The Man Who Fell to Earth by Walter Tevis Page A

Alors
…”
    Bryce caught his breath. “Newton will see me?”
    “Yes. I will show you the way.”
    Inside the house he was greeted by three cats, who stared at him from the floor where they had been playing. They seemed to be ordinary alley cats, but well fed, and scornful of his entrance. He did not like cats. The Frenchman led him silently through the parlor and up a heavily carpeted staircase. There were pictures on the walls—odd, expensive-looking tableaux by painters he did not recognize. The staircase was very wide, and curved. He noticed that it had one of those motor-powered seats, folded now, that could run up and down by the banister. Could Newton be a cripple? There seemed to be no one else in the house except the two of them, and the cats. He glanced back; they were still staring at him, eyes wide, curious and insolent.
    At the top of the stairs was a hall, and at the end of the hall was a door, which obviously led into Newton’s room. It opened and a rather sad-eyed, plump woman came out, wearing an apron. She walked up to them, blinked at him and said. “I guess you’re Professor Bryce.” Her voice, amiable and throaty, was thick with a hillbilly accent.
    He nodded and she led him to the door. He walked in alone, noticing to his dismay that his breath was short and his legs unsteady.
    The room was immense and the air in it was cold. The light came dimly from a huge, only slightly transparent bay window that overlooked the lake. There seemed to be furniture everywhere, in a bewildering array of colors—the heavy forms of couches, a table, desks, taking on blues and grays and faded orange as his eyes became accustomed to the dim, yellowish light. Two pictures faced him on the back wall; one was an etching of a giant bird, a heron or whooping crane; the other a nervous abstraction by someone like Klee. Maybe it was a Klee. The two works did not go well together. In the corner was a giant birdcage, with a purple and red parrot, apparently asleep. And now walking toward him slowly, carrying a cane, was a tall, thin man, with indistinct features. “Professor Bryce?” The voice was clear, faintly accented, pleasant.
    “Yes. You’re… Mr. Newton?”
    “That’s right. Why don’t we sit down and talk for a while?”
    He sat, and they talked for several minutes. Newton was pleasant, easy, a shade over-correct in his manner, but neither imposing nor snobbish. He had a great deal of natural dignity, and he discussed the painting that Bryce mentioned—it was a Klee after all—with interest and intelligence. In talking about it he stood up for a minute to point out a detail and Bryce got his first good look at the man’s face. It was a fine face, beautifully featured, almost womanish, with a strange cast to it. Immediately the thought, the absurd thought that he had toyed with for over a year, came to him strongly. For a moment, watching the strange, tall man pointing a delicate finger toward an eerie, nervous-lined painting there in the dim light, it did not seem at all absurd. Yet it was; and, when Newton turned back to him, smiled, and said, “I think we ought to have a drink. Professor Bryce,” the illusion vanished completely and Bryce’s reason asserted itself. There were stranger-looking men than this one in the world, and there had been brilliant inventors before.
    “I’d like a drink,” he said. And then, “I know you’re busy.”
    “Not at all.” Newton smiled easily, walking over toward the door. “Not today at least. What would you like?”
    “Scotch.” He started to add, “If you have it,” but checked himself. He imagined Newton would have it. “Scotch and water.”
    Instead of pressing a button or ringing a gong—in this house ringing a gong would not have seemed out of place—Newton merely opened the door and called out, “Betty Jo.” When she answered, he said, “Bring Professor Bryce the Scotch, with water and ice. I’d like my gin and bitters.” Then he closed the