Stranger in a Strange Land Page 6

  Presently she just had to snoop. During a lull she knocked at the door of the watch room, stuck her head in and pretended surprise. “Oh! Good morning, Doctor. I thought Doctor Frame was in here.”

  The physician at the watch desk smiled as he looked her over. “I haven’t seen him, Nurse. I’m Dr. Brush. Can I help?”

  At the typical male reaction Jill relaxed. “Nothing special. How is the Man from Mars?”

  “Eh?”

  She smiled. “It’s no secret to the staff, Doctor. Your patient—” She gestured at the inner door.

  “Huh?” He looked startled. “Did they have him here?”

  “Isn’t he here now?”

  “Not by six decimal places. Mrs. Rose Bankerson—Dr. Garner’s patient. We brought her in early this morning.”

  “Really? What happened to the Man from Mars?”

  “I haven’t the faintest. Say, did I really just miss seeing Valentine Smith?”

  “He was here yesterday.”

  “Some people have all the luck. Look what I’m stuck with.” He switched on the Peeping Tom above his desk; Jill saw in it a water bed; floating in it was a tiny old woman.

  “What’s her trouble?”

  “Mmm . . . Nurse, if she didn’t have money to burn, you might call it senile dementia. As it is, she is in for rest and a check-up.”

  Jill made small talk, then pretended to see a call light. She went to her desk, dug out the night log—yes, there it was: V.M. Smith, K-12—transfer. Below that was: Rose S. Bankerson (Mrs.)—red K-12 (diet kitchen instrd by Dr. Garner—no orders—flr nt respnbl)

  Why had they moved Smith at night? To avoid outsiders, probably. But where had they taken him? Ordinarily she would have called “Reception,” but Ben’s opinions plus the phony broadcast had made her jumpy; she decided to wait and see what she could pick up on the grapevine.

  But first Jill went to the floor’s public booth and called Ben. His office told her that Mr. Caxton had left town. She was startled speechless—then pulled herself together and left word for Ben to call.

  She called his home. He was not there; she recorded the same message.

  Ben Caxton had wasted no time. He retained James Oliver Cavendish. While any Fair Witness would do, the prestige of Cavendish was such that a lawyer was hardly necessary—the old gentleman had testified many times before the High Court and it was said that the wills locked up in his head represented billions. Cavendish had received his training in total recall from the great Dr. Samuel Renshaw and his hypnotic instruction as a fellow of the Rhine Foundation. His fee for a day was more than Ben made in a week, but Ben expected to charge it to the Post syndicate—the best was none too good for this job.

  Caxton picked up the junior Frisby of Biddle, Frisby, Frisby, Biddle, & Reed, then they called for Witness Cavendish. The spare form of Mr. Cavendish, wrapped in the white cloak of his profession, reminded Ben of the Statue of Liberty—and was almost as conspicuous. Ben had explained to Mark Frisby what he intended to try (and Frisby had pointed out that he had no rights) before they called for Cavendish; once in the Fair Witness’s presence they conformed to protocol and did not discuss what he might see and hear.

  The cab dropped them on Bethesda Center; they went down to the Director’s Office. Ben handed in his card and asked to see the Director.

  An imperious female asked if he had an appointment. Ben admitted that he had none.

  “Then your chance of seeing Dr. Broemer is very slight. Will you state your business?”

  “Tell him,” Caxton said loudly, so that bystanders would hear, “that Caxton of the Crow’s Nest is here with a lawyer and a Fair Witness to interview Valentine Michael Smith, the Man from Mars.”

  She was startled but recovered and said frostily, “I shall inform him. Will you be seated, please?”

  “Thanks, I’ll wait here.”

  Frisby broke out a cigar, Cavendish waited with the calm patience of one who has seen all manner of good and evil, Caxton jittered. At last the snow queen announced, “Mr. Berquist will see you.”

  “Berquist? Gil Berquist?”

  “I believe his name is Mr. Gilbert Berquist.”

  Caxton thought about it—Gil Berquist was one of Douglas’s platoon of stooges, “executive assistants.” “I don’t want Berquist; I want the Director.”

