“Boo!”

“Toss him in the pool, somebody. I’ve got work to do early tomorrow morning, I’m an old man and I need my rest. And so does my family. Please leave quietly and as quickly as possible. Black coffee for any who need it—but that’s all. Duke, cork those bottles. Girls, clear the food away.”

There was minor grumbling, but the more responsible quieted their colleagues. In ten minutes they were alone.

In twenty minutes Ben Caxton arrived. The S.S. officer commanding the courier car silently accepted Harshaw’s signature and thumb print on a prepared receipt, then left at once while Jill continued to sob on Ben’s shoulder.

Jubal looked him over in the light from the pool. “Ben, you’re a mess. I hear you’ve been drunk for a week—and you look it.”

Ben cursed, fluently and well, while continuing to pat Jill’s back. “‘M drunk, awri’—but haven’ had a drink.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know!”

An hour later Ben’s stomach had been pumped out (alcohol and gastric juices, no food); Jubal had given him shots to offset alcohol and barbiturates; he was bathed, shaved, dressed in clean clothes that did not fit him, had met the Man from Mars, and was sketchily brought up to date, while ingesting milk and bland food.

But he was unable to bring them up to date. For Ben, the past week had not happened—he had become unconscious in a taxicab in Washington; he had been shaken into drunken wakefulness two hours earlier . . . “Of course I know what happened. They kept me doped and in a completely dark room . . . and wrung me out. I vaguely remember some of it. But I can’t prove anything. And there’s the village Jefe and the madam of this dive they took me to—plus, I’m sure, plenty of other witnesses—to swear just how this gringo spent his time. And there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“Then don’t fight it,” Jubal advised. “Relax and be happy.”

“The hell I will! I’ll get that—”

“Tut, tut! You’ve won, Ben. And you’re alive . . . which I would have given long odds against, earlier today. Douglas is going to do exactly what we want him to—and smile and like it.”

“I want to talk about that. I think—”

“I think you’re going to bed. Now. With a glass of warm milk to conceal Old Doc Harshaw’s Secret Ingredient for secret drinkers.”

Shortly thereafter Caxton was in bed and beginning to snore. Jubal was puttering around, heading for bed himself, and encountered Anne in the upper hall. He shook his head tiredly. “Quite a day, lass.”

“Yes, quite. I wouldn’t have missed it . . . and I don’t want to repeat it. You go to bed, Boss.”

“In a moment. Anne, tell me something. What’s so special about the way that lad kisses?”

Anne looked dreamy and then dimpled. “You should have tried it when he invited you to.”

“I’m too old to change my ways. But I’m interested in everything about the boy. Is this actually something different, too?”

Anne pondered it. “Yes.”

“How?”

“Mike gives a kiss his whole attention.”

“Oh, rats! I do myself. Or did.”

Anne shook her head. “No. Some men try to. I’ve been kissed by men who did a very good job of it indeed. But they don’t really give kissing a woman their whole attention. They can’t. No matter how hard they try, some parts of their minds are on something else. Missing the last bus, maybe—or how their chances are for making the gal—or their own techniques in kissing—or maybe worry about their jobs, or money, or will husband or papa or the neighbors catch on. Or something. Now Mike doesn’t have any technique . . . but when Mike kisses you he isn’t doing anything else. Not anything. You’re his whole universe for that moment . . . and the moment is eternal because he doesn’t have any plans and he isn’t going anywhere. Just kissing you.” She shivered. “A woman notices. It’s overwhelming.”

“Hmm—”

“Don’t ‘Hmm’ at me, you old lecher! You don’t understand.”

“No. And I’m sorry to say I probably never will. Well, goodnight—and, oh, by the way . . . I told Mike to bolt his door tonight.”

She made a face at him. “Spoilsport!”

“He’s learning quite fast enough. Mustn’t rush him.”



18

The conference was postponed to the afternoon, then quickly re-postponed to the following morning, which gave Caxton an extra twenty-four hours of badly needed recuperation, a chance to hear in detail about his missing week, a chance to “grow closer” with the Man from Mars—for Mike grokked at once that Jill and Ben were “water brothers,” consulted Jill about it, and solemnly offered water to Ben.