The Man Who Fell to Earth by Walter Tevis Page B

door and returned to his chair. “I’ve only recently come to enjoy gin,” he said. Bryce shuddered inwardly at the thought of gin and bitters.
    “Well, Professor Bryce, what do you think of our site here? I suppose you saw all the… activity when you got off the plane?”
    He settled back in his chair, feeling more at ease now. Newton seemed very gracious, genuinely interested in hearing what he had to say. “Yes. It looked very interesting. But to tell you the truth I don’t know what you are building.”
    Newton stared for a moment, and then laughed. “Didn’t Oliver tell you, in New York?”
    Bryce shook his head.
    “Oliver can be very secretive. I certainly didn’t mean him to go that far.” He smiled—and for the first time. Bryce was vaguely bothered by the smile, although he could not see precisely what it was that bothered him. “Perhaps that was why you demanded to see me?”
    Apparently he only meant it lightly. “Maybe.” Bryce said. “But I had other reasons as well.”
    “Yes,” Newton started to say something, but stopped when the door opened and Betty Jo came in, carrying the bottles and pitchers on a tray. Bryce looked at her closely. She was a slightly pretty, middle-aged woman, the kind you would expect to see at a matinee or a bridge club. Yet her face was not vacant, not stupid, and there was a warmth, a trace of good humor or amusement, around her eyes and in her full lips. But she was somewhat out of place as this millionaire’s only visible servant. She said nothing and set the drinks down, and as she walked past him on her way out he was astonished at the unmistakable odors of liquor and perfume as she went by.
    The Scotch had been freshly opened, and he fixed himself a drink with some amusement and wonder. Was this the way millionaire scientists went about things? One asks for a drink and a half-drunk servant brings a fifth? Perhaps it was the best way. The two of them poured the liquor in silence and then, after the first drink, Newton said unexpectedly, “It’s a space vehicle.”
    Bryce blinked, not understanding what the man meant. “How’s that?”
    “The thing we’re building here will be a space vehicle.”
    “Oh?” It was a surprise, but not overmuch of one. Space-probing craft, unmanned, of one sort or another were common enough…. Even the Cuban bloc had put one up a few months ago.
    “Then you’ll want me on metals for the frame?”
    “No.” Newton was sipping his drink slowly, and looking out the window as if thinking of something else. “The frame is worked out thoroughly already. I’d like you to work on the fuel-carrying systems—to find materials that can contain some of the chemicals, such as fuels and wastes and the like.” He turned back to Bryce, smiling again, and Bryce realized that the smile was vaguely disquieting because of a hint of some incomprehensible weariness about it. “I’m afraid I know very little about materials—heat and acid resistance and stresses. Oliver says that you’re one of the very best men for that kind of work.”
    “Farnsworth may be overrating me, but I know the work fairly well.”
    That seemed to end the subject and they were silent for a while. From the moment Newton had mentioned a space vehicle the old suspicion had, of course, returned. But with it came the obvious refutation—if Newton were, through some wild irrationality, from some other planet, he and his people would not be building spacecraft. That would be the one thing that they would be certain to have already. He smiled at himself, at the cheap, science-fiction level of his own private discourse. If Newton were a Martian or a Venusian, he should, by all rights, be importing heat rays to fry New York or planning to disintegrate Chicago, or carrying off young girls to underground caves for otherworldly sacrifices. Betty Jo? Feeling imaginative now, from the whiskey and his fatigue, he almost laughed aloud at the thought: Betty Jo, on a movie