But Berquist was already coming out, hand shoved out before him, greeter’s grin plastered on his face. “Benny Caxton! How are you, chum? Long time and so forth. Still peddling the same old line of hoke?” He glanced at the Fair Witness, but his expression admitted nothing.

Ben shook hands briefly. “Same old hoke, sure. 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—nothing to do but phone in a thousand words of rumors each day and spend the rest of the day in debauchery. I envy you, Ben.”

“I said, ‘What are you doing here, Gil?’ I want to see the Director, then get five minutes with 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 almost crazy by the press—so the Secretary General sent me over to take some of the load off his shoulders.”

“Okay. I want to see Smith.”

“Ben, old boy, don’t you realize that every reporter, special correspondent, feature writer, commentator, freelance, and sob sister wants the same thing? You winchells are just one squad in an army; if we let you all have your way, you would kill off the poor jerk in twenty-four hours. Polly Peepers was here not twenty minutes ago. She wanted to interview him on love life among the Martians.” Berquist threw up both hands and looked helpless.

“I want to see Smith. Do I see him, or don’t I?”

“Ben, let’s find a quiet place where we can talk over a long, tall glass. You can ask me anything you want to.”

“I don’t want to ask you anything; I want to see Smith. By the way, this is my attorney, Mark Frisby—Biddle & Frisby.” As was customary, Ben did not introduce the Fair Witness; they all pretended that he was not present.

“I’ve met Frisby,” Berquist acknowledged. “How’s your father, Mark? Sinuses still giving him fits?”

“About the same.”

“This foul Washington climate. Well, come along, Ben. You, too, Mark.”

“Hold it,” said Caxton. “I don’t want to interview you, Gil. I want to see Valentine Michael Smith. I’m here as a member of the press, directly representing the Post syndicate and indirectly representing over two hundred million readers. Do I see him? If I don’t, say so out loud and state your legal authority for refusing me.”

Berquist sighed. “Mark, will you tell this keyhole historian that he can’t go busting into a sick man’s bedroom just because he has a syndicated column? Valentine Smith made one public appearance just last night—against his physician’s advice I might add. The man is entitled to peace and quiet and a chance to build up his strength and get oriented. That appearance last night was enough, more than enough.”

“There are rumors,” Caxton said carefully, “that the appearance last night was a fake.”

Berquist stopped smiling. “Frisby,” he said coldly, “do you want to advise your client on the law concerning slander?”

“Take it easy, Ben.”

“I know the law on slander, Gil. In my business I have to. 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 TV last night was not the Man from Mars. I want to see him myself and ask him.”

The crowded reception hall was very quiet as everyone present bent an ear to the argument. Berquist glanced quickly at the Fair Witness, then got his expression under control and said smilingly to Caxton, “Ben, it’s just possible that you talked yourself into the interview you wanted—as well as a lawsuit. Wait a moment.”

He disappeared into the inner office, came back fairly soon. “I arranged it,” he said wearily, “though God knows why. You don’t deserve it, Ben. Come along. Just you—Mark, I’m sorry but we can’t have a crowd of people; after all, Smith is a sick man.”

“No,” said Caxton.

“Huh?”

“All three of us, or none of us. Take your choice.”

“Ben, don’t be silly; you’re receiving a very special privilege. Tell you what—Mark can come along and wait outside the door. But you certainly don’t need him.” Berquist glanced toward Cavendish; the Witness seemed not to hear.

“Maybe not. But I’ve paid his fee to have him along. My column will state tonight that the administration refused to permit a Fair Witness to see the Man from Mars.”

Berquist shrugged. “Come along, then. Ben, I hope that slander suit really clobbers you.”