Jill spent the rest of her watch in a daze. The face of the Man from Mars stayed in her mind and she mulled over the crazy things he had said. No, not “crazy”—she had done her stint in psychiatric wards and felt certain that his remarks had not been psychotic. She decided that “innocent” was the term—then decided that the word was not adequate. His expression was innocent, his eyes were not. What sort of creature had a face like that?
She had once worked in a Catholic hospital; she suddenly saw the face of the Man from Mars surrounded by the headdress of a nursing sister, a nun. The idea disturbed her; there was nothing female about Smith’s face.
She was changing into street clothes when another nurse stuck her head into the locker room. “Phone, Jill.” Jill accepted the call, sound without vision, while she dressed.
“Is this Florence Nightingale?” a baritone voice asked.
“Speaking. That you, Ben?”
“The stalwart upholder of the freedom of the press in person. Little one, are you busy?”
“What do you have in mind?”
“I have in mind buying you a steak, plying you with liquor, and asking you a question.”
“The answer is still ‘No.’ ”
“Not that question.”
“Oh, you know another one? Tell me.”
“Later. I want you softened up first.”
“Real steak? Not syntho?”
“Guaranteed. Stick a fork in it and it will moo.”
“You must be on an expense account, Ben.”
“That’s irrelevant and ignoble. How about it?”
“You’ve talked me into it.”
“Roof on the medical center. Ten minutes.”
She put the suit she had changed into back into her locker and put on a dress kept there for emergencies. It was demure, barely translucent, with bustle and bust pads so subdued that they merely re-created the effect she would have produced wearing nothing. Jill looked at herself with satisfaction and took the bounce tube up to the roof.
She was looking for Ben Caxton when the roof orderly touched her arm. “There’s a car paging you, Miss Boardman—that Talbot saloon.”
“Thanks, Jack.” She saw the taxi spotted for take-off, with its door open. She climbed in, and was about to hand Ben a back-handed compliment when she saw that he was not inside. The taxi was on automatic; its door closed and it took to the air, swung out of the circle and sliced across the Potomac. It stopped on a landing flat over Alexandria and Caxton got in; it took off again. Jill looked him over. “My, aren’t we important! Since when do you send a robot to pick up your women?”
He patted her knee and said gently, “Reasons, little one. I can’t be seen picking you up—”
“Well!”
“—and you can’t afford to be seen with me. So simmer down, it was necessary.”
“Hmm . . . which one of us has leprosy?”
“Both of us. Jill, I’m a newspaperman.”
“I was beginning to think you were something else.”
“And you are a nurse at the hospital where they are holding the Man from Mars.”
“Does that make me unfit to meet your mother?”
“Do you need a map, Jill? There are more than a thousand reporters in this area, plus press agents, ax grinders, winchells, lippmanns, and the stampede that arrived when the Champion landed. Every one of them has been trying to interview the Man from Mars—and none has succeeded. Do you think it would be smart for us to be seen leaving the hospital together?”
“I don’t see that it matters. I’m not the Man from Mars.”
He looked her over. “You certainly aren’t. But you are going to help me see him—which is why I didn’t pick you up.”
“Huh? Ben, you’ve been out in the sun without your hat. They’ve got a marine guard around him.”
“So they have. So We talk it over.”
“I don’t see what there is to talk about.”
“Later. Let’s eat.”
“Now you sound rational. Would your expense account run to the New Mayflower? You are on an expense account, aren’t you?”
Caxton frowned. “Jill, I wouldn’t risk a restaurant closer than Louisville. It would take this hack two hours to get that far. How about dinner in my apartment?”
“‘—Said the Spider to the Fly.’ Ben, I’m too tired to wrestle.”
“Nobody asked you to. King’s X, cross my heart and hope to die.”
“I don’t like that much better. If I’m safe with you, I must be slipping. Well, all right, King’s X.”
