t brush them off and grab it; the Russians wouldn’t have held still. So the High Court ruled that a corporate person, a mere legal fiction, could not own a planet; the real owners were the men who maintained occupation—Larkin and associates. So they recognized them as a sovereign nation and took them into the Federation—with melon slicing for those on the inside and concessions to General Atomics and its daughter corporation, Lunar Enterprises. This did not please anybody and the Federation High Court was not all-powerful then—but it was a compromise everybody could swallow. It resulted in rules for colonizing planets, all based on the Larkin Decision and intended to avoid bloodshed. Worked, too—World War Three did not result from conflict over space travel and such. So the Larkin Decision is law and applies to Smith.”

  Jill shook her head. “I don’t see the connection.”

  “Think, Jill. By our laws, Smith is a sovereign nation—and sole owner of the planet Mars.”

  V.

  JILL LOOKED round-eyed. “Too many martinis, Ben. I would swear you said that patient owns Mars.”

  “He does. He occupied it the required period. Smith is the planet Mars—King, President, sole civic body, what you will. If the Champion had not left colonists, Smith’s claim might have lapsed. But it did and that continues occupation even though Smith came to Earth. But Smith doesn’t have to split with them; they are mere immigrants until he grants them citizenship.”

  “Fantastic!”

  “But legal. Honey, you see why people are interested in Smith? And why the administration is keeping him under a rug? What they are doing isn’t legal. Smith is also a citizen of the United States and of the Federation; it’s illegal to hold a citizen, even a convicted criminal, incommunicado anywhere in the Federation. Also, it has been an unfriendly act all through history to lock up a visiting monarch—which he is—and not to let him see people, especially the press, meaning me. You still won’t sneak me?”

  “Huh? You’ve got me scared silly. Ben, if they had caught me, what would they have done?”

  “Mmm . . . nothing rough. Locked you in a padded cell, with a certificate signed by three doctors, and allowed you mail on alternate leap years. I’m wondering what they are going to do to him.”

  “What can they do?”

  “Well, he might die—from gee-fatigue, say.”

  “You mean murder him?”

  “Tut, tut! Don’t use nasty words. I don’t think they will. In the first place he is a mine of information. In the second place, he is a bridge between us and the only other civilized race we have encountered. How are you on the classics? Ever read H. G. Wells’ The War of the Worlds?”

  “A long time ago, in school.”

  “Suppose the Martians turn out nasty. They might and we have no way of guessing how big a club they swing. Smith might be the go-between who could make the First Interplanetary War unnecessary. Even if this is unlikely, the administration can’t ignore it. The discovery of life on Mars is something that, politically, they haven’t figured out yet.”

  “Then you think he is safe?”

  “For the time being. The Secretary General has to guess right. As you know, his administration is shaky.”

  “I don’t pay attention to politics.”

  “You should. It’s barely less important than your own heart beat.”

  “I don’t pay attention to that, either.”

  “Don’t talk when I’m orating. The patchwork majority headed by Douglas could slip apart overnight—Pakistan would bolt at a nervous cough. There would be a vote of no confidence and Mr. Secretary General Douglas would go back to being a cheap lawyer. The Man from Mars can make or break him. Are you going to sneak me in?”

  “I’m going to enter a nunnery. Is there more coffee?”

  “I’ll see.”

  They stood up. Jill stretched and said, “Oh, my ancient bones! Never mind coffee, Ben; I’ve got a hard day tomorrow. Run me home, will you? Or send me home, that’s safer.”

  “Okay, though the evening is young.” He went into his bedroom, came out carrying an object the size of a small cigarette lighter. “You won’t sneak me in?”

  “Gee, Ben, I want to, but—”

  “Never mind. It is dangerous—and not just to your career.” He showed her the object. “Will you put a bug on him?”

  “Huh? What is it?”

  “The greatest boon to spies since the Mickey Finn. A microminiaturized recorder. The wire is spring driven so it can’t be spotted by a snooper circuit. The insides are packed in plastic—you could drop it out of a cab. The power is about as much radioactivity as in a watch dial, but shielded. The wire runs twenty-four hours. Then you slide out a spool and stick in another—the spring is part of the spool.”

  “Will it explode?” she asked nervously.

  “You could bake it in a cake.”

  “Ben, you’ve got me scared to go into his room.”

  “You can go into the room next door, can’t you?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “This thing has donkey’s ears. Fasten the concave side against a wall—tape will do—and it picks up everything in the room beyond.”

  “I’m bound to be noticed if I duck in and out of that room. Ben, his room has a wall in common with a room on another corridor. Will that do?”

  “Perfect. You’ll do it?”

  “Umm . . . give it to me. I’ll think it over.”

  Caxton polished it with his handkerchief. “Put on your gloves.”

  “Why?”

