“No, sir.”

“Eh? But I understood—”

“Let me rephrase it precisely, Mr. Secretary. You need to speak with me.”

Douglas looked surprised, then grinned. “Pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you? Well, Doctor, you have just ten seconds to prove that. I have other things to do.”

“Very well, sir. I am attorney for the Man from Mars.”

Douglas suddenly stopped looking tousled. “Repeat that.”

“I am attorney for Valentine Michael Smith, known as the Man from Mars. Attorney with full power. In fact, it may help to think of me as de-facto Ambassador from Mars . . . in the spirit of the Larkin Decision, that is to say.”

Douglas stared at him. “Man, you must be out of your mind!”

“I’ve often thought so, lately. Nevertheless I am acting for the Man from Mars. And he is prepared to negotiate.”

“The Man from Mars is in Ecuador.”

“Please, Mr. Secretary. This is a private conversation. He is not in Ecuador, as both of us know. Smith—the real Valentine Michael Smith, not the one who has appeared in the newscasts—escaped from confinement—and, I should add, illegal confinement—at Bethesda Medical Center on Thursday last, in company with Nurse Gillian Boardman. He kept his freedom and is now free—and he will continue to keep it. If any of your large staff of assistants has told you anything else, then someone has been lying to you . . . which is why I am speaking to you yourself. So that you can straighten it out.”

Douglas looked very thoughtful. Someone apparently spoke to him from off screen, but no words came over the telephone. At last he said, “Even if what you said were true, Doctor, you can’t be in a position to speak for young Smith. He’s a ward of the State.”

Jubal shook his head. “Impossible. The Larkin Decision.”

“Now see here, as a lawyer myself, I assure you—”

“As a lawyer myself, I must follow my own opinion—and protect my client.”

“You are a lawyer? I thought that you meant that you claimed to be attorney-in-fact, rather than counsellor.”

“Both. You’ll find that I am an attorney at law, in good standing, and admitted to practice before the High Court. I don’t hang my shingle these days, but I am.” Jubal heard a dull boom from below and glanced aside. Larry whispered, “The front door, I think, Boss—Shall I go look?”

Jubal shook his head in negation and spoke to the screen. “Mr. Secretary, while we quibble, time is running out. Even now your men—your S.S. hooligans—are breaking into my house. It is most distasteful to be under siege in my own home. Now, for the first and last time, will you abate this nuisance? So that we can negotiate peaceably and equitably? Or shall we fight it out in the High Court with all the stink and scandal that would ensue?”

Again the Secretary appeared to speak with someone off screen. He turned back, looking troubled. “Doctor, if the Special Service police are trying to arrest you, it is news to me. I do not see—”

“If you’ll listen closely, you’ll hear them tromping up my staircase, sir! Mike! Anne! Come here.” Jubal shoved his chair back to allow the camera angle to include three people. “Mr. Secretary General Douglas—the Man from Mars!” He did not, of course, introduce Anne, but she and her white cloak of probity were fully in view.

Douglas stared at Smith; Smith looked back at him and seemed uneasy. “Jubal—”

“Just a moment, Mike. Well, Mr. Secretary? Your men have broken into my house—I hear them pounding on my study door this moment.” Jubal turned his head. “Larry, unbolt the door. Let them in.” He put a hand on Mike. “Don’t get excited, lad, and don’t do anything unless I tell you to.”

“Yes, Jubal. That man. I have know him.”

“And he knows you.” Over his shoulder Jubal called out to the now-open door, “Come in, Sergeant. Right over here.”

The S.S. sergeant standing in the doorway, mob gun at the ready, did not come in. Instead he called out, “Major! Here they are!”

Douglas said, “Let me speak to the officer in charge of them, Doctor.” Again he spoke off screen.

Jubal was relieved to see that the major for whom the sergeant had shouted showed up with his sidearm still in its holster; Mike’s shoulder had been trembling under Jubal’s hand ever since the sergeant’s gun had come into view—and, while Jubal lavished no fraternal love on these troopers, he did not want Smith to display his powers . . . and cause awkward questions.

The major glanced around the room. “You’re Jubal Harshaw?”