The Man Who Fell to Earth

The doctor laughed again; but his laugh was strained. “I don’t know what we’d do if you developed appendicitis or something. We’d hardly know where to look.”

Newton smiled at him. “You wouldn’t have to bother. I don’t have an appendix.” He leaned back in his chair. “But I imagine you’d operate anyway. You would probably be delighted to open me up and see what new curiosities you could find.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” the doctor said. “As a matter of fact, one of the first things we learned about you — after counting your toes, that is — was that you have no vermiform appendix. In fact there are many things you don’t have. We’ve been using rather advanced equipment, you know.” Then, abruptly, he turned to the nurse. “Will you give Mr. Newton the Nembucaine, Miss Griggs?”

Newton winced. “Doctor,” he said, “I’ve told you before that anesthetics have no effect on my nervous system, except to give me a headache. If you are going to do something painful to me there is no point in making it more painful.”

The nurse, ignoring him completely, began preparing a hypodermic. Martinez gave the patronizing smile evidently reserved for patients’ fumbling efforts to understand the rites of medicine. “Maybe you’re unaware of how much these things would hurt if we didn’t use anesthetics.”

Newton was beginning to feel exasperated. His sense of being an intelligent human besieged by curious and pompous monkeys had become very acute during the past weeks. Except, of course, that it was he in the cage, while the monkeys came and went, examining him and attempting to appear wise. “Doctor,” he said, “haven’t you seen the results of the intelligence tests given me?”

The doctor had opened his briefcase on the desk and was removing some forms. Each sheet was clearly stamped, Top Secret. “Intelligence tests aren’t my bailiwick, Mr. Newton. And as you probably know, all of that information is highly confidential.”

“Yes. But you do know.”

The doctor cleared his throat. He was beginning to fill in one of the forms. Date; type of test. “Well, there have been some rumors.”

Newton was angry now. “I imagine there have been. I also imagine that you are aware that my intelligence is about twice yours. Can’t you credit me with knowing whether or not local anesthetic is effective for me?”

“We’ve studied the arrangement of your nervous system exhaustively. There seems to be no reason why Nembucaine wouldn’t work as well for you as for… as for anybody.”

“Maybe you don’t know as much about nervous systems as you think you do.”

“That may be.” The doctor had finished with the form, and set his pencil on it for a paperweight. An unnecessary paperweight, since there were no windows and no breeze. “That may be. But again, it’s not my bailiwick.”

Newton glanced at the nurse, who had the needle ready. She seemed to be making an effort to appear unaware of their conversation. He wondered, briefly, how they would go about keeping such people silent about their curious prisoner, keeping them away from reporters — or, for that matter, away from bridge games with friends. Maybe the government kept everyone who worked on him in isolation. But that would be difficult and awkward. Still, they were obviously taking great pains with him. He found it almost amusing that he must be the occasion of some wild speculation among the few people who knew of his peculiarities.

“What is your bailiwick, Doctor?” he said.

The doctor shrugged. “Bones and muscles, mostly.”

“That sounds pleasant.” The doctor took the needle from the nurse and Newton, resigning himself, began rolling up his shirtsleeve.

“You might as well take the shirt off.” the doctor said. “We’ll be working on your back, this time.”

He did not protest, but began unbuttoning the shirt. When he had it halfway off he heard the nurse catch her breath softly. He looked up at her. Obviously they hadn’t told her much, since what she was carefully trying not to stare at was his chest, bare of hair and nipples. They had, of course, found out his disguises early, and he wore them no longer. He wondered what the nurse’s reaction would be when she got close enough to him to notice the pupils of his eyes.

When he had the shirt off the nurse injected him in the muscles on each side of his spine. She attempted to be gentle, but the pain was, for him, considerable. After that part of it was over he said, “Now what are you going to do?”

The doctor noted the time of the injection on his form sheet. Then he said, “First, I’m going to wait twenty minutes while the Nembucaine… takes effect. Then I’m going to draw samples of the marrow of your spinal vertebrae.”

Newton looked at him a moment, silently. Then he said, “Haven’t you learned yet? There is no marrow in my bones. They are hollow.”

The doctor blinked. “Come now.” he said, “there must be bone marrow. The red corpuscles of the blood—”