The Man Who Fell to Earth

A moment later he had left the construction site and was threading through densely foliated hills, moving so fast now that the trees close to him were a blur of sunlight and green leaves, of light and shadow. He leaned back, against the extraordinarily comfortable cushions, trying to enjoy the ride. But he was too excited to relax, too keyed up by the speed of events and all of the excitement of a strange, new place — so blissfully far, now, from Iowa, from college students, bearded intellectuals, men like Canutti. He looked toward the windows, watching the increasingly rapid flashing of light, shade, light, pale green and dark shadows; and then, abruptly ahead of him, as the car sped over a rise, he saw the glimmer of the lake, spread out in a hollow like a sheet of wonderfully blue-gray metal, a giant, serene disc. Just beyond it rose, in the shadow of a mountain, a huge, old white house with a white-columned porch and large, shuttered windows, sitting quietly at the edge of the broad lake, solidly, at the base of a mountain. Then the house and lake, seen in the distance, vanished behind another hill as the monorail track dipped down, and he realized that the car was beginning to decelerate. A minute later the house and lake reappeared and the car eased in a broad, curving glide that swooped along the edge of the water, delicately inclining with the curve of the track, and he saw a man standing, waiting for him, at the side of the house. The car came to a gentle stop and Bryce took a deep breath, touched the doorknob, watched the wood-paneled door slide quietly open, and stepped out into the shade of the mountain and the smell of pine trees and the gentle, almost inaudible sound of water lapping against the shore of the lake. The man was small and dark, with little bright eyes and a mustache. He stepped forward, smiling formally. “Doctor Bryce?” His accent was French.

Suddenly feeling exhilarated, he answered, “Monsieur Brinnarde?” holding out his hand to the man. “Enchanté.”

The man took his hand, his eyebrows slightly raised. “Soyez le bienvenu, Monsieur le Docteur. Monsieur Newton vous attend. Alors…”

Bryce caught his breath. “Newton will see me?”

“Yes. I will show you the way.”

Inside the house he was greeted by three cats, who stared at him from the floor where they had been playing. They seemed to be ordinary alley cats, but well fed, and scornful of his entrance. He did not like cats. The Frenchman led him silently through the parlor and up a heavily carpeted staircase. There were pictures on the walls — odd, expensive-looking tableaux by painters he did not recognize. The staircase was very wide, and curved. He noticed that it had one of those motor-powered seats, folded now, that could run up and down by the banister. Could Newton be a cripple? There seemed to be no one else in the house except the two of them, and the cats. He glanced back; they were still staring at him, eyes wide, curious and insolent.

At the top of the stairs was a hall, and at the end of the hall was a door, which obviously led into Newton’s room. It opened and a rather sad-eyed, plump woman came out, wearing an apron. She walked up to them, blinked at him and said. “I guess you’re Professor Bryce.” Her voice, amiable and throaty, was thick with a hillbilly accent.

He nodded and she led him to the door. He walked in alone, noticing to his dismay that his breath was short and his legs unsteady.

The room was immense and the air in it was cold. The light came dimly from a huge, only slightly transparent bay window that overlooked the lake. There seemed to be furniture everywhere, in a bewildering array of colors — the heavy forms of couches, a table, desks, taking on blues and grays and faded orange as his eyes became accustomed to the dim, yellowish light. Two pictures faced him on the back wall; one was an etching of a giant bird, a heron or whooping crane; the other a nervous abstraction by someone like Klee. Maybe it was a Klee. The two works did not go well together. In the corner was a giant birdcage, with a purple and red parrot, apparently asleep. And now walking toward him slowly, carrying a cane, was a tall, thin man, with indistinct features. “Professor Bryce?” The voice was clear, faintly accented, pleasant.

“Yes. You’re… Mr. Newton?”

“That’s right. Why don’t we sit down and talk for a while?”