Robert Heinlein - Double Star

There are several ways to keep a well-known face from being recognized. The simplest is misdirection. Place a man in uniform and his face is not likely to be noticed — do you recall the face of the last policeman you encountered? Could you identify him if you saw him next in mufti? On the same principle is the attention-getting special feature. Equip a man with an enormous nose, disfigured perhaps with acne rosacea; the vulgar will stare in fascination at the nose itself, the polite will turn away — but neither will see the face.

I decided against this primitive maneuver because I judged that my employer wished me not to be noticed at all rather than remembered for an odd feature without being recognized. This is much more difficult; anyone can be conspicuous but it takes real skill not to be noticed. I needed a face as commonplace, as impossible to remember as the true face of the immortal Alec Guinness. Unfortunately my aristocratic features are entirely too distinguished, too handsome — a regrettable handicap for a character actor. As my father used to say, «Larry, you are too damned pretty! If you don't get off your lazy duff and learn the business, you are going to spend fifteen years as a juvenile, under the mistaken impression that you are an actor — then wind up selling candy in the lobby. “Stupid” and “pretty” are the two worst vices in show business — and you're both .»

Then he would take off his belt and stimulate my brain. Father was a practical psychologist and believed that warming the glutei maximi with a strap drew excess blood away from a boy's brain. While the theory may have been shaky, the results justified the method; by the time I was fifteen I could stand on my head on a slack wire and quote page after page of Shakespeare and Shaw — or steal a scene simply by lighting a cigarette.

I was deep in the mood of creation when Broadbent stuck his face in. «Good grief!» he snapped. «Haven't you done anything yet?»

I stared coldly. «I assumed that you wanted my best creative work — which cannot be hurried. Would you expect a cordon bleu to compound a new sauce on the back of a galloping horse?»

«Horses be damned!» He glanced at his watch finger. «You have six more minutes. If you can't do anything in that length of time, we'll just have to take our chances.»

Well! Of course I prefer to have plenty of time — but I had understudied my father in his quick-change creation, The Assassination of Huey Long, fifteen parts in seven minutes — and had once played it in nine seconds less time than he did. «Stay where you are!» I snapped back at him. «I'll be with you at once.» I then put on «Benny Grey,» the colorless handy man who does the murders in The House with No Doors — two quick strokes to put dispirited lines into my cheeks from nose to mouth corners, a mere suggestion of bags under my eyes, and Factor's #5 sallow over all, taking not more than twenty seconds for everything — I could have done it in my sleep; House ran on boards for ninety-two performances before they recorded it.

Then I faced Broadbent and he gasped. «Good God! I don't believe it.»

I stayed in «Benny Grey» and did not smile acknowledgment. What Broadbent could not realize was that the grease paint really was not necessary. It makes it easier, of course, but I had used a touch of it primarily because he expected it; being one of the yokels, he naturally assumed that make-up consisted of paint and powder.

He continued to stare at me. «Look here,» he said in a hushed voice, «could you do something like that for me? In a hurry?»

I was about to say no when I realized that it presented an interesting professional challenge. I had been tempted to say that if my father had started in on him at five he might be ready now to sell cotton candy at a punkin' doin's, but I thought better of it. «You simply want to be sure that you will not be recognized?» I asked.

«Yes, yes! Can you paint me up, or give me a false nose, or something?»

I shook my head. «No matter what we did with make-up, it would simply make you look like a child dressed up for Trick or Treat. You can't act and you can never learn, at your age. We won't touch your face.»

«Huh? But with this beak on me — »

«Attend me. Anything I could do to that lordly nose would just call attention to it, I assure you. Would it suffice if an acquaintance looked at you and said, “Say, that big fellow reminds me of Dak Broadbent. It's not Dak, of course, but looks a little like him.” Eh?»

«Huh? I suppose so. As long as he was sure it wasn't me. I'm supposed to be on ... Well, I'm not supposed to be on Earth just now.»

«He'll be quite sure it is not you, because we'll change your walk. That's the most distinctive thing about you. If your walk is wrong, it cannot possibly be you — so it must be some other big-boned, broad-shouldered man who looks a bit like you.»

«Okay, show me how to walk.»

«No, you could never learn it. I'll force you to walk the way I want you to.»

«How?»

«We'll put a handful of pebbles or the equivalent in the toes of your boots. That will force you back on your heels and make you stand up straight. It will be impossible for you to sneak along in that catfooted spaceman's crouch. Mmm ... I'll slap some tape across your shoulder blades to remind you to keep your shoulders back, too. That will do it.»

«You think they won't recognize me just because I'll walk differently?»

«Certain. An acquaintance won't know why he is sure it is not you, but the very fact that the conviction is subconscious and unanalyzed will put it beyond reach of doubt. Oh, I'll do a little something to your face, just to make you feel easier — but it isn't necessary.»

We went back into the living room of the suite. I was still being «Benny Grey» of course; once I put on a role it takes a conscious effort of will to go back to being myself. Dubois was busy at the phone; he looked up, saw me, and his jaw dropped. He hurried out of the hush locus and demanded, «Who's he? And where's that actor fellow?» After his first glance at me, he had looked away and not bothered to look back — “Benny Grey” is such a tired, negligible little guy that there is no point in looking at him.

«What actor fellow?» I answered in Benny's flat, colorless tones. It brought Dubois' eyes back to me. He looked at me, started to look away, his eyes snapped back, then he looked at my clothes. Broadbent guffawed and clapped him on the shoulder.

«And you said he couldn't act!» He added sharply, «Did you get them all, Jock?»

«Yes.» Dubois looked back at me, looked perplexed, and looked away.

«Okay. We've got to be out of here in four minutes. Let's see how fast you can get me fixed up, Lorenzo.»

Dak had one boot off, his blouse off, and his chemise pulled up so that I could tape his shoulders when the light over the door came on and the buzzer sounded. He froze. «Jock? We expecting anybody?»

«Probably Langston. He said he was going to try to get over here before we left.» Dubois started for the door.

«It might not be him. It might be — » I did not get to hear Broadbent say who he thought it might be as Dubois dilated the door. Framed in the doorway, looking like a nightmare toadstool, was a Martian.

For an agony-stretched second I could see nothing but the Martian. I did not see the human standing behind him, nor did I notice the life wand the Martian cradled in his pseudo limb.

Then the Martian flowed inside, the man with him stepped in behind him, and the door relaxed. The Martian squeaked, «Good afternoon, gentlemen. Going somewhere?»

I was frozen, dazed, by acute xenophobia. Dak was handicapped by disarranged clothing. But little Jock Dubois acted with a simple heroism that made him my beloved brother even as he died ... He flung himself at that life wand. Right at it — he made no attempt to evade it.