Robert Heinlein - Stranger in a Strange Land

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

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

“Yes.”

“The Man from Mars?”

“Yes.”

“You were on stereo last night?”

The man in the tank bed did not answer. Tanner said, “I don’t think he knows the word. Let me try. 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 here?”

“Yes.”

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

Tanner said hastily, “Now see here, Mr. Caxton—” Berquist put a hand on his arm and he shut up.

“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 help you get out of bed and 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 here?”

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

“Thanks, Gil. Thanks all to pieces. So he is free to leave if he wants to. You heard what he said, Mike. You don’t have to stay here. You can go anywhere you like. I’ll help you.”

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

“Okay, okay.”

Tanner snapped, “Mr. Berquist, this has gone quite far enough! My patient will be upset the rest of the day.”

“All right, Doctor. Ben, let’s get the show on the road. You’ve had enough, surely.”

“Uh… just 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 had seemed last night. But something did not quite fit although he could not tell what it was.

“One more question,” Berquist begrudged.

“Thanks. Uh… Mike, last night Mr. Douglas asked you some questions.” The patient watched him but 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 he stiffened, his eyes rolled up, and he drew himself into the foetal position, knees drawn up, head bent, and arms folded across his chest.

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

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

“Oh, we’re getting out all right,” 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 in there… 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 know. I understood he had nothing but male nurses and that female visitors had been rigidly excluded.”

“Eh? Don’t be any more preposterous than you have to be.” Berquist looked annoyed, then suddenly grinned. “You saw a nurse with him on stereo just last night.”

“Oh. So I did.” Caxton shut up and let himself be led out.

They did not discuss it further until the three were in the air, headed for Cavendish’s home. Then Frisby remarked, “Ben, I don’t suppose the Secretary General will demean himself to sue you, since you did not print it. Still, if you really do have a source for that rumor you mentioned, we had better perpetuate the evidence. You don’t have much of a leg to stand on, you know.”

“Forget it, Mark. He won’t sue.” Ben glowered at the floor of the cab. “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; his word means nothing. We saw a total stranger, supposed to be a psychiatrist… and when I tried to find out where he had studied psychiatry I got euchred out. How do we know? Mr. Cavendish, did you see or hear anything that convinced you that this bloke was the Man from Mars?”

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

“Sorry.”

“By the way, are you through with me in my professional capacity?”

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

“Thank you, sir. It was an interesting assignment.” The old gentleman took off the cloak that set him apart from ordinary mortals, folded it carefully and laid it on the seat. He sighed, relaxed, and his features lost professional detachment, warmed and mellowed. He took out cigars, offered them to the others; Frisby took one and they shared a light. “I do not smoke,” Cavendish remarked through a thick cloud, “while on duty. It interferes with optimum functioning of the senses.”

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

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

“Huh? What did I miss?”

“Calluses.”

“Calluses?”

“Surely. A man’s life history can be told from his calluses. I once did a monograph on them, published in The Witness Quarterly —like Sherlock Holmes’ famous monograph on tobacco ash. 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. Even the time he recently spent in space should have left their traces. Very interesting.”

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

“Sir?” The old man drew himself up and his nostrils dilated. “It would not have been ethical. I am a Fair Witness, not a participant. My professional association would suspend me for much less. Surely you know that.”

“Sorry. I forgot myself.” Caxton frowned. “Let’s wheel this buggy around and go back. We’ll take a look at his feet—or I’ll bust the place down with Berquist’s fat head!”

“I’m afraid you will have to find another Witness… in view of my indiscretion in discussing it, even after the fact.”

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

“Better just calm down, Ben,” advised Frisby. “You’re in deep enough now. Personally, I’m convinced it was the Man from Mars. Occam’s razor, least hypothesis, just plain horse sense.”

Caxton dropped them, then set the cab to cruise while he thought. Presently he punched the combination to take him back to Bethesda Medical Center.

He was less than half way back to the Center when he realized that his trip was useless. What would happen? He would get as far as Berquist, no farther. He had been allowed in once—with a lawyer, with a Fair Witness. To demand to be allowed to see the Man from Mars a second time, all in one morning, was unreasonable and would be refused. Nor, since it was unreasonable, could he make anything effective out of it in his column.