  But Berquist was coming out, hand shoved out, greeter’s grin on his face. “Benny Caxton! How are you, chum? Still peddling the same old hoke?” He glanced at the Witness.

  “Same old hoke. What are you doing here, Gil?”

  “If I ever manage to get out of public service I’m going to get me a column, too—phone in a thousand words of rumor and loaf the rest of the day. I envy you, Ben.”

  “I said, ‘What are you doing here, Gil?’ I want to see the Director, then see the Man from Mars. I didn’t come here for your high-level brush-off.”

  “Now, Ben, don’t take that attitude. I’m here because Dr. Broemer has been driven frantic by the press—so the Secretary General sent me to take over the load.”

  “Okay. I want to see Smith.”

  “Ben, old boy, every reporter, special correspondent, feature writer, commentator, free-lance, and sob sister wants that. Polly Peepers was here twenty minutes ago. She wanted to interview him on love life among the Martians.” Berquist threw up both hands.

  “I want to see Smith. Do I, or don’t I?”

  “Ben, let’s go where we can talk over a drink. You can ask me anything.”

  “I don’t want to ask you anything; I want to see Smith. This is my attorney, Mark Frisby.” As was customary, Ben did not introduce the Fair Witness.

  “We’ve met,” Berquist acknowledged. “How’s your father, Mark? Sinuses giving him fits?”

  “About the same.”

  “This foul climate. Come along, Ben. You, too, Mark.”

  “Hold it,” said Caxton. “I want to see Valentine Michael Smith. I’m representing the Post syndicate and indirectly representing two hundred million readers. Do I see him? If not, say so out loud and state your legal authority for refusing.”

  Berquist sighed. “Mark, will you tell this keyhole historian that he can’t burst into a sick man’s bedroom? Smith made one appearance last night—against his physician’s advice. The man is entitled to peace and quiet and a chance to build up his strength.”

  “There are rumors,” Caxton stated, “that the appearance last night was a fake.”

  Berquist stopped smiling. “Frisby,” he said coldly, “do you want to advise your client concerning slander?”

  “Take it easy, Ben.”

  “I know the law on slander, Gil. But whom am I slandering? The Man from Mars? Or somebody else? Name a name. I repeat,” he went on, raising his voice, “that I have heard that the man interviewed on 3-D last night was not the Man from Mars. I want to see him and ask him.”

  The crowded reception hall was very quiet. Berquist glanced at the Fair Witness, then got his expression under control and said smilingly, “Ben, it’s possible that you have talked yourself into an interview—as well as a lawsuit. Wait a moment.”

  He disappeared, came back fairly soon. “I arranged it,” he said wearily, “though you don’t deserve it, Ben. Come along. Just you—Mark, I’m sorry but we can’t have a crowd; Smith is a sick man.”

  “No,” said Caxton.

  “Huh?”

  “All three, or none of us.”

  “Ben, don’t be silly; you’re receiving a very special privilege. Tell you what—Mark can come and wait outside. But you don’t need him.” Berquist nodded toward Cavendish; the Witness seemed not to hear.

  “Maybe not. But my column will state tonight that the administration refused to permit a Fair Witness to see the Man from Mars.”

  Berquist shrugged. “Come along. Ben, I hope that slander suit clobbers you.”

  They took the elevator out of deference to Cavendish’s age, then rode a slide-away past laboratories, therapy rooms, ward after wa
rd. They were stopped by a guard who phoned ahead and were at last ushered into a physio-data display room used for watching critically ill patients. “This is Dr. Tanner,” Berquist announced. “Doctor, Mr. Caxton and Mr. Frisby.” He did not, of course, introduce Cavendish.

  Tanner looked worried. “Gentlemen, I must warn you of one thing. Don’t do or say anything that might excite my patient. He is in an extremely neurotic condition and falls very easily into a state of pathological withdrawal—a trance, if you choose to call it that.”

  “Epilepsy?” asked Ben.

  “A layman might mistake it for that. It is more like catelepsy.”

  “Are you a specialist, Doctor? Psychiatry?”

  Tanner glanced at Berquist. “Yes,” he admitted.

  “Where did you do your advanced work?”

  Berquist said, “Ben, let’s see the patient. You can quiz Dr. Tanner afterwards.”

  “Okay.”

