She called his home. He was not there; she recorded the same message.
Ben Caxton had wasted no time. He retained James Oliver Cavendish. While any Fair Witness would do, the prestige of Cavendish was such that a lawyer was hardly necessary — the old gentleman had testified many times before the High Court and it was said that the wills locked up in his head represented billions. Cavendish had received his training in total recall from the great Dr. Samuel Renshaw and his hypnotic instruction as a fellow of the Rhine Foundation. His fee for a day was more than Ben made in a week, but Ben expected to charge it to the Post syndicate — the best was none too good for this job.
Caxton picked up the junior Frisby of Biddle, Frisby, Frisby, Biddle, & Reed, then they called for Witness Cavendish. The spare form of Mr. Cavendish, wrapped in the white cloak of his profession, reminded Ben of the Statue of Liberty — and was almost as conspicuous. Ben had explained to Mark Frisby what he intended to try (and Frisby had pointed out that he had no rights) before they called for Cavendish; once in the Fair Witness's presence they conformed to protocol and did not discuss what he might see and hear.
The cab dropped them on Bethesda Center; they went down to the Director's Office. Ben handed in his card and asked to see the Director.
An imperious female asked if he had an appointment. Ben admitted that he had none.
«Then your chance of seeing Dr. Broemer is very slight. Will you state your business?»
«Tell him,» Caxton said loudly, so that bystanders would hear, «that Caxton of the
She was startled but recovered and said frostily, «I shall inform him. Will you be seated, please?»
«Thanks, I'll wait here.»
Frisby broke out a cigar, Cavendish waited with the calm patience of one who has seen all manner of good and evil, Caxton jittered. At last the snow queen announced, «Mr. Berquist will see you.»
«Berquist? Gil Berquist?»
«I believe his name is Mr. Gilbert Berquist.»
Caxton thought about it — Gil Berquist was one of Douglas's platoon of stooges, «executive assistants.» «I don't want Berquist; I want the Director.»
But Berquist was coming out, hand shoved out, greeter's grin on his face. «Benny Caxton! How are you, chum? Still peddling the same old hoke?» He glanced at the Witness.
«Same old hoke. What are you doing here, Gil?»
«If I ever manage to get out of public service I'm going to get me a column, too — phone in a thousand words of rumor and loaf the rest of the day. I envy you, Ben.»
«I said, “What are you doing here, Gil?” I want to see the Director, then see the Man from Mars. I didn't come here for your high-level brush-off.»
«Now, Ben, don't take that attitude. I'm here because Dr. Broemer has been driven frantic by the press — so the Secretary General sent me to take over the load.»
«Okay. I want to see Smith.»
«Ben, old boy, every reporter, special correspondent, feature writer, commentator, free-lance, and sob sister wants that. Polly Peepers was here twenty minutes ago.
«I want to see Smith. Do I, or don't I?»
«Ben, let's go where we can talk over a drink. You can ask me anything.»
«I don't want to ask you anything; I want to see Smith. This is my attorney, Mark Frisby.» As was customary, Ben did not introduce the Fair Witness.
«We've met,» Berquist acknowledged. «How's your father, Mark? Sinuses giving him fits?»
«About the same.»
«This foul climate. Come along, Ben. You, too, Mark.»
«Hold it,» said Caxton. «I want to see Valentine Michael Smith. I'm representing the Post syndicate and indirectly representing two hundred million readers. Do I see him? If not, say so out loud and state your legal authority for refusing.»
Berquist sighed. «Mark, will you tell this keyhole historian that he can't burst into a sick man's bedroom? Smith made one appearance last night — against his physician's advice. The man is entitled to peace and quiet and a chance to build up his strength.»
«There are rumors,» Caxton stated, «that the appearance last night was a fake.»
Berquist stopped smiling. «Frisby,» he said coldly, «do you want to advise your client concerning slander?»
«Take it easy, Ben.»
«I know the law on slander, Gil. But whom am I slandering? The Man from Mars? Or somebody else? Name a name. I repeat,» he went on, raising his voice, «that I have heard that the man interviewed on 3-D last night was not the Man from Mars. I want to see him and ask him.»
The crowded reception hall was very quiet. Berquist glanced at the Fair Witness, then got his expression under control and said smilingly, «Ben, it's possible that you have talked yourself into an interview — as well as a lawsuit. Wait a moment.»
He disappeared, came back fairly soon. «I arranged it,» he said wearily, «though you don't deserve it, Ben. Come along. Just you — Mark, I'm sorry but we can't have a crowd; Smith is a sick man.»
«No,» said Caxton.
«Huh?»
«All three, or none of us.»
«Ben, don't be silly; you're receiving a very special privilege. Tell you what — Mark can come and wait outside. But you don't need
«Maybe not. But my column will state tonight that the administration refused to permit a Fair Witness to see the Man from Mars.»
Berquist shrugged. «Come along. Ben, I hope that slander suit clobbers you.»
They took the elevator out of deference to Cavendish's age, then rode a slide-away past laboratories, therapy rooms, ward after ward. They were stopped by a guard who phoned ahead and were at last ushered into a physio-data display room used for watching critically ill patients. «This is Dr. Tanner,» Berquist announced. «Doctor, Mr. Caxton and Mr. Frisby.» He did not, of course, introduce Cavendish.
Tanner looked worried. «Gentlemen, I must warn you of one thing. Don't do or say
«Epilepsy?» asked Ben.
«A layman might mistake it for that. It is more like cate lepsy.»
«Are you a specialist, Doctor? Psychiatry?»
Tanner glanced at Berquist. «Yes,» he admitted.
«Where did you do your advanced work?»
Berquist said, «Ben, let's see the patient. You can quiz Dr. Tanner afterwards.»
«Okay.»
Tanner glanced over his dials, then flipped a switch and stared into a Peeping Tom. He unlocked a door and led them into an adjoining bedroom, putting a finger to his lips.
The room was gloomy. «We keep it semi-darkened because his eyes are not accustomed to our light levels,» Tanner explained in a hushed voice. He went to a hydraulic bed in the center of the room. «Mike, I've brought some friends to see you.»
Caxton pressed closer. Floating, half concealed by the way his body sank into the plastic skin and covered to his armpits by a sheet, was a young man. He looked at them but said nothing; his smooth, round face was expressionless.
So far as Ben could tell this was the man on stereo the night before. He had a sick feeling that little Jill had tossed him a live grenade — a slander suit that might bankrupt him. «You are Valentine Michael Smith?»
