Уолтер Тевис - The Man Who Fell to Earth

Brinnarde was in the center of the group. There were three other men in business suits, and the fourth, wearing a blue uniform, was obviously the pilot of the Air Force plane. Brinnarde introduced them, his manner efficient, noncommittal. When this was done, Newton, still standing, said, “Have you been waiting long?”

“No,” Brinnarde said, “no. In fact we had you delayed at the Chicago airport until we could get here. The timing was very good. I hope you weren’t inconvenienced too much—by the hold-up at Chicago?”

Newton showed no emotion. “How did you manage to do that?”

“Well, Mr. Newton,” Brinnarde said, “I’m with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. These men are my colleagues.”

Newton’s voice hesitated slightly. “That’s very interesting. I suppose it makes you a… a spy?”

“I suppose it does. In any event, Mr. Newton, I’ve been told to place you under arrest, and to take you with me.”

Newton took in a slow, deep, very human breath. “What are you arresting me for?”

Brinnarde smiled politely. “You’re charged with illegal entry. We believe you’re an alien, Mr. Newton.”

Newton stood silent for a long moment. Then he said, “May I have breakfast first, please?”

Brinnarde hesitated, then he smiled in a way that was surprisingly genial. “I don’t see why not, Mr. Newton,” he said. “I think we could use some food ourselves. They got up at four this morning, in Louisville, to make this arrest.”

Betty Jo fixed them scrambled eggs and coffee. While they were eating, Newton asked casually if he could call his lawyer.

“I’m afraid not,” Brinnarde said.

“Isn’t there a constitutional right about that?”

“Yes.” Brinnarde set down his coffee cup. “But you don’t have any constitutional rights. As I said, we believe you are not an American citizen.”

Newton put down his book. The doctor would be coming in a few minutes, and he did not feel like reading anyway. In the two weeks of his confinement he had done very little but read. That was when he wasn’t being questioned, or examined by the doctors—physicians, anthropologists, psychiatrists—or by the men in conservative suits who must have been government officials, although they would never tell him who they were when he asked. He had re-read Spinoza, Hegel, Spengler, Keats, the New Testament, and was currently reading some new books on linguistics. They brought him whatever he asked for, with considerable speed and politeness. He also had a record player, which he seldom used, a library of motion picture films, a World Enterprises television set, and a bar, but no windows to look through to see Washington. They had told him he was some-place near that city, although they were not specific about how near he was. He watched the television set in the evenings, partly from a kind of nostalgia, sometimes from curiosity. At times his name would be mentioned on news programs—for it was impossible that a man of his wealth could have been placed under arrest by the government without some publicity. But the references were always vague, coming from unnamed official sources and making use of phrases like “a cloud of suspicion.” The word was that he was an “unregistered alien”; but no government source had made it plain where he was—or where they thought he was—from. One television commentator, noted for his dry wit, had said waspishly, “For all that Washington will say, it must be assumed that Mr. Newton, now under surveillance and in custody, is a visitor either from Outer Mongolia or from outer space.”

He realized, too, that these broadcasts would be monitored by his superiors on Anthea, and he was mildly amused by the thought of their consternation at learning of his position, their curiosity to find out what was really happening.

Well, he did not know himself what was really happening. Apparently the government was highly suspicious of him—as well they might be, with the information that Brinnarde must have given them during the year and a half that he had been working as his secretary. And Brinnarde, who had been his right-hand man on the project, must certainly have placed a good many spies in all aspects of the organization, so that the government should have in hand a great deal of information about his activities and about the project itself. But there had been things he had kept from Brinnarde, things they were highly unlikely to know about. Still, it was impossible to determine what they were up to. Sometimes he wondered what would happen if he told his questioners, “As a matter of fact I am from outer space, and I intend to conquer the world.” It might produce interesting reactions. But belief would hardly be one of them.

Sometimes he wondered what was happening to World Enterprises, now that he was entirely cut off from communication with it. Would Farnsworth be running it? Newton received no mail, no phone calls. There was a telephone in his living room, but it never rang, and he was not permitted to make outside calls on it. The phone was pale blue, and it sat on a mahogany table. He had tried it a few times, but always a voice—apparently a recorded voice—would say, when he picked it up, “We are sorry, but this telephone is restricted.” The voice was pleasant, feminine, artificial. It never said what the telephone was restricted to. Sometimes, when lonely, or a little bit drunk—he did not drink so much as before, now that some of the pressure was removed from him—he would pick up the receiver just to hear the voice say, “We are sorry, but this telephone is restricted.” The voice was very smooth; it suggested infinite politeness and some dim kind of electronics.

The doctor was punctual as ever; the guard let him in at exactly eleven o’clock. He carried his bag and was accompanied by a nurse with a deliberately impassive face—the sort of face that seemed to say, “I don’t care what you die of, I intend to be efficient about my part of it.” She was a blonde, and by human standards, pretty. The doctor’s name was Martinez; he was a physiologist.

“Good morning, Doctor,” Newton said, “What can I do for you?”

The doctor smiled with practiced casualness. “Another test, Mr. Newton. Another small test.” He had a faint Spanish accent. Newton rather liked him; he was less formal than most of the people he had to deal with.

“I should think you’d know all you wish to about me by now,” Newton said. “You’ve X-rayed me, sampled my blood and lymph, recorded my brain waves, measured me, and taken direct samples from my bone, liver, and kidneys. I hardly think I’d have any more surprises for you.”

The doctor shook his head and granted Newton a perfunctory laugh. “God knows we’ve found you… interesting. You have a rather far-fetched set of organs.”

“I’m a freak, Doctor.”

The doctor laughed again; but his laugh was strained. “I don’t know what we’d do if you developed appendicitis or something. We’d hardly know where to look.”

Newton smiled at him. “You wouldn’t have to bother. I don’t have an appendix.” He leaned back in his chair. “But I imagine you’d operate anyway. You would probably be delighted to open me up and see what new curiosities you could find.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” the doctor said. “As a matter of fact, one of the first things we learned about you—after counting your toes, that is—was that you have no vermiform appendix. In fact there are many things you don’t have. We’ve been using rather advanced equipment, you know.” Then, abruptly, he turned to the nurse. “Will you give Mr. Newton the Nembucaine, Miss Griggs?”

Newton winced. “Doctor,” he said, “I’ve told you before that anesthetics have no effect on my nervous system, except to give me a headache. If you are going to do something painful to me there is no point in making it more painful.”