"We've canvassed the medical profession from Brookline to Everett,
including the boys on Scollay Square and a bouquet of fellows who
aren't too squeamish about their income. Not a sign. Furthermore, that
feather specimen was telephotoed to the more-complete libraries at New
York, Chicago, Washington, and Berkeley. The Audubon Society has been
consulted, as well as have most of the big ornithologists in the world.
The sum total is this:
"That feather is strictly unlike anything known. The skin is human--or
as one dermatologist put it, is as human as possible considering that
it is growing feathers instead of hair. The blood is the same story."
Doc nodded. "Now what?" he repeated, though the sense of his words was
different.
"We wait. Boy, there's a big scareline in all the papers. The _Press_
is hinting that the guy is from outer space, having been told that
there were intelligent humans here by that series of atom bomb
explosions."
"If we were really intelligent, we could get along with one another
without atom bombs," grunted the Doc.
"Well, the _Sphere_ claims that the character is a mutant resulting
from atom bomb radiation by-products, or something. He quotes the
trouble that the photographic manufacturers are having with radioactive
specks in their plants. The _Tribune_ goes even further. He thinks the
guy is an advance spy for an invasion from outer space, because his
gang of feather-bearing humans are afraid to leave any world run loose
with atom bombs.
"The ultraconservative _Events_ even goes so far as to question the
possibility of a feather-bearing man growing to full manhood without
having some record of it. Based on that premise, they build an outer
space yarn about it, too."
Doc grunted. "Used to be invasions from Mars," he said.
"They're smarter now," explained McDowell. "Seems as how the bright
boys claim that life of humanoid varieties couldn't evolve on any
planet of this system but the Earth. Therefore if it is alien, it must
come from one of the stars. If it came from Mars it would be green
worms, or seven-legged octopuses. Venus, they claim, would probably
sprout dinosaurs or a gang of talking walleyed pike. Spinach, I calls
it."
Doc smiled. "Notice that none of 'em is claiming that they have the
truth? It's all conjecture so far."
"Trouble is that I'm the fall guy," complained McDowell. "It landed
in my lap and now I'm it--expected to unravel it myself or be the
laughingstock of the country, Canada, and the affiliations of the
Associated Press."
* * * * *
The phone rang, and McDowell groaned. "Some other guy wanting to climb
on the wagon with us. Been ringing all morning, from one screwbell
or another with theories, ideas, un-helpful suggestions as to how to
trap the alien, and so forth. My own opinion is to treat him nice,
apologize for our rather fool behavior, and see that he don't take a
bad statement home with him. If he tells 'em about us from what he's
seen--Hello," he bawled into the phone.
"I am Mrs. Donovan, on Tremont Street. I wanted to report that the
fellow with the feathers on his head used to pass my window every
morning on his way to work."
"Fine," said McDowell, unconvinced. "Will you answer me three
questions?"
"Certainly."
"First, how do you know--seems he never took his hat off?"
"Well, he was large and he acted suspicious--"
"Sure," growled McDowell, hanging up the phone.
He turned again to Doc. "It's been like this. People who think they've
seen him; people who are sure they've had him in for lunch, almost. Yet
they missed calling about a character growing feathers instead of hair
until there's a big fuss--just as though a guy with a head covered with
feathers was quite the ordinary thing until he takes a swing at a guy
in a saloon."