Berquist answered, «Of course he's free! Keep quiet, Doctor. Let the fool dig his own grave.»

«Thanks, Gil. You heard him, Mike. You can go anywhere you like.»

The patient glanced fearfully at Tanner. «No! No, no, no!»

«Okay, okay.»

Tanner snapped, «Mr. Berquist, this has gone far enough!»

«All right, Doctor. Ben, that's enough.»

«Uh … one more question.» Caxton thought hard, trying to think what he could squeeze out of it. Apparently Jill had been wrong — yet she had not been wrong! — or so it seemed last night.

«One more question,» Berquist begrudged.

«Thanks. Uh … Mike, last night Mr. Douglas asked you some questions.» The patient 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 stiffened; his eyes rolled up, and he drew himself into foetal position, knees up, head bent, arms across his chest.

Tanner snapped, «Get out of here!» He moved quickly and felt the patient's wrist.

Berquist said savagely, «That tears it! Caxton, will you get out? Or shall I call the guards?»

«Oh, we're getting out,» 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 … 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. I understood he had nothing but male nurses and that female visitors had been rigidly excluded.»

«Eh? Don't be preposterous.» Berquist looked annoyed, then suddenly grinned. «You saw a nurse with him on stereo last night.»

«Oh. So I did.» Caxton shut up.

They did not discuss it until the three were in the air. Then Frisby remarked, «Ben, I don't suppose the Secretary General will sue you. Still, if you have a source for that rumor, we had better perpetuate the evidence.»

«Forget it, Mark. He won't sue.» Ben glowered at the floor. «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. We saw a stranger, supposed to be a psychiatrist — and when I tried to find out where he had studied I got euchred out. Mr. Cavendish, did you see anything that convinced you that this bloke was the Man from Mars?»

Cavendish answered, «It is not my function to form opinions. I see, I hear — that is all.»

«Sorry.»

«Are you through with me in my professional capacity?»

«Huh? Oh, sure. Thanks, Mr. Cavendish.»

«Thank you, sir. An interesting assignment.» The old gentleman took off the cloak that set him apart from ordinary mortals. He relaxed and his features mellowed.

«If I had been able to bring along a crew member of the Champion ,» Caxton persisted, «I could have tied it down.»

«I must admit,» remarked Cavendish, «that I was surprised at one thing you did not do.»

«Huh? What did I miss?»

«Calluses.»

«Calluses?»

«Surely. A man's history can be read from his calluses. I once did a monograph on them for The Witness Quarterly. 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.»

«Damn! Mr. Cavendish, why didn't you suggest it?»

«Sir?» The old man drew himself up and his nostrils dilated. «I am a Fair Witness, sir. Not a participant.»

«Sorry.» Caxton frowned. «Let's go back. We'll look at his feet — or I'll bust the place down!»

«You will have to find another Witness … in view of my indiscretion in discussing it.»

«Uh, yes, there's that.» Caxton frowned.

«Calm down, Ben,» advised Frisby. «You're in deep enough. Personally, I'm convinced it was the Man from Mars.»

Caxton dropped them, then set the cab to hover while he thought. He had been in once — with a lawyer, with a Fair Witness. To demand to see the Man from Mars a second time in one morning was unreasonable and would be refused.

But he had not acquired a syndicated column through being balked. He intended to get in.

How? Well, he knew where the putative «Man from Mars» was kept. Get in as an electrician? Too obvious; he would never get as far as «Dr. Tanner.»

Was «Tanner» a doctor? Medical men tended to shy away from hanky-panky contrary to their code. Take that ship's surgeon, Nelson — he had washed his hands of the case simply because —

Wait a minute! Dr. Nelson could tell whether that young fellow was the Man From Mars, without checking calluses or anything. Caxton tried to phone Dr. Nelson, relaying through his office since he did not know where Dr. Nelson was. Nor did Ben's assistant Osbert Kilgallen know, but the Post Syndicate's file on Important Persons placed him in the New Mayflower. A few minutes later Caxton was talking with him.

Dr. Nelson had not seen the broadcast. Yes, he had heard about it; no, he had no reason to think it had been faked. Did Dr. Nelson know that an attempt had been made to coerce Smith into surrendering his rights under the Larkin Decision? No, and he would not be interested if it were true; it was preposterous to talk about anyone «owning» Mars; Mars belonged to Martians. So? Let's propose a hypothetical question, Doctor; if someone were trying to —

Dr. Nelson switched off. When Caxton tried to reconnect, a recorded voice stated: «The subscriber has suspended service temporarily. If you care to record — »

Caxton made a foolish statement concerning Dr. Nelson's parentage. What he did next was much more foolish; he phoned the Executive Palace, demanded to speak to the Secretary General.

In his years as a snooper, Caxton had learned that secrets could often be cracked by going to the top and there making himself unbearably unpleasant. He knew that twisting the tiger's tail was dangerous; he understood the psychopathology of great power as thoroughly as Jill Boardman did not — but he relied on his position as a dealer in another sort of power almost universally appeased.

What he forgot was that, in phoning the Palace from a taxicab, he was not doing so publicly.

Caxton spoke with half a dozen underlings and became more aggressive with each one. He was so busy that he did not notice when his cab ceased to hover.

When he did notice, it was too late; the cab refused to obey orders. Caxton realized bitterly that he had let himself be trapped by a means no hoodlum would fall for; his call had been traced, his cab identified, its robot pilot placed under orders of an over-riding police frequency — and the cab was being used to fetch him in, privately and with no fuss.

He tried to call his lawyer.

He was still trying when the taxicab landed inside a court-yard and his signal was cut off by its walls. He tried to leave the cab, found that the door would not open — and was hardly surprised to discover that he was fast losing consciousness —