  “Possession is good for a vacation behind bars. Use gloves and don’t get caught with it.”

  “You think of the nicest things!”

  “Want to back out?”

  Jill let out a long breath. “No.”

  “Good girl!” A light blinked, he glanced up. “That must be your cab. I rang for it when I went to get this.”

  “Oh. Find my shoes, will you? Don’t come to the roof. The less I’m seen with you the better.”

  “As you wish.”

  As he straightened up from putting her shoes o
n, she took his head in both hands and kissed him. “Dear Ben! No good can come of this and I hadn’t realized you were a criminal—but you’re a good cook as long as I set the combination . . . I might marry you if I can trap you into proposing again.”

  “The offer remains open.”

  “Do gangsters marry their molls? Or is it ‘frails’?” She left hurriedly.

  Jill placed the bug easily. The patient in the room in the next corridor was bedfast; Jill often stopped to gossip. She stuck it against the wall over a closet shelf while chattering about how the maids just never dusted the shelves.

  Changing spools the next day was easy; the patient was asleep. She woke while Jill was perched on a chair; Jill diverted her with a spicy ward rumor.

  Jill sent the exposed wire by mail, as the postal system seemed safer than a cloak and dagger ruse. But her attempt to insert a third spool she muffed. She waited for the patient to be asleep but had just mounted the chair when the patient woke. “Oh! Hello, Miss Boardman.”

  Jill froze. “Hello, Mrs. Fritschlie,” she managed to answer. “Have a nice nap?”

  “Fair,” the woman answered peevishly. “My back aches.”

  “I’ll rub it.”

  “Doesn’t help. Why are you always fiddling in my closet? Is something wrong?”

  Jill tried to reswallow her stomach. “Mice,” she answered.

  “ ‘Mice’? Oh I’ll have to have another room!”

  Jill tore the instrument loose and stuffed it into her pocket, jumped down. “Now, now, Mrs. Fritschlie—I was just looking to see if there were mouse holes. There aren’t.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Quite sure. Now let’s rub the back. Easy over.”

  Jill decided to risk the empty room which was part of K-12, the suite of the Man from Mars. She got the pass key.

  Only to find the room unlocked and holding two more marines; the guard had been doubled. One looked around as she opened the door. “Looking for someone?”

  “No. Don’t sit on the bed, boys,” she said crisply. “If you need chairs, we’ll send for them.” The guard got reluctantly up; she left, trying to conceal her trembling.

  The bug was still in her pocket when she went off duty; she decided to return it to Caxton. Once in the air and headed toward Ben’s apartment she breathed easier. She phoned him in flight.

  “Caxton speaking.”

  “Jill, Ben. I want to see you.”

  He answered slowly, “I don’t think it’s smart.”

  “Ben, I’ve got to. I’m on my way.”

  “Well, okay, if that’s how it’s got to be.”

  “Such enthusiasm!”

  “Now look, hon, it isn’t that I—”

  “ ’Bye!” She switched off, calmed down and decided not to take it out on Ben—they were playing out of their league. At least she was—she should have left politics alone.

  She felt better when she snuggled into his arms. Ben was such a dear—maybe she should marry him. When she tried to speak he put a hand over her mouth, whispered, “Don’t talk. I may be wired.”

  She nodded, got out the recorder, handed it to him. His eyebrows went up but he made no comment. Instead he handed her a copy of the afternoon Post.

  “Seen the paper?” he said in a natural voice. “You might glance at it while I wash up.”

  “Thanks.” As she took it he pointed to a column, then left, taking with him the recorder. The column was Ben’s own:THE CROW’S NEST

  by Ben Caxton

  Everyone knows that jails and hospitals have one thing in common: they can be very hard to get out of. In some ways a prisoner is less cut off than a patient; a prisoner can send for his lawyer, demand a Fair Witness, invoke habeas corpus and require the jailor to show cause in open court.

  But it takes only a NO VISITORS sign, ordered by one of the medicine men of our peculiar tribe, to consign a hospital patient to oblivion more thoroughly than ever was the Man in the Iron Mask.

  To be sure, the patient’s next of kin cannot be kept out—but the Man from Mars seems to have no next of kin. The crew of the ill-fated Envoy had few ties on Earth; if the Man in the Iron Mask—pardon me; I mean the “Man from Mars”—has any relative guarding his interests, a few thousand reporters have been unable to verify it.

  Who speaks for the Man from Mars? Who ordered an armed guard placed around him? What is his dread disease that no one may glimpse him, nor ask him a question? I address you, Mr. Secretary General; the explanation about “physical weakness” and “gee-fatigue” won’t wash; if that were the answer, a ninety-pound nurse would do as well as an armed guard.

  Could this disease be financial in nature? Or (let’s say it softly) is it political?

