Уолтер Тевис - The Man Who Fell to Earth

“Or poison gas?” Newton had got his water, and was opening a little silver box, taking out a pill.

“Why not?” He picked up his martini, careful not to spill it. “Somebody has to make the poison gas.” He sipped. The drink was so dry it burned his throat and tongue and pushed his voice up a full octave. “Don’t they say we need things like poison gas to prevent wars? It’s been proved.”

“Has it?” Newton said. “Didn’t you work somehow with the hydrogen bomb—before you went into teaching?”

“Yes I did. How did you know about that?”

Newton smiled at him—not the automatic smile, but a genuine one of amusement. “I had you investigated.”

He took a bigger sip of the drink. “What for? My loyalty?”

“Oh… curiosity.” He paused for a second, and asked, “Why did you work on the bomb?”

Bryce thought for a minute. Then he laughed at his situation: using a Martian, in a bar, for a confessor. But perhaps it was appropriate. “I didn’t know it was going to be a bomb at first,” he said. “And in those days I believed in pure science. Reaching for the stars. Secrets of the atom. Our only hope in a chaotic world.” He finished the martini.

“And you don’t believe those things anymore?”

“No.”

The music from the other room had changed to a madrigal which he vaguely recognized. It moved delicately, intricately, with the false implication of naiveté that old polyphonic music seemed to have for him. Or was it false? Weren’t there naive arts and sophisticated arts? And corrupt arts as well? And might that not be true of the sciences, too? Could chemistry be more corrupt than botany? But that wasn’t so. It was the uses, the ends….

“I don’t suppose I do, either,” Newton said.

“I think I’ll have another martini.” Bryce said. A nice, unquestionably corrupt martini. From his mind somewhere came the words, O ye of little faith . He laughed to himself, and looked at Newton. Newton sat straight, erect, drinking his water.

The second martini did not burn his throat so much. He ordered a third. After all, the chemical warfare man was paying. Or was it the taxpayers? It depended on how you looked at it. He shrugged. Everybody would pay for all of it anyway—Massachusetts and Mars; everybody everywhere would pay.

“Let’s go back in the other room,” he said, taking the new martini in his hand, and sipping it cautiously so that it wouldn’t spill. His shirt cuff, he noticed, was entirely out from the end of the coat sleeve, like a wide and shabby wristband.

As they came through the doorway into the big room their way was blocked by a small, stubby man, talking in slightly drunken agitation. Bryce turned away quickly, hoping the man would not recognize him. He was Walter Canutti from Pendley University, in Pendley, Iowa.

“Bryce!” Canutti said. “Well I’ll be damned! Nathan Bryce!”

“Hello, Professor Canutti.” He shifted the martini glass to his left hand, awkwardly, and they shook hands. Canutti’s face was flushed; he was obviously quite drunk. He was wearing a green silk jacket and a tan shirt, with small, discreet ruffles at the collar. The outfit was much too youthful for him. He looked, except for the pink, soft face, like a mannequin on the cover of a men’s fashion magazine. Bryce tried to keep the revulsion from showing in his voice. “Nice to see you again!”

Canutti was looking questioningly at Newton, and there was nothing to do but introduce them. Bryce stumbled through the names, enraged at himself for being awkward.

Canutti, was, if anything, more impressed with Newton’s name than the other man, Benedict, had been. He pumped Newton’s hand with both of his, saying, “Yes. Yes, of course. World Enterprises. Biggest thing since General Dynamics.” He was laying it on as if he were hoping for a fat research contract for Pendley. It always horrified Bryce to see professors fawn on businessmen—the very men they ridiculed in their private conversations—whenever a research contract might be in the offing.

Newton murmured and smiled, and finally Canutti released his hand, made an attempt at a boyish grin, and said, “ Well! ” And then, throwing his arm over Bryce’s shoulder, “Well, it’s a lot of water under the bridge, Nate.” Abruptly, a thought seemed to strike him, and Bryce winced inwardly in apprehension. Canutti looked at both of them, Bryce and Newton, and said, “Why, are you working for World Enterprises, Nate?”

He didn’t answer, knowing what would be coming next.

Then Newton said, “Doctor Bryce has been with us for over a year.”

“Well I’ll be…” Canutti’s face was reddening, above the frilled collar. “Well I’ll be damned. Working for World Enterprises!” A look of uncontrollable mirth spread across his chubby face, and Bryce, drinking off his martini at a gulp, felt that he could readily plant a heel into that face. The grin became a belching chuckle, and then Canutti turned to Newton and said, “This is priceless. I’ve got to tell you this, Mr. Newton.” He chuckled again. “I’m sure Nate won’t mind, because it’s all over now. But do you know. Mr. Newton, when Nate left us out at Pendley he was worrying his head off about some of the very things that he’s probably helping you make, over at World?”

“Really?” Newton said, filling the pause.

“But the clincher is this.” Canutti reached a fumbling hand out and laid it on Bryce’s shoulder. Bryce felt as though he could have bitten it off, but he listened, fascinated, at what he knew was coming.

“The clincher is that old Nate here thought you were producing all that stuff you make by some kind of voodoo. Right, Nate?”

“That’s right,” Bryce said. “Voodoo.”

Canutti laughed. “Nate’s one of the top men in the field, as I’m sure you know, Mr. Newton. But maybe it was going to his head. He thought your color films were invented on Mars.”

“Oh?” Newton said.

“That’s right. Mars or somewhere. ‘Extraterrestrial’ is what he said.” Canutti squeezed Bryce’s shoulder, to show he meant no harm. “I bet when he saw you he expected somebody with three heads. Or tentacles.”

Newton smiled cordially. “That’s very amusing.” Then he looked at Bryce. “I’m sorry I disappointed you.” he said.

Bryce looked away. “No disappointment at all.” he said. His hands were trembling, and he set his glass on a table, forced his hands into his jacket pockets.

Canutti was talking again, this time about some magazine article he’d read, something about World Enterprises and its contributions to the gross national product. Abruptly, Bryce interrupted. “Excuse me.” he said. “I think I’ll get another drink.” Then he turned and went quickly back into the room with the bar, not looking at either of the other two as he did so.

But when he got his drink he did not want it. The bar had become oppressive to him; the bartender no longer looked distinguished but seemed merely a pretentious flunky. The music from the other room—now a motet—was nervous and shrill. There were too many people in the bar, and their voices were too loud. He looked around him, as if in desperation; the men were all sleek, smug; the women were like harpies. To hell with it , he thought, to hell with it all . He pushed himself from the bar, leaving his untouched drink, and walked purposely back into the main room.

Newton was waiting for him, alone.

Bryce looked him directly in the eyes, trying not to flinch. “Where’s Canutti?” he said.

“I told him we were leaving.” He shrugged his shoulders, in the implausible French gesture that Bryce had seen him use before. “He’s an offensive man, isn’t he?”