The Man Who Fell to Earth

  “Doctor Bryce,” Newton said, his face now unsmiling, “we are a great deal wiser than you are. Believe me, we are much wiser than you may imagine. And we are certain beyond all reasonable doubt that your world will be an atomic rubble heap in no more than thirty years, if you are left to yourselves.” He continued grimly, “To tell you the truth, it dismays us greatly to see what you are about to do with such a beautiful, fertile world. We destroyed ours a long time ago, but we had so much less to begin with than you have here.” His voice now seemed agitated, his manner more intense. “Do you realize that you will not only wreck your civilization, such as it is, and kill most of your people; but that you will also poison the fish in your rivers, the squirrels in your trees, the flocks of birds, the soil, the water? There are times when you seem, to us, like apes loose in a museum, carrying knives, slashing the canvases, breaking the statuary with hammers.”

  For a moment Bryce did not speak. Then he said, “But it was human beings who painted the pictures, made the statues.”

  “Only a few human beings,” Newton said. “Only a few.” Abruptly, he stood up and said, “I think I’ve had quite enough of Chicago. Would you like to go home?”

  “Now?” Bryce looked at his watch. My God, two-thirty in the morning. Christmas was over.

  “Do you think you’ll sleep tonight anyway?” Newton said.

  He shrugged, “I guess not.” And then, remembering what Betty Jo had said, “You don’t sleep at all, do you?”

  “Sometimes I sleep,” Newton said, “but not often.” He sat down beside the telephone, “I’ll have to have our pilot wakened. And we’ll need a car to take us to the airport….”

  Getting a car was difficult; they did not arrive at the airport until four o’clock. By that time Bryce was beginning to feel dizzy, and there was a faint buzzing in his ears. Newton showed no signs of fatigue. His face, as usual, gave no indication of what he might be thinking.

  There were confusions and several delays in getting take-off clearance, and by the time they were able to leave, flying out over Lake Michigan, a pink and gentle dawn was beginning to form.

  It was daylight when they arrived at Kentucky, the beginning of a clear winter day. Coming in for the landing the first thing they saw was the brilliantly shining hull of the ship—Newton’s ferry boat—looking like a polished monument in the morning sun. And then, when they came over the airfield they saw a surprising thing. Perched elegantly at the far end of the runway, at the side of Newton’s hangar, was a beautifully streamlined, white plane, twice the size of the one they were in. On its wings were the markings of the United States Air Force. “Well,” Newton said, “I wonder who has come to visit us.”

  They had to walk by the white plane on their way to the monorail, and, passing it, Bryce could not help being impressed with its beauty—its fine proportions and the grace of its lines. “If we only made everything that beautifully,” he said.

  Newton was looking at the plane, too. “But you don’t,” he said.

  They rode the monorail car in silence. Bryce’s arms and legs ached with the need for sleep; but his mind was full of sharp, quick images, ideas, half-formed thoughts.

  He should have gone to his own house; but when Newton invited him in for breakfast, he accepted. It would be easier than finding his own food.

  Betty Jo was up, wearing an orange kimono, her hair in a silk babushka; her face was worried, and her eyes were red, puffy underneath. Opening the door she said, “There’s some men here, Mr. Newton. I don’t know…” Her voice trailed off. They went past her into the living room. Seated in chairs were five men; they rose quickly when Newton and Bryce entered.

  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.”

  6

  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. Somet
imes 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.”

  The nurse, ignoring him completely, began preparing a hypodermic. Martinez gave the patronizing smile evidently reserved for patients’ fumbling efforts to understand the rites of medicine. “Maybe you’re unaware of how much these things would hurt if we didn’t use anesthetics.”

  Newton was beginning to feel exasperated. His sense of being an intelligent human besieged by curious and pompous monkeys had become very acute during the past weeks. Except, of course, that it was he in the cage, while the monkeys came and went, examining him and attempting to appear wise. “Doctor,” he said, “haven’t you seen the results of the intelligence tests given me?”

  The doctor had opened his briefcase on the desk and was removing some forms. Each sheet was clearly stamped, Top Secret. “Intelligence tests aren’t my bailiwick, Mr. Newton. And as you probably know, all of that information is highly confidential.”

  “Yes. But you do know.”

  The doctor cleared his throat. He was beginning to fill in one of the forms. Date; type of test. “Well, there have been some rumors.”

  Newton was angry now. “I imagine there have been. I also imagine that you are aware that my intelligence is about twice yours. Can’t you credit me with knowing whether or not local anesthetic is effective for me?”

  “We’ve studied the arrangement of your nervous system exhaustively. There seems to be no reason why Nembucaine wouldn’t work as well for you as for… as for anybody.”

  “Maybe you don’t know as much about nervous systems as you think you do.”

  “That may be.” The doctor had finished with the form, and set his pencil on it for a paperweight. An unnecessary paperweight, since there were no windows and no breeze. “That may be. But again, it’s not my bailiwick.”

