The 3-D picture dissolved into that of a young woman, so sensuous, so unbelievably mammalian, so seductive, as to make every male who saw her unsatisfied with local talent. She stretched and wiggled and said in a bedroom voice, “I always use Wise Girl.”

The picture dissolved and a full orchestra played the opening bars of Hail to Sovereign Peace. Ben said, “Do you use Wise Girl?”

“None o’ your business!” She looked ruffled and added, “It’s a quack nostrum. Anyhow, what makes you think I need it?”

Caxton did not answer; the tank had filled with the fatherly features of Mr. Secretary General Douglas. “Friends,” he began, “fellow citizens of the Federation, I have tonight a unique honor and privilege. Since the triumphant return of our trail-blazing ship Champion—” He continued in a few thousand well-chosen words to congratulate the citizens of Earth on their successful contact with another planet, another civilized race. He managed to imply that the exploit of the Champion was the personal accomplishment of every citizen of the Federation, that any one of them could have led the expedition had he not been busy with other serious work—and that he, Secretary Douglas, had been chosen by them as their humble instrument to work their will. The flattering notions were never stated baldly, but implied; the underlying assumption being that the common man was the equal of anyone and better than most—and that good old Joe Douglas embodied the common man. Even his mussed cravat and cowlicked hair had a “just folks” quality.

Ben Caxton wondered who had written the speech. Jim Sanforth, probably—Jim had the most subtle touch of any member of Douglas’ staff in selecting the proper loaded adjective to tickle and soothe an audience; he had written advertising commercials before he went into politics and had absolutely no compunctions. Yes, that bit about “the hand that rocks the cradle” was clearly Jim’s work—Jim was the sort of jerk who would entice a young girl with candy and consider it a smart operation.

“Turn it off!” Jill said urgently.

“Huh? Shut up, pretty foots. I’ve got to hear this.”

“—and so, friends, I have the honor to bring you now our fellow citizen Valentine Michael Smith, the Man from Mars! Mike, we all know you are tired and have not been well—but will you say a few words to your friends? They all want to see you.”

The stereo scene in the tank dissolved to a semi-close-up of a man in a wheel chair. Hovering over him like a favorite uncle was Douglas and on the other side of the chair was a nurse, stiff, starched, and photogenic.

Jill gasped. Ben whispered fiercely, “Keep quiet! I don’t want to miss a word of this.”

The interview was not long. The smooth babyface of the man in the chair broke into a shy smile; he looked at the cameras and said, “Hello, folks. Excuse me for sitting down. I’m still weak.” He seemed to speak with difficulty and once the nurse interrupted to take his pulse.

In answer to questions from Douglas he paid compliments to Captain van Tromp and the crew of the Champion, thanked everyone for his rescue, and said that everyone on Mars was terribly excited over contact with Earth and that he hoped to help in welding strong and friendly relations between the two planets. The nurse interrupted again, but Douglas said gently, “Mike, do you feel strong enough for just one more question?”

“Sure, Mr. Douglas—if I can answer it.”

“Mike? What do you think of the girls here on Earth?”

“Gee!”

The baby face looked awestruck and ecstatic and turned pink. The scene dissolved again to the head and shoulders of the Secretary General. “Mike asked me to tell you,” he went on in fatherly tones, “that he will be back to see you as soon as he can. He has to build up his muscles, you know. The gravity of Earth is as rough on him as the gravity of Jupiter would be to us. Possibly next week, if the doctors say he is strong enough.” The scene shifted back to the exponents of Wise Girl lozenges and a quick one-act playlet made clear that a girl who did not use them was not only out of her mind but undoubtedly a syntho in the hay as well; men would cross the street to avoid her. Ben switched to another channel, then turned to Jill and said moodily, “Well, I can tear up tomorrow’s column and look around for a new subject to plug. They not only made my today’s squawk look silly but it appears that Douglas has him safely under his thumb.”

“Ben!”

“Huh?”

“That’s not the Man from Mars!”

“What? Baby, are you sure?”

“Sure I’m sure! Oh, it looked like him, it looked a great deal like him. Even the voice was similar. But it was not the patient I saw in that guarded room.”