A Stranger in a Strange Land

by Robert A. Heinlein

  VII

  DESPITE A LATE EVENING Jill was ready to relieve the night floor nurse ten minutes early the next morning. She intended to obey Ben's order to stay out of his proposed attempt to see the Man from Mars but she was determined to be close by when it happened... just in case. Ben might need reinforcements.

  There were no longer marine guards in the corridor. Trays, medications, and two patients to be prepared for surgery kept her busy the first two hours; she had only time to check the knob of the door to suite K-12. It was locked, as was the door to the adjoining sitting room. The door to the watch room on its other side was closed. She considered sneaking in again to see Smith through the connecting sitting room, now that the guards were gone, but decided to postpone it; she was too busy. Nevertheless she managed to keep a close check on everyone who came onto her floor.

  Ben did not show up and discreet questions asked of her assistant on the switchboard reassured her that neither Ben nor anyone else had gone in to see the Man from Mars while Jill was busy elsewhere. It puzzled her; while Ben had not set a time, she had had the impression that he had intended to storm the citadel as early in the day as possible.

  Presently she felt that she just had to snoop a bit. During a lull she knocked at the door of the Suite's watch room, then stuck her head in and pretended surprise. "Oh! Good morning, Doctor. I thought Doctor Frame was in here."

  The physician at the watch desk was strange to Jill. He turned away from the displayed physio data, looked at her, then smiled as he looked her up and down. "I haven't seen Dr. Frame, Nurse. I'm Dr. Brush. Can I help?"

  At the typical male reaction Jill relaxed. "Nothing special. To tell the truth I was curious. How is the Man from Mars?"

  She smiled and winked. "It's no secret to the staff, Doctor. Your patient-" She gestured at the inner door.

  "Huh?" He looked startled. "Did they have him in this suite?"

  "What? Isn't he here now?"

  "Not by six decimal places. Mrs. Rose Bankerson - Dr. Garner's patient. We brought her in early this morning."

  "Really? But what happened to the Man from Mars? Where did they put him?"

  "I haven't the faintest. Say, did I really just miss seeing Valentine Smith?"

  "He was here yesterday. That's all I know."

  "And Dr. Frame was on his case? Some people have all the luck. Look what I'm stuck with." He switched on the Peeping Tom above his desk; Jill saw framed in it, as if she were looking down, a water bed; floating in it was a tiny old woman. She seemed to be asleep.

  "What's her trouble?"

  "Mmm... Nurse, if she didn't have more money than any person ought to have, you might be tempted to call it senile dementia. As it is, she is in for a rest and a check-up."

  Jill made small talk for a few moments more, then pretended to see a call light. She went back to her desk, dug out the night log - yes, there it was: V M. Smith, K-12 transfer. Below that entry was another: Rose, Bankerson (Mrs.) - red K-12 (diet kitchen instrd by Dr. Garner - no orders - fir nt respnbl).

  Having noted that the rich old gal was no responsibility of hers, Jill turned her mind back to Valentine Smith. Something about Mrs. Bankerson's case struck her as odd but she could not put her finger on it, so she put it out of her mind and thought about the matter that did interest her. Why had they moved Smith in the middle of the night? To avoid any possible contact with outsiders, probably. But where had they taken him? Ordinarily she would simply have called "Reception" and asked, but Ben's opinions plus the phony broadcast of the night before had made her jumpy about showing curiosity; she decided to wait until lunch and see what she could pick up on the gossip grapevine.

  But first Jill went to the floor's public booth and called Ben. His office informed her that Mr. Caxton had just left town, to be gone a few days. She was startled almost speechless by this - then pulled herself together and left word for Ben to call her.

  She then called his home. He was not there; she recorded the same message.

  Ben Caxton had wasted no time in preparing his attempt to force his way into the presence of Valentine Michael Smith. He was lucky in being able to retain James Oliver Cavendish as his Fair Witness. While any Fair Witness would do, the prestige of Cavendish was such that a lawyer was hardly necessary - the old gentleman had testified many times before the High Court of the Federation and it was said that the wills locked up in his head represented not billions but trillions. Cavendish had received his training in total recall from the great Dr. Samuel Renshaw himself and his professional hypnotic instruction had been undergone as a fellow of the Rhine Foundation. His fee for a day or fraction thereof was more than Ben made in a week, but Ben expected to charge it off to the Post syndicate - in any case, the best was none too good for this job.

  Caxton picked up the junior Frisby of Biddle, Frisby, Frisby, Biddle, & Reed as that law firm represented the Post syndicate, then the two younger men called for Witness Cavendish. The long, spare form of Mr. Cavendish, wrapped chin to ankle in the white cloak of his profession, reminded Ben of the Statue of Liberty... and was almost as conspicuous. Ben had already explained to Mark Frisby what he intended to try (and Frisby had already pointed out to him that he had no status and no rights) before they called for Cavendish; once in the Fair Witness's presence they conformed to protocol and did not discuss what he might be expected to see and hear.

  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 w
anted 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."

  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?"

  "Yet"

  "The Man from Mars?"

  "Yet"

  "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 a
rms 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."