The Man Who Fell to Earth

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. Sometimes 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.”