Robert Heinlein - Stranger in a Strange Land

The cab dropped them on top of Bethesda Center; they went down to the Director’s office. Ben handed in his card and said that he wanted to see the Director.

An imperious female with a richly cultivated accent asked if he had an appointment. Ben admitted that he had none.

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

“Just tell him,” Caxton said loudly, so that others waiting 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 almost out of her professional hauteur. But she recovered and said frostily, “I shall inform him. Will you be seated, please?”

“Thanks, I’ll wait right here.”

They waited. Frisby broke out a cigar, Cavendish waited with the calm patience of one who has seen all manner of good and evil and now counts them both the same, Caxton uttered and tried to keep from biting his nails. At last the snow queen behind the desk 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 Secretary Douglas’s large squad of stooges, or “executive assistants.” He specialized in chaperoning official visitors. “I don’t want to see Berquist; I want the Director.”

But Berquist was already coming out, hand shoved out before him, greeter’s grin plastered on his face. “Benny Caxton! How are you, chum? Long time and so forth. Still peddling the same old line of hoke?” He glanced at the Fair Witness, but his expression admitted nothing.

Ben shook hands briefly. “Same old hoke, sure. 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—nothing to do but phone in a thousand words of rumors each day and spend the rest of the day in debauchery. I envy you, Ben.”

“I said, ‘What are you doing here, Gil?’ I want to see the Director, then get five minutes with 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 almost crazy by the press—so the Secretary General sent me over to take some of the load off his shoulders.”

“Okay. I want to see Smith.”

“Ben, old boy, don’t you realize that every reporter, special correspondent, feature writer, commentator, freelance, and sob sister wants the same thing? You winchells are just one squad in an army; if we let you all have your way, you would kill off the poor jerk in twenty-four hours. Polly Peepers was here not twenty minutes ago. She wanted to interview him on love life among the Martians.” Berquist threw up both hands and looked helpless.

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

“Ben, let’s find a quiet place where we can talk over a long, tall glass. You can ask me anything you want to.”

“I don’t want to ask you anything; I want to see Smith. By the way, this is my attorney, Mark Frisby—Biddle & Frisby.” As was customary, Ben did not introduce the Fair Witness; they all pretended that he was not present.

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

“About the same.”

“This foul Washington climate. Well, come along, Ben. You, too, Mark.”

“Hold it,” said Caxton. “I don’t want to interview you, Gil. I want to see Valentine Michael Smith. I’m here as a member of the press, directly representing the Post syndicate and indirectly representing over two hundred million readers. Do I see him? If I don’t, say so out loud and state your legal authority for refusing me.”

Berquist sighed. “Mark, will you tell this keyhole historian that he can’t go busting into a sick man’s bedroom just because he has a syndicated column? Valentine Smith made one public appearance just last night—against his physician’s advice I might add. The man is entitled to peace and quiet and a chance to build up his strength and get oriented. That appearance last night was enough, more than enough.”

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

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

“Take it easy, Ben.”

“I know the law on slander, Gil. In my business I have to. 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 TV last night was not the Man from Mars. I want to see him myself and ask him.”

The crowded reception hail was very quiet as everyone present bent an ear to the argument. Berquist glanced quickly at the Fair Witness, then got his expression under control and said smilingly to Caxton, “Ben, it’s just possible that you talked yourself into the interview you wanted—as well as a lawsuit. Wait a moment.”

He disappeared into the inner office, came back fairly soon. “I arranged it,” he said wearily, “though God knows why. You don’t deserve it, Ben. Come along. Just you—Mark, I’m sorry but we can’t have a crowd of people; after all, Smith is a sick man.”

“No,” said Caxton.

“Huh?”

“All three of us, or none of us. Take your choice.”

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

“Maybe not. But I’ve paid his fee to have him along. My column will state tonight that the administration refused to permit a Fair Witness to see the Man from Mars.”

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

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

Tanner looked worried. “Gentlemen, I am doing this against my better judgment because the Director insists. 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 easily mistake it for that. It is more like catalepsy. But don’t quote me; there is no clinical precedent for this case.”

“Are you a specialist, Doctor? Psychiatry, maybe?”

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

“Where did you do your advanced work?”

Berquist said, “Look, Ben, let’s see the patient and get it over with. You can quiz Dr. Tanner afterwards.”

“Okay.”

Tanner glanced over his dials and graphs, then flipped a switch and stared into a Peeping Tom. He left the desk, unlocked a door and led them into an adjoining bedroom, putting a finger to his lips as he did so. The other four followed him in. Caxton felt as if he were being taken to “view the remains” and suppressed a nervous need to laugh.

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