  Tanner glanced over his dials, then flipped a switch and stared into a Peeping Tom. He unlocked a door and led them into an adjoining bedroom, putting a finger to his lips.

  The room was gloomy. “We keep it semi-darkened because his eyes are not accustomed to our light levels,” Tanner explained in a hushed voice. He went to a hydraulic bed in the center of the room. “Mike, I’ve brought some friends to see you.”

  Caxton pressed closer. Floating, half concealed by the way his body sank into the plastic skin and covered to his armpits by a sheet, was a young man. He looked at them but said nothing; his smooth, round face was expressionless.

  So far as Ben could tell this was the man on stereo the night before. He had a sick feeling that little Jill had tossed him a live grenade—a slander suit that might bankrupt him. “You are Valentine Michael Smith?”

  “Yes.”

  “The Man from Mars?”

  “Yes.”

  “You were on stereo last night?”

  The man did not answer. Tanner said, “I don’t think he understands. Mike, you remember what you did with Mr. Douglas last night?”

  The face looked petulant. “Bright lights. Hurt.”

  “Yes, the lights hurt your eyes. Mr. Douglas had you say hello to people.”

  The patient smiled slightly. “Long ride in chair.”

  “Okay,” agreed Caxton. “I catch on. Mike, are they treating you all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t have to stay here. Can you walk?”

  Tanner said hastily, “Now see here, Mr. Caxton—” Berquist put a hand on Tanner’s arm.

  “I can walk . . . a little. Tired.”

  “I’ll see that you have a wheel chair. Mike, if you don’t want to stay here, I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”

  Tanner shook off Berquist’s hand and said, “I can’t have you interfering with my patient!”

  “He’s a free man, isn’t he?” Caxton persisted. “Or is he a prisoner?”

  Berquist answered, “Of course he’s free! Keep quiet, Doctor. Let the fool dig his own grave.”

  “Thanks, Gil. You heard him, Mike. You can go anywhere you like.”

  The patient glanced fearfully at Tanner. “No! No, no, no!”

  “Okay, okay.”

  Tanner snapped, “Mr. Berquist, this has gone far enough!”

  “All right, Doctor. Ben, that’s enough.”

  “Uh . . . one more question.” Caxton thought hard, trying to think what he could squeeze out of it. Apparently Jill had been wrong—yet she had not been wrong!—or so it seemed last night.

  “One more question,” Berquist begrudged.

  “Thanks. Uh . . . Mike, last night Mr. Douglas asked you some questions.” The patient made no comment. “Let’s see, he asked you what you thought of the girls here on Earth, didn’t he?”

  The patient’s face broke into a big smile. “Gee!”

  “Yes. Mike . . . when and where did you see these girls?”

  The smile vanished. The patient glanced at Tanner, then stiffened; his eyes rolled up, and he drew himself into foetal position, knees up, head bent, arms across his chest.

  Tanner snapped, “Get out of here!” He moved quickly and felt the patient’s wrist.

  Berquist said savagely, “That tears it! Caxton, will you get out? Or shall I call the guards?”

  “Oh, we’re getting out,” Caxton agreed. All but Tanner left the room and Berquist closed the door.

  “Just one point, Gil,” Caxton insisted. “You’ve got him boxed up . . . so just where did he see those girls?”

  “Eh? Don’t be silly. He’s seen lots of girls. Nurses . . . laboratory technicians. You know.”

  “But I don’t. I understood he had nothing but male nurses and that female visitors had been rigidly excluded.”

  “Eh? Don’t be preposterous.” Berquist looked annoyed, then suddenly grinned. “You saw a nurse with him on stereo last night.”

  “Oh. So I did.” Caxton shut up.

  They did not discuss it until the three were in the air. Then Frisby remarked, “Ben, I don’t suppose the Secretary General will sue you. Still, if you have a source for that rumor, we had better perpetuate the evidence.”

  “Forget it, Mark. He won’t sue.” Ben glowered at the floor. “How do we know that was the Man from Mars?”

  “Eh? Come off it, Ben.”

