The Man Who Fell to Earth

He had chosen the hotel because it was within three blocks of the office he was going to visit, the office where he was to begin the huge real estate transaction he had already planned. He was able to walk the distance; but the sullen, heavy, and agonizingly hot air that seemed to cover the streets like a cushion made him dizzy, confused, and weak. For a few moments he thought he should return to the hotel and have the real estate men come to him, but he kept on walking.

And then, when he found the building, he discovered a thing that frightened him; the office he wanted was on the nineteenth floor. He had not expected tall buildings in Kentucky, had not anticipated this. Walking up the stairs was out of the question. And he did not know anything about the elevators. If he should ride in one that went up too fast, or jerked, it might be disastrous to his already gravity-strained body. But the elevators looked new and well made, and, at least, the building was air-conditioned. He stepped into one, empty except for the operator, a quiet-looking old man with a tobacco-stained uniform. They took on one more passenger, a chubby, pretty woman who came running up breathless, at the last moment. Then the operator closed the brass doors. Newton said. “Nineteen, please,” the woman muttered “twelve,” and the old man lazily, somewhat contemptuously, placed his hand on the manual control handle. Newton realized instantly, in dismay, that this was not a modern, push-button elevator, but some kind of refurbished old one. But this realization was a moment too late, for, before he could protest, he felt his stomach twist and his muscles tighten in pain as the elevator jerked, hesitated, jerked again and then shot upward, doubling, for a moment, his already trebled weight. And then everything seemed to happen at once. He saw the woman staring at him and knew that his nose must be bleeding, pouring blood on his shirt front, and looking down saw that this was so. At the same instant he heard — or felt, in his quivering body — a brittle cracking, and his legs collapsed under him and he fell to the floor of the elevator, grotesquely twisted, seeing one leg horribly jackknifed under him as he lost consciousness, his mind falling into a blackness as profound as that of the void that separated him from his home….

* * *

He had been unconscious twice before in his life; once during the training in the centrifuge at home, and once during the blind acceleration of his take-off in the ship. Both of those times he had recovered himself quickly, coming awake to confusion and pain. This time, too, he awoke to the aching of an abused body and the frightened confusion of not knowing where he was. He was lying on his back, on something smooth and soft, and there were bright lights in his eyes. He squinted and then winced, turning his head. He was lying on some kind of couch. On the other side of the room, a woman was standing at a desk, holding a telephone in her hand. She was looking at him. He stared at her, and then realized who she was — the woman from the elevator.

She hesitated, seeing him awaken, and did not seem to know what to do with the telephone, holding it limply in her hand. She smiled at him vaguely. “You all right, mister?”

His voice sounded like someone else’s, weak and soft. “I believe so. I don’t know….” His legs were stretched out in front of him. He was afraid to try and move them. The blood on his shirt was still sticky, but cold now. He could not have been unconscious long. “I believe I hurt my legs….”

She looked at him gravely, shaking her head. “You sure did. One of ’em bent up like old baling wire.”

He kept looking at her, not knowing what to say, trying to think of what he should do. He could not go to a hospital; there would be an examination. X-rays….

“I been trying to get you a doctor for five minutes.” Her voice was hoarse and she looked frightened. “I already called three and they’re not in.”

He blinked at her, trying to think clearly. “No.” he said. “No! Don’t call…”

“Don’t call a doctor? But you got to have a doctor, mister. You been hurt bad.” She looked doubtful, worried, but too frightened to be suspicious.

“No,” He tried to say more, but was suddenly overcome with nausea and, hardly aware of what he was doing, found himself vomiting over the side of the couch, his legs screaming with pain at each convulsion. Then, exhausted, he lay back again, face up. But the lights were too bright, burning his eyes even through the closed lids — his thin, translucent eyelids — and, groaning, he threw his arm up, to cover them.

Somehow, his being sick seemed to calm her. Perhaps it was the recognizable humanness of the act. Her voice was more easy. “Can I help?” she said. “Is there something I can do to help?” She hesitated. “I can get you a drink….”

“No. I don’t want…” What was he going to do?