  Newton glanced at the nurse, who had the needle ready. She seemed to be making an effort to appear unaware of their conversation. He wondered, briefly, how they would go about keeping such people silent about their curious prisoner, keeping them away from reporters—or, for that matter, away from bridge games with friends. Maybe the government kept everyone who worked on him in isolation. But that would be difficult and awkward. Still, they were obviously taking great pains with him. He found it almost amusing that he must be the occasion of some wild speculation among the few people who knew of his peculiarities.

  “What is your bailiwick, Doctor?” he said.

  The doctor shrugged. “Bones and muscles, mostly.”

  “That sounds pleasant.” The doctor took the needle from the nurse and Newton, resigning himself, began rolling up his shirtsleeve.

  “You might as well take the shirt off.” the doctor said. “We’ll be working on your back, this time.”

  He did not protest, but began unbuttoning the shirt. When he had it halfway off he heard the nurse catch her breath softly. He looked up at her. Obviously they hadn’t told her much, since what she was carefully trying not to stare at was his chest, bare of hair and nipples. They had, of course, found out his disguises early, and he wore them no longer. He wondered what the nurse’s reaction would be when she got close enough to him to notice the pupils of his eyes.

  When he had the shirt off the nurse injected him in the muscles on each side of his spine. She attempted to be gentle, but the pain was, for him, considerable. After that part of it was over he said, “Now what are you going to do?”

  The doctor noted the time of the injection on his form sheet. Then he said, “First, I’m going to wait twenty minutes while the Nembucaine… takes effect. Then I’m going to draw samples of the marrow of your spinal vertebrae.”

  Newton looked at him a moment, silently. Then he said, “Haven’t you learned yet? There is no marrow in my bones. They are hollow.”

  The doctor blinked. “Come now.” he said, “there must be bone marrow. The red corpuscles of the blood—”

  Newton was not accustomed to interrupting people; but he interrupted this time. “I don’t know about the red corpuscles and the marrow. I probably know as much about physiology as you do. But there is no marrow in my bones. And I can’t say that I will enjoy submitting to some painful probing on your part so that you—or whoever your superiors may be—can satisfy yourselves as to my… peculiarities. I’ve told you a dozen times that I’m a mutant—a freak. Can’t you take my word for anything?”

  “I’m sorry,” the doctor said. He looked as though he were sorry.

  Newton stared past the doctor’s head for a moment, at a bad reproduction of Van Gogh’s Woman of Aries. What could the United States Government have to do with a woman of Aries? “Someday I’d like to meet your superiors,” he said. “And while we’re waiting for your ineffective Nembucaine to take effect, I’d like to try an anesthetic of my own.”

  The doctor’s fac
e was blank.

  “Gin,” Newton said. “Gin and water. Would you like to join me?”

  The doctor smiled automatically. All good doctors smile at the witticisms of their patients—even research physiologists of well-checked loyalty are supposed to smile. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m on duty now.”

  Newton was surprised at his own exasperation. And he had thought he liked Dr. Martinez. “Come now, Doctor. I’m certain you’re a very expensive practitioner of your… of your bailiwick, with a mahogany-veneered bar in your office. And I can assure you, I wouldn’t give you enough alcohol to cause your hand to tremble while you’re probing my spine.”

  “I don’t have an office,” the doctor said. “I work in a laboratory. We don’t normally drink on the job.”

  Newton, for some unaccountable reason, stared at him. “No, I don’t suppose you do.” He looked at the nurse, but when she, now visibly rattled, opened her mouth to speak, he said, “No, I suppose not. Regulations.” Then he stood up and smiled down at them. “I’ll drink alone.” It was nice to be taller than they were. He walked to the bar in the corner and poured himself a tumbler full of gin. He decided to omit the water, since, while he had been talking, the nurse had been laying a set of instruments on a sheet that she had spread over the table. There were several needles, a small knife, and some kind of clamps, all made of stainless steel. They glittered prettily…

  ***

  After the doctor and nurse had gone he lay face down on his bed for over an hour. He did not put his shirt on again, and his back, except for the bandages, was still bare. He felt faintly cold—an unusual sensation for him—but made no move to cover himself. The pain had been very intense for several minutes, and, although it was over now, he was exhausted by it and by the fear that had preceded it. He had always been frightened by the anticipation of pain, ever since his childhood.

  It had occurred to him that they might know the pain they were causing him, that they might be torturing him in some ill-conceived form of brainwashing, in the hope of breaking his mind. The thought was especially frightening, for if that were so they would only just have begun. But it was very unlikely. Despite the excuse of the perpetual cold war, and despite the very real tyranny that was tolerated in a democracy at such times—it would be too difficult for them to get away with it. And the year was an election year. Already there had been campaign speeches alluding to the high-handedness of the party in power. In one such speech his name had been mentioned. The word “cover-up” was used several times.