Caxton.
"Huh?"
"All three of us, or none of us. Take your choice."
"Ben, don't be silly; you're receiving a very special privilege. Tell you what-Mark can come along and wait outside the door But you certainly don't need him." Berquist glanced toward Cavendish; the Witness seemed not to hear.
"Maybe not. But I've paid his fee to have him along. My column will state tonight that the administration refused to permit a Fair Witness to see the Man from Mars."
Berquist shrugged. "Come along, then. Ben, I hope that slander suit really clobbers you."
They took the patients' elevator rather than the bounce tube out of deference to Cavendish's age, then rode a slide-away for a long distance past laboratories, therapy rooms, solaria, and ward after ward. They were stopped once by a guard who phoned ahead, then let them through; they were at last ushered into a physio-data display room used for watching critically ill patients. "This is Dr. Tanner," Berquist announced. "Doctor, this is Mr. Caxton and Mr. Frisby." He did not, of course, introduce Cavendish.
Tanner looked worried. "Gentlemen, I am doing this against my better judgment because the Director insists. I must warn you of one thing. Don't do or say anything that might excite my patient. He is in an extremely neurotic condition and falls very easily into a state of pathological withdrawal-a trance, if you choose to call it that."
"Epilepsy?" asked Ben.
"A layman might easily mistake it for that. It is more like catalepsy. But don't quote me; there is no clinical precedent for this case."
"Are you a specialist, Doctor? Psychiatry, maybe?"
Tanner glanced at Berquist. "Yes," he admitted.
"Where did you do your advanced work?"
Berquist said, "Look, Ben, let's see the patient and get it over with. You can quiz Dr. Tanner afterwards."
"Okay."
Tanner glanced over his dials and graphs, then flipped a switch and stared into a Peeping Tom, He left the desk, unlocked a door and led them into an adjoining bedroom, putting a finger to his lips as he did so. The other four followed him in. Caxton felt as if he were being taken to "view the remains" and suppressed a nervous need to laugh.
The room was quite gloomy. "We keep it semi-darkened because his eyes are not accustomed to our light levels," Tanner explained in a hushed voice. He turned to a hydraulic bed which filled the center of the room. "Mike, I've brought some friends to see you."
Caxton pressed closer, Floating therein, half concealed by the way his body sank into the plastic skin covering the liquid in the tank and farther concealed by a sheet up to his armpits, was a young man. He looked back at them but said nothing; his smooth, round face was expressionless.
So far as Ben could tell this was the man who had been on stereo the night before. He had a sudden sick feeling that little Jill, with the best of intentions, had tossed him a live grenade-a slander suit that might very well bankrupt him. "You are Valentine Michael Smith?"
"Yet"
"The Man from Mars?"
"Yet"
"You were on stereo last night?"
The man in the tank bed did not answer. Tanner said, "I don't think he knows the word. Let me try. Mike, you remember what you did with Mr. Douglas last night?"
The face looked petulant. "Bright lights. Hurt."
"Yes, the lights hurt your eyes. Mr. Douglas had you say hello to people."
The patient smiled slightly. "Long ride in
"Huh?"
"All three of us, or none of us. Take your choice."
"Ben, don't be silly; you're receiving a very special privilege. Tell you what-Mark can come along and wait outside the door But you certainly don't need him." Berquist glanced toward Cavendish; the Witness seemed not to hear.
"Maybe not. But I've paid his fee to have him along. My column will state tonight that the administration refused to permit a Fair Witness to see the Man from Mars."
Berquist shrugged. "Come along, then. Ben, I hope that slander suit really clobbers you."
They took the patients' elevator rather than the bounce tube out of deference to Cavendish's age, then rode a slide-away for a long distance past laboratories, therapy rooms, solaria, and ward after ward. They were stopped once by a guard who phoned ahead, then let them through; they were at last ushered into a physio-data display room used for watching critically ill patients. "This is Dr. Tanner," Berquist announced. "Doctor, this is Mr. Caxton and Mr. Frisby." He did not, of course, introduce Cavendish.
Tanner looked worried. "Gentlemen, I am doing this against my better judgment because the Director insists. I must warn you of one thing. Don't do or say anything that might excite my patient. He is in an extremely neurotic condition and falls very easily into a state of pathological withdrawal-a trance, if you choose to call it that."
"Epilepsy?" asked Ben.
"A layman might easily mistake it for that. It is more like catalepsy. But don't quote me; there is no clinical precedent for this case."
"Are you a specialist, Doctor? Psychiatry, maybe?"
Tanner glanced at Berquist. "Yes," he admitted.
"Where did you do your advanced work?"
Berquist said, "Look, Ben, let's see the patient and get it over with. You can quiz Dr. Tanner afterwards."
"Okay."
Tanner glanced over his dials and graphs, then flipped a switch and stared into a Peeping Tom, He left the desk, unlocked a door and led them into an adjoining bedroom, putting a finger to his lips as he did so. The other four followed him in. Caxton felt as if he were being taken to "view the remains" and suppressed a nervous need to laugh.
The room was quite gloomy. "We keep it semi-darkened because his eyes are not accustomed to our light levels," Tanner explained in a hushed voice. He turned to a hydraulic bed which filled the center of the room. "Mike, I've brought some friends to see you."
Caxton pressed closer, Floating therein, half concealed by the way his body sank into the plastic skin covering the liquid in the tank and farther concealed by a sheet up to his armpits, was a young man. He looked back at them but said nothing; his smooth, round face was expressionless.
So far as Ben could tell this was the man who had been on stereo the night before. He had a sudden sick feeling that little Jill, with the best of intentions, had tossed him a live grenade-a slander suit that might very well bankrupt him. "You are Valentine Michael Smith?"
"Yet"
"The Man from Mars?"
"Yet"
"You were on stereo last night?"
The man in the tank bed did not answer. Tanner said, "I don't think he knows the word. Let me try. Mike, you remember what you did with Mr. Douglas last night?"
The face looked petulant. "Bright lights. Hurt."
"Yes, the lights hurt your eyes. Mr. Douglas had you say hello to people."
The patient smiled slightly. "Long ride in
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