Robert Heinlein - Stranger in a Strange Land

“But you need me to identify him.”

“Not so. I flatter myself that I can tell a man who was raised by nonhumans from an actor pretending to be such a man in the course of a very short interview. But if anything goes wrong, you are my ace in the hole—a person who knows that they are pulling hanky-panky concerning the Man from Mars and who has access to the inside of Bethesda Center. Honey, if you don’t hear from me, you are on your own.”

“Ben, they wouldn’t hurt you?”

“I’m fighting out of my weight, youngster. There is no telling.”

“Uh… oh, Ben, I don’t like this. Look, if you do get in to see him, what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to ask him if he wants to leave the hospital. If he says he does, I’m going to invite him to come along with me. In the presence of a Fair Witness they won’t dare stop him. A hospital isn’t a prison; they don’t have any legal right to hold him.”

“Uh… then what? He really does need medical attention, Ben; he’s not able to take care of himself. I know.”

Caxton scowled again. “I’ve been thinking of that. I can’t nurse him. You could, of course, if you had the facilities. We could put him in my flat—”

“—and I could nurse him. We’ll do it, Ben!”

“Slow down. I thought of that. Douglas would pull some legal rabbit out of his hat, a deputation in force would call, and Smith would go right back to pokey. And so would both of us, maybe.” He wrinkled his brow. “But I know one man who could give him shelter and possibly get away with it.

“Ever heard of Jubal Harshaw?”

“Huh? Who hasn’t?”

“That’s one of his advantages; everybody knows who he is. It makes him hard to shove around. Being both a doctor of medicine and a lawyer he is three times as hard to shove around. But most important he is so rugged an individualist that he would fight the whole Federation Department of Security with just a potato knife if it suited his fancy—and that makes him eight times as hard to shove around. But the point is that I got well acquainted with him during the disaffection trials; he is a friend I can count on in a pinch. If I can get Smith out of Bethesda, I’ll take him to Harshaw’s place over in the Poconos—and then just let those jerks try to hide him under a rug again! Between my column and Harshaw’s love for a fight we’ll give ’em a bad time.”

DESPITE A LATE EVENING Jill was ready to relieve the night floor nurse ten minutes early the next morning. She intended to obey Ben’s order to stay out of his proposed attempt to see the Man from Mars but she was determined to be close by when it happened… just in case. Ben might need reinforcements.

There were no longer marine guards in the corridor. Trays, medications, and two patients to be prepared for surgery kept her busy the first two hours; she had only time to check the knob of the door to suite K-12. It was locked, as was the door to the adjoining sitting room. The door to the watch room on its other side was closed. She considered sneaking in again to see Smith through the connecting sitting room, now that the guards were gone, but decided to postpone it; she was too busy. Nevertheless she managed to keep a close check on everyone who came onto her floor.

Ben did not show up and discreet questions asked of her assistant on the switchboard reassured her that neither Ben nor anyone else had gone in to see the Man from Mars while Jill was busy elsewhere. It puzzled her; while Ben had not set a time, she had had the impression that he had intended to storm the citadel as early in the day as possible.

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

The physician at the watch desk was strange to Jill. He turned away from the displayed physio data, looked at her, then smiled as he looked her up and down. “I haven’t seen Dr. Frame, Nurse. I’m Dr. Brush. Can I help?”

At the typical male reaction Jill relaxed. “Nothing special. To tell the truth I was curious. How is the Man from Mars?”

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

“Huh?” He looked startled. “Did they have him in this suite?”

“What? 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? But what happened to the Man from Mars? Where did they put him?”

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

“He was here yesterday. That’s all I know.”

“And Dr. Frame was on his case? Some people have all the luck. Look what I’m stuck with.” He switched on the Peeping Tom above his desk; Jill saw framed in it, as if she were looking down, a water bed; floating in it was a tiny old woman. She seemed to be asleep.

“What’s her trouble?”

“Mmm… Nurse, if she didn’t have more money than any person ought to have, you might be tempted to call it senile dementia. As it is, she is in for a rest and a check-up.”

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

Having noted that the rich old gal was no responsibility of hers, Jill turned her mind back to Valentine Smith. Something about Mrs. Bankerson’s case struck her as odd but she could not put her finger on it, so she put it out of her mind and thought about the matter that did interest her. Why had they moved Smith in the middle of the night? To avoid any possible contact with outsiders, probably. But where had they taken him? Ordinarily she would simply have called “Reception” and asked, but Ben’s opinions plus the phony broadcast of the night before had made her jumpy about showing curiosity; she decided to wait until lunch and see what she could pick up on the gossip grapevine.

But first Jill went to the floor’s public booth and called Ben. His office informed her that Mr. Caxton had just left town, to be gone a few days. She was startled almost speechless by this—then pulled herself together and left word for Ben to call her.

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

Ben Caxton had wasted no time in preparing his attempt to force his way into the presence of Valentine Michael Smith. He was lucky in being able to retain James Oliver Cavendish as his Fair Witness. 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 of the Federation and it was said that the wills locked up in his head represented not billions but trillions. Cavendish had received his training in total recall from the great Dr. Samuel Renshaw himself and his professional hypnotic instruction had been undergone as a fellow of the Rhine Foundation. His fee for a day or fraction thereof was more than Ben made in a week, but Ben expected to charge it off to the Post syndicate—in any case, the best was none too good for this job.

Caxton picked up the junior Frisby of Biddle, Frisby, Frisby, Biddle, & Reed as that law firm represented the Post syndicate, then the two younger men called for Witness Cavendish. The long, spare form of Mr. Cavendish, wrapped chin to ankle in the white cloak of his profession, reminded Ben of the Statue of Liberty… and was almost as conspicuous. Ben had already explained to Mark Frisby what he intended to try (and Frisby had already pointed out to him that he had no status and 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 be expected to see and hear.