Stranger in a Strange Land

“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.

But he had not acquired a widely syndicated column through being balked. He intended to get in.

How? Well, at least he now knew where the putative “Man from Mars” was being kept. Get in as an electrician? Or as a janitor? Too obvious; he would never get past the guard, not even as far as “Dr. Tanner.”