Stranger in a Strange Land by Robert A. Heinlein Page B

Johnson brushed her aside and went toward the bedroom. Jill said shrilly, “Where’s your warrant? This is an outrage!”
    Berquist said soothingly, “Don’t be difficult, sweetheart. Behave yourself and they might go easy on you.”
    She kicked at his shin. He stepped back nimbly. “Naughty, naughty,” he chided. “Johnson! You find him?”
    â€œHe’s here, Mr. Berquist. Naked as an oyster—three guesses what they were up to.”
    â€œNever mind that. Bring him.”
    Johnson reappeared, shoving Smith ahead, controlling him by twisting one arm. “He didn’t want to come.”
    â€œHe’ll come!”
    Jill ducked past Berquist, threw herself at Johnson. He slapped her aside. “None of that, you little slut!”
    Johnson did not hit Jill as hard as he used to hit his wife before she left him, not nearly as hard as he hit prisoners who were reluctant to talk. Until then Smith had shown no expression and had said nothing; he had simply let himself be forced along. He understood none of it and had tried to do nothing at all.
    When he saw his water brother struck by this other, he twisted, got free—and reached toward Johnson—
    â€”and Johnson was gone.
    Only blades of grass, straightening up where his big feet had been, showed that he had ever been there. Jill stared at the spot and felt that she might faint.
    Berquist closed his mouth, opened it, said hoarsely, “What did you do with him?” He looked at Jill.
    â€œMe? I didn’t do anything.”
    â€œDon’t give me that. You got a trap door or something?”
    â€œWhere did he go?”
    Berquist licked his lips. “I don’t know.” He took a gun from under his coat. “But don’t try your tricks on me. You stay here—I’m taking him.”
    Smith had relapsed into passive waiting. Not understanding what it was about, he had done only the minimum he had to do. But guns he had seen, in the hands of men on Mars, and the expression of Jill’s face at having one aimed at her he did not like. He grokked that this was one of the critical cusps in the growth of a being wherein contemplation must bring forth right action in order to permit further growth. He acted.
    The Old Ones had taught him well. He stepped toward Berquist; the gun swung to cover him. He reached out—and Berquist was no longer there.
    Jill screamed.
    Smith’s face had been blank. Now it became tragically forlorn as he realized that he must have chosen wrong action at cusp. He looked imploringly at Jill and began to tremble. His eyes rolled up; he slowly collapsed, pulled himself into a ball and was motionless.
    Jill’s hysteria chopped off. A patient needed her; she had no time for emotion, no time to wonder how men disappeared. She dropped to her knees and examined Smith.
    She could not detect respiration, nor pulse; she pressed an ear to his ribs. She thought that heart action had stopped but, after a long time, she heard a lazy lub-dub, followed in four or five seconds by another.
    The condition reminded her of schizoid withdrawal, but she had never seen a trance so deep, not even in class demonstrations of hypnoanesthesia. She had heard of such deathlike states among East Indian fakirs but had never really believed the reports.
    Ordinarily she would not have tried to rouse a patient in such a state but would have sent for a doctor. These were not ordinary circumstances. Far from shaking her resolve, the last events made her more determined not to let Smith fall back into the hands of the authorities. But ten minutes of trying everything she knew convinced her that she could not rouse him.
    In Ben’s bedroom she found a battered flight case, too big for hand luggage, too small to be a trunk. She opened it, found it packed with voicewriter, toilet kit, an outfit of clothing, everything a busy reporter might need if called out of town—even a licensed audio link