The Man Who Fell to Earth by Walter Tevis Page A

stared for a moment at the upstairs bay window, but could see nothing save the reflection of the sky on the glass. By the time the sun was as nearly overhead as it would be at that time of year, he was walking along the uninhabited shore at the far edge of the lake. The scrubgrass and weeds were thicker now; there were bushes and goldenrod and a few rotten logs. He thought momentarily of snakes, which he disliked, but dismissed the thought. He saw a lizard, sitting immobile on a stone, its eyes like glass. He began to be hungry, and wondered idly what he would do about it. Tiring, he sat on a log at the water’s edge, loosened his shirt buttons, wiped the back of his neck with his handkerchief, and stared at the water. He felt momentarily like Henry Thoreau, and smiled at himself for the feeling.
Most men lead lives of quiet desperation.
He looked back toward the house, partly obscured now by trees. Someone, still quite distant, was walking toward him. He blinked in the strong light, stared for a few moments, and became gradually aware that it was T. J. Newton. He leaned his elbows on his knees, and waited. He began to feel nervous.
    Newton was carrying a small basket on his arm. He was wearing a short-sleeved white shirt and light gray slacks. He walked slowly, his tall body erect, but with a light gracefulness to the movement. There was an indefinable strangeness about his way of walking, a quality that reminded Bryce of the first homosexual he had ever seen, back when he had been too young to know what a homosexual was. Newton did not walk like that; but then he walked like no one else; light and heavy at the same time.
    When Newton was close enough to be heard he said, “I brought some cheese and wine.” He was wearing dark glasses.
    “Fine.” Bryce stood up. “Did you see me when I passed the house?”
    “Yes.” The log was fairly long and semicircular in shape. Newton sat at the other end of it, placing the basket at his feet. He withdrew a wine bottle and a corkscrew and held them out toward Bryce. “Would you open it?”
    “I’ll try.” He took the bottle, noticing as he did so that Newton’s arms were as thin and pale as his own, but hairless. The fingers were very long and slender, with the smallest knuckles he had ever seen. The hands trembled slightly, as Newton handed him the bottle.
    The wine was a Beaujolais. Bryce held the bottle, cold and wet, between his knees and began working the corkscrew. This was one operation he was fairly dexterous at, unlike skipping flat rocks on the water. He got the cork out, with a neat and satisfying
pop
, on the first try. Newton walked over with two glasses—not wineglasses, but tumblers—and held them for him while he poured. “Be generous,” Newton said, smiling down at him; and he poured the tumblers nearly full. Newton’s voice was pleasant; the faint accent seemed quite natural.
    The wine was excellent, cool and fragrant in his dry throat. It warmed his stomach instantly with a tinge of the fine old double pleasure of alcohol—physical and spiritual—the pleasure that kept a great many men going, had kept him going for years. The cheese was strong cheddar, old and flaky. They ate and drank silently for several minutes. They were in the shade, and Bryce rolled his sleeves down. Now that he was no longer walking, he was cool again. He wondered why Newton, in his light clothes, did not seem cold. He looked the sort of man who would sit by a fire, wrapped in a shawl—the person whom George Arliss had played in old movies: thin, pale, cold-blooded. But who could say what kind of person he was? He might be a vaguely foreign count in an English comedy, or an aging Hamlet; or the mad scientist, planning discreetly to blow up the world; or an unostentatious Cortés, quietly building his citadel with local labor. The Cortés notion reminded him of his old idea, never completely forgotten, that Newton might be an extraterrestrial. At this moment almost anything