Caxton punched buttons; the taxi, which had been circling under a “hold” instruction, woke up and headed for the apartment hotel where Ben lived. He punched a phone number and said to Jill, “How much time do you want to get liquored up, sugar foot? I’ll tell the kitchen to have the steaks ready.”
Jill considered it. “Ben, your mousetrap has a private kitchen.”
“Of sorts. I can grill a steak.”
“I’ll grill the steak. Hand me the phone.” She gave orders, stopping to make sure that Ben liked endive.
The taxi dropped them on the roof and they went down to his flat. It was old-fashioned, its one luxury a live grass lawn in the living room. Jill stopped, slipped off her shoes, stepped barefooted into the living room and wiggled her toes among the cool green blades. She sighed. “My, that feels good. My feet have hurt ever since I entered training.”
“Sit down.”
“No, I want my feet to remember this tomorrow.”
“Suit yourself.” He went into his pantry and mixed drinks.
Presently she followed and became domestic. Steak was in the package lift; with it were pre-baked potatoes. She tossed the salad, handed it to the refrigerator, set up a combination to grill the steak and heat the potatoes, but did not start the cycle. “Ben, doesn’t this stove have remote control?”
He studied the setup, flipped a switch. “Jill, what would you do if you had to cook over an open fire?”
“I’d do darn well. I was a Girl Scout. How about you, smarty?”
They went to the living room; Jill sat at his feet and they applied themselves to martinis. Opposite his chair was a stereovision tank disguised as an aquarium; he switched it on, guppies and tetras gave way to the face of the well-known winchell Augustus Greaves.
“—it can be stated authoritatively,” the image was saying, “that the Man from Mars is being kept under drugs to keep him from disclosing these facts. The administration would find it extremely—”
Caxton flipped it off. “Gus old boy,” he said pleasantly, “you don’t know a durn thing more than I do.” He frowned. “Though you might be right about the government keeping him under drugs.”
“No, they aren’t,” Jill said suddenly.
“Eh? How’s that, little one?”
“The Man from Mars isn’t under hypnotics.” Having blurted more than she had meant to, she added, “He’s got a doctor on continuous watch, but there aren’t any orders for sedation.”
“Are you sure? You aren’t one of his nurses?”
“No. Uh . . . matter of fact, there’s an order to keep women away from him and some tough marines to make sure of it.”
Caxton nodded. “So I heard. Fact is, you don’t know whether they are drugging him or not.”
Jill bit her lip. She would have to tell on herself to back up what she had said. “Ben? You wouldn’t give me away?”
“How?”
“Any way at all.”
“Hmm . . . that covers a lot, but I’ll go along.”
“All right. Pour me another.” He did so, Jill went on. “I know they don’t have the Man from Mars hopped up—because I talked with him.”
Caxton whistled. “I knew it. When I got up this morning I said to myself, ‘Go see Jill. She’s the ace up my sleeve.’ Honey lamb, have another drink. Have six. Here, take the pitcher.”
“Not so fast!”
“Whatever you like. May I rub your poor ti
red feet? Lady, you are about to be interviewed. How—”
“No, Ben! You promised. You quote me and I’ll lose my job.”
“Mmm . . . How about ‘from a usually reliable source’?”
“I’d be scared.”
“Well? Are you going to let me die of frustration and eat that steak by yourself?”
“Oh, I’ll talk. But you can’t use it.” Ben kept quiet; Jill described how she had out-flanked the guards.
He interrupted. “Say! Could you do that again?”
“Huh? I suppose so, but I won’t. It’s risky.”
“Well, could you slip me in that way? Look, I’ll dress like an electrician—coveralls, union badge, tool kit. You slip me the key and—”
“No!”
“Huh? Look, baby girl, be reasonable. This is the greatest human-interest story since Colombo conned Isabella into hocking her jewels. The only thing that worries me is that I may find another electrician—”
“The only thing that worries me is me,” Jill interrupted. “To you it’s a story; to me it’s my career. They’d take away my cap, my pin, and ride me out of town on a rail.”
“Mmm . . . there’s that.”
“There sure is that.”
