Later that day he had demonstrated the matter to Jubal, remaining on the bottom for a delicious time, and he had tried to teach it to his brother Jill . . . but she had become disturbed and he had desisted. It was his first clear realization that there were things that he could do that these new friends could not. He thought about it a long time, trying to grok its fullness.

Smith was happy; Harshaw was not. He continued his usual routine of aimless loafing, varied only by casual and unplanned observation of his laboratory animal, the Man from Mars. He arranged no schedule for Smith, no programme of study, no regular physical examinations, but simply allowed Smith to do as he pleased, run wild, like a puppy growing up on a ranch. What supervision Smith received came from Gillian—more than enough, in Jubal’s grumpy opinion, as he took a dim view of males being reared by females.

However, Gillian Boardman did little more than coach Valentine Smith in the rudiments of human social behavior—and he needed very little coaching. He ate at the table with the others now, dressed himself (at least Jubal thought he did; he made a mental note to ask Jill if she still had to assist him); he conformed acceptably to the household’s very informal customs and appeared able to cope with most new experiences on a “monkey-see-monkey-do” basis. Smith started his first meal at the table using only a spoon and Jill had cut up his meat for him. By the end of the meal he was attempting to eat as the others ate. At the next meal his table manners were a precise imitation of Jill’s, including superfluous mannerisms.

Even the twin discovery that Smith had taught himself to read with the speed of electronic scanning and appeared to have total recall of all that he read did not tempt Jubal Harshaw to make a “project” of Smith, one with controls, measurements, and curves of progress. Harshaw had the arrogant humility of the man who has learned so much that he is aware of his own ignorance and he saw no point in “measurements” when he did not know what he was measuring. Instead he limited himself to notes made privately, without even any intention of publishing his observations.

But, while Harshaw enjoyed watching this unique animal develop into a mimicry copy of a human being, his pleasure afforded him no happiness.

Like Secretary General Douglas, Harshaw was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Waiting with increasing tenseness— Having found himself coerced into action by the expectation of action against him on the part of the government, it annoyed and exasperated him that nothing as yet had happened. Damn it, were the Federation cops so stupid that they couldn’t track an unsophisticated girl dragging an unconscious man all across the countryside? Or (as seemed more likely) had they been on her heels the whole way?—and even now were keeping a stake-out on his place? The latter thought was infuriating; to Harshaw the notion that the government might be spying on his home, his castle, with anything from binoculars to radar, was as repulsive as the idea of having his mail opened.

And they might be doing that, too! he reminded himself morosely. Government! Three fourths parasitic and the other fourth stupid fumbling—oh, he conceded that man, a social animal, could not avoid having government, any more than an individual man could escape his lifelong bondage to his bowels. But Harshaw did not have to like it. Simply because an evil was inescapable was no reason to term it a “good.” He wished that government would wander off and get lost!

But it was certainly possible, or even probable, that the administration knew exactly where the Man from Mars was hiding . . . and for reasons of their own preferred to leave it that way, while they prepared— what?

If so, how long would it go on? And how long could he keep his defensive “time bomb” armed and ready?

And where the devil was that reckless young idiot Ben Caxton?

Jill Boardman forced him out of his spiritual thumb-twiddling. “Jubal?”

“Eh? Oh, it’s you, bright eyes. Sorry, I was preoccupied. Sit down. Have a drink?”

“Uh, no, thank you. Jubal, I’m worried.”

“Normal. Who isn’t? That was a mighty pretty swan dive you did. Let’s see another one just like it.”

Jill bit her lip and looked about twelve years old. “Jubal! Please listen! I’m terribly worried.”

He sighed. “In that case, dry yourself off. The breeze is getting chilly.”

“I’m warm enough. Uh, Jubal? Would it be all right if I left Mike here? Would you take care of him?”

Harshaw blinked. “Of course he can stay here. You know that. The girls will look out for him . . . and I’ll keep an eye on him from time to time. He’s no trouble. I take it you’re leaving?”