Dak left as suddenly as he had appeared and Penelope Russell turned on the picture projector again. It occurred to me fretfully that I should have asked him what was to keep our enemies from simply killing me, if all that was needed to upset the political applecart was to keep Bonforte (in his proper person, or through his double) from attending some barbaric Martian ceremony. But I had forgotten to ask — perhaps I was subconsciously afraid of being answered.
But shortly I was again studying Bonforte, watching his movements and gestures, feeling his expressions, subvocalizing the tones of his voice, while floating in that detached, warm reverie of artistic effort. Already I was «wearing his head.»
I was panicked out of it when the images shifted to one in which Bonforte was surrounded by Martians, touched by their pseudo limbs. I had been so deep inside the picture that I could actually feel them myself — and the stink was unbearable. I made a strangled noise and clawed at it.«Shut it off!»
The lights came up and the picture disappeared. Miss Russell was looking at me. «What in the world is the matter with you?»
I tried to get my breath and stop trembling. «Miss Russell — I am very sorry — but please don't turn that on again. I can't stand Martians.»
She looked at me as if she could not believe what she saw but despised it anyhow. «I told them,» she said slowly and scornfully, «that this ridiculous scheme would not work.»
«I am very sorry. I cannot help it.»
She did not answer but climbed heavily out of the cider press. She did not walk as easily at two gravities as Dak did, but she managed. She left without another word, closing the door as she went.
She did not return. Instead the door was opened by a man who appeared to be inhabiting a giant kiddie stroller. «Howdy there, young fellow!» he boomed out. He was sixtyish, a bit too heavy, and bland; I did not have to see his diploma to be aware that his was a «bedside» manner.
«How do you do, sir?»
'Well enough. Better at lower acceleration.» He glanced down at the contrivance he was strapped into. «How do you like my corset-on-wheels? Not stylish, perhaps, but it takes some of the strain off my heart. By the way, just to keep the record straight, I'm Dr. Capek, Mr. Bonforte's personal therapist. I know who you are. Now what's this we hear about you and Martians?
I tried to explain it clearly and unemotionally.
Dr. Capek nodded. «Captain Broadbent should have told me. I would have changed the order of your indoctrination program. The captain is a competent young fellow in his way but his muscles run ahead of his brain on occasion ... He is so perfectly normal an extrovert that he frightens me. But no harm done. Mr. Smythe, I want your permission to hypnotize you. You have my word as a physician that it will be used only to help you in this matter and that I will in no wise tamper with your personal integration.» He pulled out an old-fashioned pocket watch of the sort that is almost a badge of his profession and took my pulse.
I answered, «You have my permission readily, sir — but it won't do any good. I can't go under.» I had learned hypnotic techniques myself during the time I was showing my mentalist act, but my teachers had never had any luck hypnotizing me. A touch of hypnotism is very useful to such an act, especially if the local police aren't too fussy about the laws the medical association has hampered us with.
«So? Well, we'll just have to do the best we can, then. Suppose you relax, get comfortable, and we'll talk about your problem.» He still kept the watch in his hand, fiddling with it and twisting the chain, after he had stopped taking my pulse. I started to mention it, since it was catching the reading light just over my head, but decided that it was probably a nervous habit of which he was not aware and really too trivial a matter to call to the attention of a stranger
«I'm relaxed,» I assured him. «Ask me anything you wish. Or free association, if you prefer.»
«Just let yourself float,» he said softly. «Two gravities makes you feel heavy, doesn't it? I usually just sleep through it myself. It pulls the blood out of the brain, makes one sleepy. They are beginning to boost the drive again. We'll all have to sleep ... We'll be heavy ... We'll have to sleep...»
I started to tell him that he had better put his watch away — or it would spin right out of his hand. Instead I fell asleep.
When I woke up, the other acceleration bunk was occupied by Dr. Capek. «Howdy, bub,» he greeted me. «I got tired of that confounded perambulator and decided to stretch out here and distribute the strain.»
«Uh, are we back on two gravities again?»
«Eh? Oh yes! We're on two gravities.»
«I'm sorry I blacked out. How long was I asleep?»
«Oh, not very long. How do you feel?»
«Fine. Wonderfully rested, in fact.»
«It frequently has that effect. Heavy boost, I mean. Feel like seeing some more pictures?»
«Why, certainly, if you say so, Doctor.»
«Okay.» He reached up and again the room went dark.
I was braced for the notion that he was going to show me more pictures of Martians; I made up my mind not to panic. After all, I had found it necessary on many occasions to pretend that they were not present; surely motion pictures of them should not affect me — I had simply been surprised earlier.
They were indeed stereos of Martians, both with and without Mr. Bonforte. I found it possible to study them with detached mind, without terror or disgust.
Suddenly I realized that I was enjoying looking at them!
I let out some exclamation and Capek stopped the film. «Trouble?»
«Doctor — you hypnotized me!»
«You told me to.»
«But I can't be hypnotized.»
«Sorry to hear it.»
«Uh — so you managed it. I'm not too dense to see that.» I added, «Suppose we try those pictures again. I can't really believe it.»
He switched them on and I watched and wondered. Martians were not disgusting, if one looked at them without prejudice; they weren't even ugly. In fact, they possessed the same quaint grace as a Chinese pagoda. True, they were not human in form, but neither is a bird of paradise — and birds of paradise are the loveliest things alive.
I began to realize, too, that their pseudo limbs could be very expressive; their awkward gestures showed some of the bumbling friendliness of puppies. I knew now that I had looked at Martians all my life through the dark glasses of hate and fear.
Of course, I mused, their stench would still take getting used to, but — and then I suddenly realized that I was smelling them, the unmistakable odor — and I didn't mind it a bit! In fact, I liked it. «Doctor!» I said urgently. «This machine has a “smellie” attachment — doesn't it?»
«Eh? I believe not. No, I'm sure it hasn't — too much parasitic weight for a yacht.»
«But it must. I can smell them very plainly.»
«Oh, yes.» He looked slightly shamefaced. «Bub, I did one thing to you that I hope will cause you no inconvenience.»
«Sir?»
«While we were digging around inside your skull it became evident that a lot of your neurotic orientation about Martians was triggered by their body odor. I didn't have time to do a deep job so I had to offset it. I asked Penny — that's the youngster who was in here before — for a loan of some of the perfume she uses. I'm afraid that from here on out, bub, Martians are going to smell like a Parisian house of joy to you. If I had had time I would have used some homelier pleasant odor, like ripe strawberries or hot cakes and syrup. But I had to improvise.»
I sniffed. Yes, it did smell like a heavy and expensive perfume — and yet, damn it, it was unmistakably the reek of Martians. «I like it.»
«You can't help liking it.»
«But you must have spilled the whole bottle in here. The place is drenched with it.»