“Lady, you are about to be offered a bribe.”
“How big? It’ll take quite a chunk to keep me in style the rest of my life in Rio.”
“Well . . . you can’t expect me to outbid Associated Press, or Reuters. How about a hundred?”
“What do you think I am?”
“We settled that, we’re dickering over the price. A hundred and fifty?”
“Look up the number of Associated Press, that’s a lamb.”
“Capitol 10-9000. Jill, will you marry me? That’s as high as I can go.”
She looked startled. “What did you say?”
“Will you marry me? Then, when they ride you out of town on a rail, I’ll be waiting at the city line and take you away from your sordid existence. You’ll come back here and cool your toes in my grass—our grass—and forget your ignominy. But you’ve durn well got to sneak me into that room first.”
“Ben, you almost sound serious. If I phone for a Fair Witness, will you repeat that?”
Caxton sighed. “Send for a Witness.”
She stood up. “Ben,” she said softly, “I won’t hold you to it.” She kissed him. “Don’t joke about marriage to a spinster.”
“I wasn’t joking.”
“I wonder. Wipe off the lipstick and I’ll tell everything I know, then we’ll consider how you can use it without getting me ridden on that rail. Fair enough?”
“Fair enough.”
She gave him a detailed account. “I’m sure he wasn’t drugged. I’m equally sure that he was rational—although he talked in the oddest fashion and asked the darnedest questions.”
“It would be odder still if he hadn’t talked oddly.”
“Huh?”
“Jill, we don’t know much about Mars but we do know that Martians are not human. Suppose you were popped into a tribe so far back in the jungle that they had never seen shoes. Would you know the small talk that comes from a lifetime in a culture? That’s a mild analogy; the truth is at least forty million miles stranger.”
Jill nodded. “I figured that out. that’s why I discounted his odd remarks. I’m not dumb.”
“No, you’re real bright, for a female.”
“Would you like this martini in your hair?”
“I apologize. Women are smarter than men; that is proved by our whole setup. Gimme, I’ll fill it.”
She accepted peace offerings and went on, “Ben, that order about not letting him see women, it’s silly. He’s no sex fiend.”
“No doubt they don’t want to hand him too many shocks at once.”
“He wasn’t shocked. He was just . . . interested. It wasn’t like having a man look at me.”
“If you had granted that request for a viewing, you might have had your hands full.”
“I don’t think so. I suppose they’ve told him about male and female; he just wanted to see how women are different.”
“ ‘Vive la difference!’ ” Caxton answered enthusiastically.
“Don’t be vulgar.”
“Me? I was being reverent. I was giving thanks that I was born human and not Martian.”
“Be serious.”
“I was never more serious.”
“Then be quiet. He wouldn’t have given me any trouble. You didn’t see his face—I did.”
“What about his face?”
Jill looked puzzled. “Ben, have you ever seen an angel?”
“You, cherub. Otherwise not.”
“Well, neither have I—but that is how he looked. He had old, wise eyes in a completely placid face, a face of unearthly innocence.” She shivered.
“ ‘Unearthly’ is the word,” Ben answered slowly. “I’d like to see him.”
“Ben, why are they keeping him shut up? He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
Caxton fitted his fingertips together. “Well, they want to protect him. He grew up in Mars gravity; he’s probably weak as a cat.”
“But muscular weakness isn’t dangerous; myasthenia gravis is much worse and we manage all right with that.”
“They want to keep him from catching things, too. He’s like those experimental animals at Notre Dame; he’s never been exposed.”
“Sure, sure—no antibodies. But from what I hear around the mess hall, Doctor Nelson—the surgeon in the Champion—took care of that on the trip back. Mutual transfusions until he had replaced about half his blood tissue.”
“Can I use that, Jill? That’s news.”
“Just don’t quote me. They gave him shots for everything but housemaid’s knee, too. But, Ben, to protect him from infection doesn’t take armed guards.”