  “How do we know? We saw a man about the right age in a hospital bed. We have Berquist’s word for it—and Berquist got his start in politics issuing denials. We saw a stranger, supposed to be a psychiatrist—and when I tried to find out where he had studied I got euchred out. Mr. Cavendish, did you see anything that convinced you that this bloke was the Man from Mars?”

  Cavendish answered, “It is not my function to form opinions. I see, I hear—that is all.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Are you through with me in my professional capacity?”

  “Huh? Oh, sure. Thanks, Mr. Cavendish.”

  “Thank you, sir. An interesting assignment.” The old gentleman took off the cloak that set him apart from ordinary mortals. He relaxed and his features mellowed.

  “If I had been able to bring along a crew member of the Champion,” Caxton persisted, “I could have tied it down.”

  “I must admit,” remarked Cavendish, “that I was surprised at one thing you did not do.”

  “Huh? What did I miss?”

  “Calluses.”

  “Calluses?”

  “Surely. A man’s history can be read from his calluses. I once did a monograph on them for The Witness Quarterly. This young man from Mars, since he has never worn our sort of shoes and has lived in gravity about one third of ours, should display foot calluses consonant with his former environment.”

  “Damn! Mr. Cavendish, why didn’t you suggest it?”

  “Sir?” The old man drew himself up and his nostrils dilated. “I am a Fair Witness, sir. Not a participant.”

  “Sorry.” Caxton frowned. “Let’s go back. We’ll look at his feet—or I’ll bust the place down!”

  “You will have to find another Witness . . . in view of my indiscretion in discussing it.”

  “Uh, yes, there’s that.” Caxton frowned.

  “Calm down, Ben,” advised Frisby. “You’re in deep enough. Personally, I’m convinced it was the Man from Mars.”

  Caxton dropped them, then set the cab to hover while he thought. He had been in once—with a lawyer, with a Fair Witness. To demand to see the Man from Mars a second time in one morning was unreasonable and would be refused.

  But he had not acquired a syndicated column through being balked. He intended to get in.

  How? Well, he knew where the putative “Man from Mars” was kept. Get in as an electrician? Too obvious; he would never get as far as “Dr. Tanner.”

  Was “Tanner” a doctor? Medical men tended to shy away from hanky-panky contrary to their code. Take that ship’s surgeon, Nelson—he had washed his hands of the case simply because—

  Wait a minute! Dr. Nelson
could tell whether that young fellow was the Man From Mars, without checking calluses or anything. Caxton tried to phone Dr. Nelson, relaying through his office since he did not know where Dr. Nelson was. Nor did Ben’s assistant Osbert Kilgallen know, but the Post Syndicate’s file on Important Persons placed him in the New Mayflower. A few minutes later Caxton was talking with him.

  Dr. Nelson had not seen the broadcast. Yes, he had heard about it; no, he had no reason to think it had been faked. Did Dr. Nelson know that an attempt had been made to coerce Smith into surrendering his rights under the Larkin Decision? No, and he would not be interested if it were true; it was preposterous to talk about anyone “owning” Mars; Mars belonged to Martians. So? Let’s propose a hypothetical question, Doctor; if someone were trying to—

  Dr. Nelson switched off. When Caxton tried to reconnect, a recorded voice stated: “The subscriber has suspended service temporarily. If you care to record—”

  Caxton made a foolish statement concerning Dr. Nelson’s parentage. What he did next was much more foolish; he phoned the Executive Palace, demanded to speak to the Secretary General.

  In his years as a snooper, Caxton had learned that secrets could often be cracked by going to the top and there making himself unbearably unpleasant. He knew that twisting the tiger’s tail was dangerous; he understood the psychopathology of great power as thoroughly as Jill Boardman did not—but he relied on his position as a dealer in another sort of power almost universally appeased.

  What he forgot was that, in phoning the Palace from a taxicab, he was not doing so publicly.

  Caxton spoke with half a dozen underlings and became more aggressive with each one. He was so busy that he did not notice when his cab ceased to hover.

  When he did notice, it was too late; the cab refused to obey orders. Caxton realized bitterly that he had let himself be trapped by a means no hoodlum would fall for; his call had been traced, his cab identified, its robot pilot placed under orders of an over-riding police frequency—and the cab was being used to fetch him in, privately and with no fuss.

  He tried to call his lawyer.