The Man Who Fell to Earth by Walter Tevis Page B

seemed possible; it was not so ridiculous that he, Nathan Bryce, might be drinking wine and eating cheese with a man from Mars. Why not? Cortés had conquered Mexico with about four hundred men; could a single man from Mars do it alone? It seemed possible, as he sat with the wine in his stomach and the sun on his face. Newton sat beside him, chewing delicately, then sipping, his back erect. There was an Ichabod Crane look to him in profile. How could he, Bryce, be sure that if Newton were from Mars he would be the only one from there? Why hadn’t he thought of that before? Why not four hundred Martians, or four thousand? He looked at him again, and Newton caught his eye and smiled gravely. From Mars? He was probably a Lithuanian, or from Massachusetts.
    Feeling a little drunk—how long had it been since he had been drunk at midday?—he peered inquisitively at Newton and said, “Are you a Lithuanian?”
    “No.” Newton was looking at the lake and did not turn at Bryce’s question. Then he said, abruptly, “This entire lake belongs to me. I bought it.”
    “That’s nice.” He finished his glass of wine. It was the last of the bottle.
    “A great deal of water,” Newton said. Then, turning to him, “How much, do you suppose?”
    “How much water?”
    “Yes.” Newton absently broke off a piece of cheese, and bit into it.
    “God. I don’t know. Five million gallons? Ten?” He laughed. “I can hardly estimate the amount of sulphuric acid in a beaker.” He looked at the lake. “Twenty million gallons? Hell, I don’t have to know. I’m a specialist.” Then, remembering Newton’s reputation. “But you aren’t. You know every science that is. Maybe some that aren’t.”
    “Nonsense. I’m only an… inventor. If that.” He finished his cheese. “I imagine I’m more of a specialist than yourself.”
    “At what?”
    Newton did not answer for a while. Then he said, “That would be hard to say.” He smiled again, cryptically. “Do you like straight gin?”
    “Not exactly. Maybe.”
    “I have a bottle in here.” Newton reached down to the basket at his feet and took out a bottle. Bryce laughed abruptly. He could not help it—Ichabod Crane with a fifth of gin in his lunch basket. Newton poured him a generous glassful, and then one for himself. Suddenly he said, still holding the bottle, “I drink too much.”
    “Everybody drinks too much.” Bryce tasted the gin. He did not like it; gin had always tasted like perfume to him. But he drank it. How often does a man have a chance to get drunk with the boss? And how many bosses are Ichabod Crane—Hamlet—Cortés, fresh off the boat from Mars and about to conquer the world by spaceship in the fall of the year? Bryce’s back was tired and he let himself slip to the grass and lean against the log, his feet pointing out to the water of the lake. Thirty million gallons? He took another drink of gin and then fished a flattened pack of cigarettes from his pocket and offered one to Newton. Newton was still sitting on the log, and from Bryce’s low vantage point he looked even taller, more distant than ever.
    “I smoked once, about a year ago,” Newton said. “It made me very sick.”
    “Oh?” He took a cigarette from the package. “Would you rather I didn’t smoke?”
    “Yes.” Newton looked down at him. “Do you think there’ll be a war?”
    He held the cigarette speculatively, then flipped it into the lake. It floated. “Aren’t there three wars going now? Or four?”
    “Three. I mean a war with big weapons. There are nine nations with hydrogen weapons; at least twelve with bacteriological ones. Do you think they’ll be used?”
    Bryce took a larger sip of gin. “Probably. Sure. I don’t know why it hasn’t happened yet. I don’t know why we haven’t drunk ourselves to death yet. Or loved ourselves to death.” The Vehicle was across the lake from them, but could not be seen for the trees. Bryce waved his glass in its direction and said,