  There was more of the same; Jill could see that Ben was baiting the administration, trying to force them into the open. She felt that Caxton was taking serious risk in challenging the authorities, but she had no notion of the size of the danger, nor what form it might take.

  She thumbed through the paper. It was loaded with stories on the Champion, pictures of Secretary General Douglas pinning medals, interviews with Captain van Tromp and his brave company, pictures of Martians and Martian cities. There was little about Smith, merely a bulletin that he was improving slowly from the effects of his trip.

  Ben came out and dropped sheets of onionskin in her lap. “Here’s another newspaper.” He left again.

  Jill saw that the “newspaper” was a transcription of what her first wire had picked up. It was marked “First Voice,” “Second Voice,” and so on, but Ben had written in names wherever he had been able to make attributions. He had written across the top: “All voices are masculine.”

  Most items merely showed that Smith had been fed, washed, massaged and that he had exercised under supervision of a voice identified as “Doctor Nelson” and one marked “second doctor.”

  One passage had nothing to do with care of the patient. Jill reread it:

  Doctor Nelson: How are you feeling, boy? Strong enough to talk?

  Smith: Yes.

  Doctor Nelson: A man wants to talk to you.

  Smith: (pause) Who? (Caxton had written: All of Smith’s speeches are preceded by pauses.)

  Nelson: This man is our great (untranscribable guttural word—Martian?). He is our oldest Old One. Will you talk with him?

  Smith: (very long pause) I am great happy. The Old One will talk and I will listen and grow.

  Nelson: No, no! He wants to ask you questions.

  Smith: I cannot teach an Old One.

  Nelson: The Old One wishes it. Will you let him ask you questions?

  Smith: Yes.

  (Background noises)

  Nelson: This way, sir. I have Doctor Mahmoud standing by to translate.

  Jill read “New Voice.” Caxton had scratched this out and written in: “Secretary General Douglas! ! !”

  Secretary General: I won’t need him. You say Smith understands English.

  Nelson: Well, yes and no, Your Excellency. He knows a number of words, but, as Mahmoud says, he doesn’t have any cultural context to hang them on. It can be confusing.

  Secretary General: Oh, we’ll get along, I’m sure. When I was a youngster I hitchhiked all through Brazil, without a word of Portuguese when I started. Now, if you will introduce us—then leave us alone.

  Nelson: Sir? I had better stay with my patient.

  Secretary General: Really, Doctor? I’m afraid I must insist. Sorry.

  Nelson: And I am afraid that I must insist. Sorry, sir. Medical ethics—

  Secretary General: (interrupting) As a lawyer, I know something of medical jurisprudence—so don’t give me that “medical ethics” mumbo-jumbo. Did this patient select you?

  Nelson: Not exactly, but—

  Secretary General: Has he had opportunity to choose physicians? I doubt it. His status is ward of the state. I am acting as next of kin, de facto—and, you will find, de jure as well. I wish to interview him alone.

  Nels
on: (long pause, then very stiffly) If you put it that way, Your Excellency, I withdraw from the case.

  Secretary General: Don’t take it that way, Doctor. I’m not questioning your treatment. But you wouldn’t try to keep a mother from seeing her son alone, now would you? Are you afraid I might hurt him?

  Nelson: No, but—

  Secretary General: Then what is your objection? Come now, introduce us and let’s get on with it. This fussing may be upsetting your patient.

  Nelson: Your Excellency, I will introduce you. Then you must select another doctor for your . . . ward.

  Secretary General: I’m sorry, Doctor, I really am. I can’t take that as final—we’ll discuss it later. Now, if you please?

  Nelson: Step over here, sir. Son, this is the man who wants to see you. Our great Old One.

  Smith: (untranscribable)

  Secretary General: What did he say?

  Nelson: A respectful greeting. Mahmoud says it translates: “I am only an egg.” More or less that, anyway. It’s friendly. Son, talk man-talk.

  Smith: Yes.

  Nelson: And you had better use simple words, if I may offer a last advice.

  Secretary General: Oh, I will.

  Nelson: Good-by, Your Excellency. Good-by, son.

  Secretary General: Thanks, Doctor. See you later.

  Secretary General: (continued) How do you feel?

  Smith: Feel fine.

  Secretary General: Good. Anything you want, just ask for it. We want you to be happy. Now I have something I want you to do for me. Can you write?

  Smith: “Write”? What is “write”?

  Secretary General: Well, your thumb print will do. I want to read a paper to you. This paper has a lot of lawyer talk, but stated simply it says that you agree that in leaving Mars you have abandoned—I mean, given up—any claims that you may have there. Understand me? You assign them in trust to the government.

  Smith: (no answer)

  Secretary General: Well, let’s put it this way. You don’t own Mars, do you?

  Smith: (longish pause) I do not understand.

  Secretary General: Mmm . . . let’s try again. You want to stay here, don’t you?