“What can they do?”

“Well, he might just happen to die—from gee-fatigue, say. That would be a fine out for the administration.”

“You mean murder him?”

“Tut, tut! Don’t use nasty words. I don’t think they will. In the first place he is a mine of information; even the public has some dim notion of that. He might be worth more than Newton and Edison and Einstein and six more like them all rolled into one. Or he may not be. I don’t think they would dare touch him until they were sure. In the second place, at the very least, he is a bridge, an ambassador, a unique interpreter, between the human race and the only other civilized race we have as yet encountered. That is certainly important but there is no way to guess just how important. How are you on the classics? Ever read H. G. Wells’ The War of the Worlds?”

“A long time ago, in school.”

“Consider the idea that the Martians might decide to make war on us—and win. They might, you know, and we have no way of guessing how big a club they can swing. Our boy Smith might be the go-between, the peacemaker, who could make the First Interplanetary War unnecessary. Even if this possibility is remote, the administration can’t afford to ignore it until they know. The discovery of intelligent life on Mars is something that, politically, they haven’t figured out yet.”

“Then you think he is safe?”

“Probably, for the time being. The Secretary General has to guess and guess right. As you know, his administration is shaky.”

“I don’t pay any attention to politics.”

“You should. It’s only barely less important than your own heartbeat.”

“I don’t pay any attention to that, either.”

“Don’t talk when I’m orating. The majority headed by the United States could slip apart overnight—Pakistan would bolt at a nervous cough. In which case there would be a vote of no confidence, a general election, and Mr. Secretary General Douglas would be out and back to being a cheap lawyer again. The Man from Mars can make or break him. Are you going to sneak me in?”

“I am not. I’m going to enter a nunnery. Is there more coffee?”

“I’ll see.”

They both stood up. Jill stretched and said, “Oh, my ancient bones! And, Lordy, look at the time! Never mind the coffee, Ben; I’ve got a hard day tomorrow, being polite to nasty patients and standing clear of internes. Run me home, will you? Or send me home, I guess that’s safer. Call a cab, that’s a lamb.”

“Okay, though the evening is young.” He went into his bedroom, came out carrying an object about the size and shape of a small cigarette lighter. “Sure you won’t sneak me in?”

“Gee, Ben, I want to, but—”

“Never mind. I wouldn’t let you. It really is dangerous—and not just to your career. I was just softening you up for this.” He showed her the little object. “Will you put a bug on him?”

“Huh? What is it?”

“The greatest boon to divorce lawyers and spies since the Mickey Finn. A microminiaturized wire recorder. The wire is spring driven so that it can’t be spotted by a snooper circuit. The insides are transistors and resistors and capacitors and stuff, all packed in plastic—you could drop it out of a cab and not hurt it. The power is about as much radioactivity as you would find in a watch dial, but shielded. The wire is good for twenty-four hours. Then you slide out a spool and stick in another one—the spring is part of the spool, already wound.”

“Will it explode?” she asked nervously.

“You could bake it in a cake.”

“But, Ben, you’ve got me scared to go back into his room now.”

“Unnecessary. You can go into the room next door, can’t you?”

“I suppose so.”

“This thing has donkey’s ears. Fasten the concave side flat against a wall—surgical tape will do nicely—and it picks up every word spoken in the room beyond. Is there a closet or something?”

She thought about it. “I’m bound to be noticed if I duck in and out of that adjoining room too much; it’s really part of the suite he’s in. Or they may start using it. Look, Ben, his room has a third wall in common with a room on another corridor. Will that do?”

“Perfect. Then you’ll do it?”

“Umm . . . give it to me. I’ll think it over and see how the land lies.” Caxton stopped to polish it with his handkerchief. “Put on your gloves.”

“Why?”

“Possession of it is slightly illegal, good for a short vacation behind bars. Always use gloves on it and the spare spools—and don’t get caught with it.”