The following morning, while Henry was making arrangements about
engaging a tutor for Mr. Zzyx, and McGinity busied himself in giving
proper publicity to our guest's first attempt at speech, Pat and I
strolled down to our dock. We went there on Niki's pressing invitation
to see the progress Mr. Zzyx was making in operating a runabout Henry
had recently acquired.
When we arrived at the dock, Mr. Zzyx was seated in the bow, at the
steering-wheel, looking very nautical and important in a blue worsted
suit, a white, soft-collar shirt, with a blue and white polka dot tie,
and a smart yachting cap. He beckoned at once to Pat to come down and
get into the boat.
"Oh, no! Thanks!" she called down to him.
He looked up at Pat and me imploringly. "I guess he wants us both to
come for a ride," I said. But Pat said she didn't want to go.
What happened, then and there, was an exhibition of handling a runabout
I didn't believe possible in a creature of such low mental caliber. He
seemed to take to it instinctively. Knowing there was a great scarcity
of water on Mars, I wondered how it came to him so easily.
At Niki's word of command, he started the engine, and then steered the
boat, as unerringly as an arrow, in a swift and successful quarter-mile
run between the dock and our tiny island of rock, on which stands the
ruins of the old, stone lighthouse.
Pat and I applauded his feat on his return. In fact, Pat became so
enthusiastic over his expertness in steering the boat, that she took
her courage in hand, and ran down the steps, and jumped into the
runabout. "Now, Mr. Zzyx," I heard her say, "please give me a ride to
the island, and back."
Before I could voice my objection, Niki hopped out, and I was horrified
to see the boat race off again towards the island. While I was
protesting to Niki, I was keeping my eyes trained on the runabout,
which had now reached the island. Even from that distance, I could see
Mr. Zzyx doing a peculiar thing.
He had pulled up alongside the small dock; the engine was still
running, and the propeller kicking up a lot of foam. Apparently, he
didn't know how to tie up the boat. He was standing up, and making
funny motions to Pat, who seemed to be protesting by gestures. To say
I was not only puzzled but frightened is rather to understate the
situation.
If I had any coherent thoughts at all, they were that Mr. Zzyx wanted
Pat to go ashore with him and explore the island; he had an abnormal
sense of curiosity. There was really nothing of interest to see there.
It was all rock, devoid of trees and grass. The only habitable building
was a small shanty, which the Government had used for storage purposes
before Henry purchased the island.
"Why, in heaven's name, did you let him take Pat off like that?" I
protested to Niki. "Why didn't you stay aboard? He's dangerous."
Niki shrugged rather insolently at my fears. Since receiving a liberal
payment from Henry on the reward he had earned by first discovering
the rocket, he had become rather impudent. "Mr. Zzyx is not dangerous,
Meester Livingston," he countered. "He only likes fun--like a leetle
kitten!"
"When I say he's dangerous I mean that he is," I replied, with
vehemence. Then, profoundly shaken over Pat's security, I cried: "Oh,
what shall I do?" and turned round to run back to the castle. The next
moment, I had run full tilt into McGinity.
McGinity's reaction to the situation was typical. "That bird is too
dangerous to trifle with," he said; and within a few minutes he was in
one of our row-boats, heading for the island.
To my amazement, the next thing I saw was Mr. Zzyx bringing the
speed-boat back to the dock. I had pulled myself together somewhat when
he returned. I was surprised to see Pat, lolling comfortably among some
cushions, a cigarette in her hand and a cool smile on her face. By that
time, McGinity had put back to the dock. He arrived in time to help Pat
out of the runabout.
"What's all the trouble?" she asked him, a little sharply.
"Oh, I don't know," he replied, vaguely. "We just thought you might be
stuck over there, and couldn't get back."
"No fear," she returned, and laughed a little. "Mr. Zzyx has too much
common sense for that. The way he handles the boat is simply marvelous.
It was real excitement. I wouldn't have missed the ride--not for
anything!"
"All the same," McGinity remarked, "it was lucky for you, perhaps, that
I got here in time--that is, in case anything did happen."
Pat waved that off with a light gesture, and turned to me. "How does
Uncle Livingston feel about it?" she inquired.
"I was pretty well excited myself, Pat," I replied; "uneasy-like."
"I simply wanted to show Mr. Zzyx that I'm not afraid to be alone with
him, and that I'm a good sport besides," Pat explained.
"It's bad business," said McGinity, "any way you look at it. Matter of
fact, I think Mr. Zzyx is bad business."
"I don't see it," Pat retorted.
It was not until an hour later, when I found myself alone with Pat,
that I learned the truth about the situation, although I was convinced
from the first that she had deliberately overplayed her attitude of
indifference to danger.
"I was nearly scared to death," she confessed. "I did not miss Niki
until we were well on our way to the island. Mr. Zzyx showed by his
actions that he wanted me to tie up the boat, and go ashore with him,
but I wouldn't budge. If he had remained there, at the dock, a minute
longer, I would have yelled, screamed--jumped overboard. But--" she
concluded, as she tightened her grasp of my arm, "never mind what I
felt--Bob mustn't suspect."
In other words, she was still concealing her fear of Mr. Zzyx lest
something might happen to spoil McGinity's news stories, and remove
him from our midst. For some weeks now, he had been assigned by his
paper to "cover" Mr. Zzyx's every movement, and to report all the news
developments in connection with Henry's theories about Mars. This
necessitated his remaining at the castle.
The Daily Recorder, however, long since, had announced in its editorial
columns that while it printed all the news concerning the recent
Martian revelations, the publishers assumed no responsibility for
their veracity, and their readers were left to render a verdict in
accordance with the facts. This was a little raw on Henry, I thought.
