The other marine dug a pack of cigarettes out of a pocket. “How’re you fixed for suction?” he asked bleakly.

“Just middlin’. Thanks.” Meechum stuck the cigarette in his face and talked around it. “Honest to God, gentlemen, I don’t know anything about this patient. I wish I did.”

“What’s the idea of these orders about ‘Absolutely No Women’? Is he some kind of a sex maniac?”

“Not that I know of. All that I know is that they brought him in from the Champion and said that he was to have absolute quiet.”

“The Champion!” the first marine said. “Of course! That accounts for it.”

“Accounts for what?”

“It stands to reason. He ain’t had any, he ain’t seen any, he ain’t touched any—for months. And he’s sick, see? If he was to lay hands on any, they’re afraid he’d kill hisself.” He blinked and blew out a deep breath. “I’ll bet I would, under similar circumstances. No wonder they don’t want no bims around him.”

Smith had been aware of the visit by the doctors but he had grokked at once that their intentions were benign; it was not necessary for the major part of him to be jerked back from where he was.

At the hour in the morning when human nurses slap patient’s faces with cold, wet cloths under the pretense of washing them, Smith returned from his journey. He speeded up his heart, increased his respiration, and again took note of his surroundings, viewing them with serenity. He looked the room over, noting without discrimination and with praise all its details, both important and unimportant. He was, in fact, seeing it for the first time, as he had been incapable of enfolding it when he had been brought there the day before. This commonplace room was not commonplace to him; there was nothing remotely like it on all Mars, nor did it resemble the wedge-shaped, metal-walled compartments of the Champion. But, having relived the events linking his nest to this place, he was now prepared to accept it, commend it, and in some degree to cherish it.

He became aware that there was another living creature in the room with him. A granddaddy longlegs was making a futile journey down from the ceiling, spinning as it went. Smith watched it with delight and wondered if it were a nestling form of man.

Doctor Archer Frame, the interne who had relieved Thaddeus, walked in at that moment. “Good morning.” he said. “How do you feel?”

Smith turned the question over in his mind. The first phrase he recognized as a formal sound, requiring no answer but which could be repeated—or might not be. The second phrase was listed in his mind with several possible translations. If Doctor Nelson used it, it meant one thing; if Captain van Tromp used it, it was a formal sound, needing no reply.

He felt that dismay which so often overtook him in trying to communicate with these creatures—a frightening sensation unknown to him before he met men. But he forced his body to remain calm and risked an answer. “Feel good.”

“Good!” the creature echoed. “Doctor Nelson will be along in a minute. Feel like some breakfast?”

All four symbols in the query were in Smith’s vocabulary but he had trouble believing that he had heard them rightly. He knew that he was food, but he did not “feel like” food. Nor had he had any warning that he might be selected for such an honor. He had not known that the food supply was such that it was necessary to reduce the corporate group. He was filled with mild regret, since there was still so much to grok of these new events, but no reluctance.

But he was excused from the effort of translating an answer by the entrance of Dr. Nelson. The ship’s doctor had had little rest and less sleep; he wasted no time on speech but inspected Smith and the array of dials in silence.

Then he turned to Smith. “Bowels move?” he asked.

Smith understood this; Nelson always asked about it. “No, not yet.”

“We’ll take care of that. But first you eat. Orderly, fetch in that tray.”

Nelson fed him two or three bites, then required him to hold the spoon and feed himself. It was tiring but gave him a feeling of gay triumph, for it was the first unassisted action he had taken since reaching this oddly distorted space. He cleaned out the bowl and remembered to ask, “Who is this?” so that he could praise his benefactor.

“What is this, you mean,” Nelson answered. “It’s a synthetic food jelly, based on amino acids—and now you know as much as you did before. Finished? All right, climb out of that bed.”

“Beg pardon?” It was an attention symbol which he had learned was useful when communication failed.