The Man Who Fell to Earth

That seemed to end the subject and they were silent for a while. From the moment Newton had mentioned a space vehicle the old suspicion had, of course, returned. But with it came the obvious refutation — if Newton were, through some wild irrationality, from some other planet, he and his people would not be building spacecraft. That would be the one thing that they would be certain to have already. He smiled at himself, at the cheap, science-fiction level of his own private discourse. If Newton were a Martian or a Venusian, he should, by all rights, be importing heat rays to fry New York or planning to disintegrate Chicago, or carrying off young girls to underground caves for otherworldly sacrifices. Betty Jo? Feeling imaginative now, from the whiskey and his fatigue, he almost laughed aloud at the thought: Betty Jo, on a movie poster, with Newton in a plastic helmet, menacing her with a ray gun, a bulky, silver gun with heavy convector fins and little bright zig-zags coming out of it. Newton was still looking distractedly out the window. He had already finished his first gin drink and had poured himself another. A drunken Martian? An extraterrestrial who drank gin and bitters?

Newton had spoken abruptly before — yet without rudeness — and he turned back and spoke abruptly again. “Why did you want to see me, Mr. Bryce?” His voice was not demanding, only curious.

The question caught him off guard, and he hesitated, pouring himself another drink to cover the pause. Then he said. “I was impressed with your work. The photographic films — color. X-ray — and your innovations in electronic gear. I thought them the most… the most original ideas I’ve seen in years.”

“Thank you.” Newton seemed more interested now. “I thought very few people knew that I was… responsible for those things.”

Something about the tired, dispassionate way that Newton spoke made him feel slightly ashamed of himself, ashamed of the curiosity that had made him trace down the W. E. Corporation to Farnsworth, and browbeat Farnsworth into arranging this interview. He felt like a child who has tried to gain the attention of an indulgent father and has failed, has instead only disturbed and wearied the man. For a moment he thought that he might be blushing, and was thankful for the dim light in the room in case he were.

“I… I’ve always admired a first-rate mind.” He had somehow got caught up in embarrassment and he knew, cursing himself, that he sounded like a schoolboy. But when Newton answered with something modest and polite, Bryce was shocked out of embarrassment by realizing, in an instant, that the other man might well be drunk. He heard the distant, apathetic, slightly blurred speech, saw the distracted, unfocused look in the man’s wide eyes, and saw that Newton, almost imperceptibly, was either very drunk — quietly, calmly drunk — or very sick. And he suddenly felt a wave of quick affection — was he drunk himself? — for the thin, lonely man. Was Newton, also, a master of quiet morning drunkenness, looking for — for whatever it was that could supply a sane man in an insane world a reason for not being drunk in the morning? Or was this only one of the notorious aberrations of genius, a kind of wild and lonely abstraction, the ozone of an electrical intelligence?

“Oliver has arranged with you about your salary? And you’re satisfied with it?”

“It’s all been taken care of very well.” He stood up, recognizing that Newton’s question closed the interview. “I’m thoroughly content with the salary.” And then, before he offered to go, he said, “I wonder if I may ask you a question before I leave, Mr. Newton?”

Newton hardly seemed to hear him; he was still looking out the window, the empty glass held gently in his frail fingers, his face smooth, unlined, yet very old looking. “Certainly, Professor Bryce,” he said, his voice very soft, almost a whisper.

He felt embarrassed again, awkward. The man was so impossibly gentle. He cleared his throat, and noticed that, across the room, the parrot was awake, peering at him somewhat curiously as the cats had before. He felt dizzy and was certain now that he was blushing. He stammered, “It really doesn’t matter, I guess. I’ll… I’ll ask you some other time.”

Newton looked at him as though he had not heard him, but was still waiting to hear. He said, “Certainly. Some other time.”

Bryce excused himself, left the room, and walked, squinting, into bright light. When he got downstairs again the cats were gone.

10