"I'd like to hear more about it," I said. "But if you're not going to
play with us--"
"Oh, I'll play with you," he beamed. "I can talk to _you_. _You_
understand."
Thank heaven!
* * * * *
Heaven lasted for just three days. During those seventy-two golden
hours the melodious tinkling of The Eye's cash register was as
constant as that of Santa's sleigh bells.
John became the hero of tourists, spacemen, and Martians, but
nevertheless he remained stubbornly aloof. He was quiet, moody,
playing his _Zloomph_ automatically. He'd reveal definite indications
of belonging to Homo Sapiens only when drinking beer and talking about
his holes.
Goon-Face was still cautious.
"Contract?" he wheezed. "Maybe. We see. Eef feedleman stay, we have
contract. He stay, yes?"
"Oh, sure," I said. "He'll stay--just as long as you want him."
"Den he sign contract, too. No beeg feedle, no contract."
"Sure. We'll get him to sign it." I laughed hollowly. "Don't worry,
Mr. Ke-teeli."
Just a few minutes later tragedy struck.
A reporter from the _Marsport Times_ ambled into interview the Man of
The Hour. The interview, unfortunately, was conducted over the bar and
accompanied by a generous guzzling of beer. Fat Boy, Hammer-Head and I
watched from a table. Knowing John as we did, a silent prayer was in
our eyes.
"This is the first time he's talked to anybody," Fat Boy breathed.
"I--I'm scared.
"Nothing can happen," I said, optimistically. "This'll be good
publicity."
We watched.
John murmured something. The reporter, a paunchy, balding man,
scribbled furiously in his notebook.
John yawned, muttered something else. The reporter continued to
scribble.
John sipped beer. His eyes brightened, and he began to talk more
rapidly.
The reporter frowned, stopped writing, and studied John curiously.
John finished his first beer, started on his second. His eyes were
wild, and he was talking more and more rapidly.
"He's doing it," Hammer-Head groaned. "He's telling him!"
I rose swiftly. "We better get over there. We should have known
better--"
We were too late. The reporter had already slapped on his hat and was
striding to the exit. John turned to us, dazed, his enthusiasm
vanishing like air from a punctured balloon.
"He wouldn't listen," he said, weakly. "I tried to tell him, but he
said he'd come back when I'm sober. I'm sober now. So I quit. I've got
to find my hole."
I patted him on the back. "No, John, we'll help you. Don't quit.
We'll--well, we'll help you."
"We're working on a plan, too," said Fat Boy in a burst of
inspiration. "We're going to make a more scientific approach."
"How?" John asked.
Fat Boy gulped.
"Just wait another day," I said. "We'll have it worked out. Just be
patient another day. You can't leave now, not after all your work."
"No, I guess not," he sighed. "I'll stay--until tomorrow."
* * * * *
All night the thought crept through my brain like a teasing spider:
_What can we do to make him stay? What can we tell him? What, what,
what?_
Unable to sleep the next morning, I left John to his snoring and went
for an aspirin and black coffee. All the possible schemes were
drumming through my mind: finding an Earth blonde to capture John's
interest, having him electro-hypnotized, breaking his leg, forging a
letter from this mythical university telling him his theory was proved
valid and for him to take a nice long vacation now. He was a screwball
about holes and force fields and dimensional worlds but for that music
of his I'd baby him the rest of his life.
It was early afternoon when I trudged back to my apartment.
John was squatting on the living room floor, surrounded by a forest
of empty beer bottles. His eyes were bulging, his hair was even wilder
than usual, and he was swaying.
"John!" I cried. "You're drunk!"
His watery eyes squinted at me. "No, not drunk. Just scared. I'm awful
scared!"
"But you mustn't be scared. That reporter was just stupid. We'll help
you with your theory."