“Thanks. Uh . . . Mike, last night Mr. Douglas asked you some questions.” The patient watched him but made no comment. “Let’s see, he asked you what you thought of the girls here on Earth, didn’t he?”

The patient’s face broke into a big smile. “Gee!”

“Yes. Mike . . . when and where did you see these girls?”

The smile vanished. The patient glanced at Tanner, then he stiffened, his eyes rolled up, and he drew himself into the foetal position, knees drawn up, head bent, and arms folded across his chest.

Tanner snapped, “Get them out of here!” He moved quickly to the tank bed and felt the patient’s wrist.

Berquist said savagely, “That tears it! Caxton, will you get out? Or shall I call the guards and have you thrown out?”

“Oh, we’re getting out all right,” Caxton agreed. All but Tanner left the room and Berquist closed the door.

“Just one point, Gil,” Caxton insisted. “You’ve got him boxed up in there . . . so just where did he see those girls?”

“Eh? Don’t be silly. He’s seen lots of girls. Nurses . . . Laboratory technicians. You know.”

“But I don’t know. I understood he had nothing but male nurses and that female visitors had been rigidly excluded.”

“Eh? Don’t be any more preposterous than you have to be.” Berquist looked annoyed, then suddenly grinned. “You saw a nurse with him on stereo just last night.”

“Oh. So I did.” Caxton shut up and let himself be led out.

They did not discuss it further until the three were in the air, headed for Cavendish’s home. Then Frisby remarked, “Ben, I don’t suppose the Secretary General will demean himself to sue you, since you did not print it. Still, if you really do have a source for that rumor you mentioned, we had better perpetuate the evidence. You don’t have much of a leg to stand on, you know.”

“Forget it, Mark. He won’t sue.” Ben glowered at the floor of the cab. “How do we know that was the Man from Mars?”

“Eh? Come off it, Ben.”

“How do we know? We saw a man about the right age in a hospital bed. We have Berquist’s word for it—and Berquist got his start in politics issuing denials; his word means nothing. We saw a total stranger, supposed to be a psychiatrist . . . and when I tried to find out where he had studied psychiatry I got euchred out. How do we know? Mr. Cavendish, did you see or hear anything that convinced you that this bloke was the Man from Mars?”

Cavendish answered carefully, “It is not my function to form opinions. I see, I hear—that is all.”

“Sorry.”

“By the way, are you through with me in my professional capacity?”

“Huh? Oh, sure. Thanks, Mr. Cavendish.”

“Thank you, sir. It was an interesting assignment.” The old gentleman took off the cloak that set him apart from ordinary mortals, folded it carefully and laid it on the seat. He sighed, relaxed, and his features lost professional detachment, warmed and mellowed. He took out cigars, offered them to the others; Frisby took one and they shared a light. “I do not smoke,” Cavendish remarked through a thick cloud, “while on duty. It interferes with optimum functioning of the senses.”

“If I had been able to bring along a crew member of the Champion,” Caxton persisted, “I could have tied it down. But I thought surely I could tell.”

“I must admit,” remarked Cavendish, “that I was a little surprised at one thing you did not do.”

“Huh? What did I miss?”

“Calluses.”

“Calluses?”

“Surely. A man’s life history can be told from his calluses. I once did a monograph on them, published in The Witness Quarterly—like Sherlock Holmes’ famous monograph on tobacco ash. This young man from Mars . . . since he has never worn our sort of shoes and has lived in gravity about one third of ours, should display foot calluses consonant with his former environment. Even the time he recently spent in space should have left their traces. Very interesting.”

“Damn! Good Lord, Mr. Cavendish, why didn’t you suggest it to me?”

“Sir?” The old man drew himself up and his nostrils dilated. “It would not have been ethical. I am a Fair Witness, not a participant. My professional association would suspend me for much less. Surely you know that.”

“Sorry. I forgot myself.” Caxton frowned. “Let’s wheel this buggy around and go back. We’ll take a look at his feet—or I’ll bust the place down with Berquist’s fat head!”

“I’m afraid you will have to find another Witness . . . in view of my indiscretion in discussing it, even after the fact.”