“Mmmm. . . . Jill, I’ve picked up a few tidbits you may not know. I can’t use them because I’ve got to protect my sources. But I’ll tell you—just don’t talk.”
“I won’t.”
“It’s a long story. Want a refill?”
“No, let’s start the steak. Where’s the button?”
“Right here.”
“Well, push it.”
“Me? You offered to cook dinner.”
“Ben Caxton, I will lie here and starve before I will get up to push a button six inches from your finger.”
“As you wish.” He pressed the button. “But don’t forget who cooked dinner. Now about Valentine Michael Smith. There is grave doubt as to his right to the name ‘Smith.’ ”
“Huh?”
“Honey, your pal is the first interplanetary bastard of record.”
“The hell you say!”
“Please be ladylike. You remember anything about the Envoy? Four married couples. Two couples were Captain and Mrs. Brant, Doctor and Mrs. Smith. Your friend with the face of an angel is the son of Mrs. Smith by Captain Brant.”
“How do they know? And who cares? It’s pretty snivelin’ to dig up scandal after all this time. They’re dead—let ’em alone!”
“As to how they know, there probably never were eight people more thoroughly measured and typed. Blood typing, Rh factor, hair and eye color, all those genetic things—you know more about them than I do. It is certain that Mary Jane Lyle Smith was his mother and Michael Brant his father. It gives Smith a fine heredity; his father had an I.Q. of 163, his mother 170, and both were tops in their fields.
“As to who cares,” Ben went on, “a lot of people care—and more will, once this shapes up. Ever heard of the Lyle Drive?”
“Of course. That’s what the Champion used.”
“And every space ship, these days. Who invented it?”
“I don’t—Wait a minute! You mean she—”
“Hand the lady a cigar! Dr. Mary Jane Lyle Smith. She had it worked out before she left even though development remained to be done. So she applied for basic patents and placed it in trust—not a non-profit corporation, mind
you—then assigned control and interim income to the Science Foundation. So eventually the government got control—but your friend owns it. It’s worth millions, maybe hundreds of millions; I couldn’t guess.”
They brought in dinner. Caxton used ceiling tables to protect his lawn; he lowered one to his chair and another to Japanese height so that Jill could sit on the grass. “Tender?” he asked.
“Ongerful!” she answered.
“Thanks. Remember, I cooked.”
“Ben,” she said after swallowing, “how about Smith being a—I mean, illegitimate? Can he inherit?”
“He’s not illegitimate. Doctor Mary Jane was at Berkeley; California laws deny the concept of bastardy. Same for Captain Brant, as New Zealand has civilized laws. While in the home state of Doctor Ward Smith, Mary Jane’s husband, a child born in wedlock is legitimate, come hell or high water. We have here, Jill, a man who is the legitimate child of three parents.”
“Huh? Now wait, Ben; he can’t be. I’m not a lawyer but—”
“You sure ain’t. Such fictions don’t bother a lawyer. Smith is legitimate different ways in different jurisdictions—even though a bastard in fact. So he inherits. Besides that, while his mother was wealthy, his fathers were well to do. Brant ploughed most of his scandalous salary as a pilot on the Moon run into Lunar Enterprises. You know how that stuff boomed—they just declared another stock dividend. Brant had one vice, gambling—but the bloke won regularly and invested that, too. Ward Smith had family money. Smith is heir to both.”
“Whew!”
“That ain’t half, honey. Smith is heir to the entire crew.”
“Huh?”
“All eight signed a ‘Gentlemen Adventurers’ contract, making them mutually heirs to each other—all of them and their issue. They did it with care, using as models contracts in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries that had stood up against every effort to break them. These were highpowered people; among them they had quite a lot. Happened to include considerable Lunar Enterprises stock, too, besides what Brant held. Smith might own a controlling interest, or at least a key bloc.”
Jill thought about the childlike creature who had made such a touching ceremony of a drink of water and felt sorry for him. Caxton went on: “I wish I could sneak a look at the Envoy’s log. They recovered it—but I doubt if they’ll release it.”