Anyhow, the incident of the runabout was forgotten in the excitement of
the following day, when the Swedish-born Mayor of New York, His Honor,
Oscar Swenson, gave an official reception for Mr. Zzyx at the City
Hall. And what happened there became local history.
There was a large crowd outside our lodge-gate as we drove off, in an
open car; and all along the way, in the suburbs, and through the city,
to the downtown district, police reserves had to be called out to
control the vast throngs which lined our route.
It was a triumphal procession through the city. Mr. Zzyx waved to the
people in response to their loud huzzas. From the clouds of ticker-tape
and confetti that descended upon us, he collected a great quantity. He
and Henry, sitting in the rear seat, were knee-deep in it by the time
we reached the City Hall. On our way, while the procession was held
up by cross-town traffic, I bought a raspberry lollypop from a street
vendor for Mr. Zzyx. Henry frowned on this as very undignified, but Mr.
Zzyx sucked it with great enjoyment. His actions reminded me of a small
boy at his first circus.
The day was perfect--the air cool and crisp. We found City Hall plaza
one vast sea of faces. As we passed through a barrage of cameramen, a
Swedish chorus burst into song; and we had no sooner taken our places
on the steps, beside the Mayor, scores of other city officials, and
many notable invited guests, when several hundred Swedish gymnasts
entertained us with feats of physical prowess.
I wished that Jane and Pat had come with us, but they both had elected
to remain at home, and enjoy the happenings at the City Hall through
the medium of the radio and television.
Mayor Swenson is a tall, gaunt, rosy-cheeked Swede, but his head
only reached to the shoulders of Mr. Zzyx when they stepped in front
of the microphone and television transmission instruments. Niki had
accompanied us as the Martian's bodyguard, and never left his side.
He carried an automatic pistol, ready for any emergency, as I learned
afterwards.
It was not my first experience of an official reception at the City
Hall, but many years had intervened since I attended the last one.
Although I was very familiar with the great changes that had taken
place, politically, in the city administration, this first close
personal contact with the Mayor, the Board of Aldermen, and the
various Commissioners, was in the nature of a shock. There was not one
single Irishman in the Aldermanic board, nor even a Jew. The board was
composed mostly of Chinese, Turks, Filipinos, and Bulgarians, and one
Eskimo, who had entered politics after graduating with honors from
Princeton University.
Amid this gathering of mixed nationalities, Mr. Zzyx was an outstanding
figure. As time passed, he grew restless, and kept running a long,
hairy finger around his immaculate collar as though it choked him. He
was attired in a formal cutaway coat and striped trousers, topped with
a silk hat, which he wore at an angle that gave him a rather rakish
appearance. He looked to me exactly like a huge, over-stuffed piece of
furniture, with the hair sticking out.
A breathless hush fell upon the thousands as the Mayor raised his hand
to command silence. His voice sounded a bit squeaky through the loud
speakers, not thunderous, as I had anticipated. I took notes of his
speech, which follows:
"I t'ank it's about time I introduced the city's distinguished visitor
from Mars." (A pause until the cheering had subsided.) "I bane
t'anking as I stood here that Mr. Zzyx is probably the most unique
visitor the great city of New York has ever welcomed, officially,
yah?" (More applause.) "Some of you no doubt bane t'anking that he
is a great fakir. My wife and me, we bane having an argument about
this. My wife, she t'anks he's just a big monkey that's got loose from
some zoo." (Laughter.) "When I ask our good friend, Mr. Henry Royce,"
(Mayor's voice lost in a tumult of cheers)--"when I ask him what he
bane t'anking about Mr. Zzyx, and his coming in a rocket, on a beach
out on Long Island, he only shakes his head, and says he knows next to
noddings; and I t'ank he's just as much fooled as the rest of us. But
whether our distinguished guest comes from Mars or the moon, I bane
t'anking we must hold fast to our traditions, and bestow on him the key
to our great city of fifteen million people--yah? Therefore, it is with
the greatest pleasure that I confer such an honor upon Mr. Zzyx, the
jungle man from Mars."
So saying, the Mayor handed an important-looking scroll to Mr. Zzyx,
who took it, and immediately unfolded it and began to look for
pictures. Not finding any, he passed it over to Henry, at whose signal,
Niki stepped forward to superintend Mr. Zzyx's introduction at the
microphone.
Our Martian visitor made a better showing at the microphone than I had
expected. I did not know then that for several days previous to the
reception, Niki had coached him in the use of the instrument. First, he
peered curiously into it, then he stuck his finger in, as though he
had seen some imprisoned insect inside.
Suddenly, he began to chatter, and then, just as suddenly, he stopped.
Hearing his own voice amplified through the loud speakers seemed to
have startled him. After Niki had patted him reassuringly on the arm,
he burst into chatter again, concluding with the only word he could
pronounce--"Spaghet!" He seemed to spit the word into the microphone,
which sent the crowd into convulsions of laughter and cheers.
That practically ended the official city reception. After stepping into
our car, Mr. Zzyx further amused the crowd by smoking a cigarette,
and tipping his hat to the ladies, another trick Niki had taught him.
On the return trip to Long Island, he was greeted with even greater
acclaim than had been shown him earlier in the day.
We found Pat in a state of excitement. Mrs. Cornelius Van Dyk, she
said, had telephoned during our absence, to announce that she was
giving a dinner for Mr. Zzyx on the following Monday. After dinner,
she planned to take Mr. Zzyx to the opening performance of the winter
season at the Metropolitan-Civic Opera House.
Naturally, Pat was excited about this; we all were. Mrs. Van Dyk is
the last word in fashionable exclusiveness in New York society; even
European royalty is more accessible.