Free Stranger in a Strange Land by Robert A. Heinlein Page A

Mars?”
    â€œEh? Come off it, Ben.”
    â€œHow 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.”
    â€œSorry.”
    â€œAre you through with me in my professional capacity?”
    â€œHuh? Oh, sure. Thanks, Mr. Cavendish.”
    â€œThank 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.
    â€œIf I had been able to bring along a crew member of the Champion,” Caxton persisted, “I could have tied it down.”
    â€œI must admit,” remarked Cavendish, “that I was surprised at one thing you did not do.”
    â€œHuh? What did I miss?”
    â€œCalluses.”
    â€œCalluses?”
    â€œSurely. 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.”
    â€œDamn! Mr. Cavendish, why didn’t you suggest it?”
    â€œSir?” The old man drew himself up and his nostrils dilated. “I am a Fair Witness, sir. Not a participant.”
    â€œSorry.” Caxton frowned. “Let’s go back. We’ll look at his feet—or I’ll bust the place down!”
    â€œYou will have to find another Witness . . . in view of my indiscretion in discussing it.”
    â€œUh, yes, there’s that.” Caxton frowned.
    â€œCalm 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