Stranger in a Strange Land

Caxton said loudly, so that others waiting would hear, "that Caxton of the Crow's Nest is here with a lawyer and a Fair Witness to interview Valentine Michael Smith, the Man from Mars."
                She was startled almost out of her professional hauteur. But she recovered and said frostily, "I shall inform him. Will you be seated, please?"
                "Thanks, I'll wait right here."
                They waited. Frisby broke out a cigar, Cavendish waited with the calm patience of one who has seen all manner of good and evil and now counts them both the same, Caxton uttered and tried to keep from biting his nails. At last the snow queen behind the desk announced, "Mr. Berquist will see you."
                "Berquist? Gil Berquist?"
                "I believe his name is Mr. Gilbert Berquist."
                Caxton thought about it-Gil Berquist was one of Secretary Douglas's large squad of stooges, or "executive assistants." He specialized in chaperoning official visitors. "I don't want to see Berquist; I want the Director."
                But Berquist was already coming out, hand shoved out before him, greeter's grin plastered on his face. "Benny Caxton! How are you, chum? Long time and so forth. Still peddling the same old line of hoke?" He glanced at the Fair Witness, but his expression admitted nothing.
                Ben shook hands briefly. "Same old hoke, sure. What are you doing here, Gil?"
                "If I ever manage to get Out of public service I'm going to get me a column, too-nothing to do but phone in a thousand words of rumors each day and spend the rest of the day in debauchery. I envy you, Ben."
                "I said, 'What are you doing here, Gil?' I want to see the Director, then get five minutes with the Man from Mars. I didn't come here for your high-level brush off."
                "Now, Ben, don't take that attitude. I'm here because Dr. Broemer has been driven almost crazy by the press-so the Secretary General sent me over to take some of the load off his shoulders."
                "Okay. I want to see Smith."
                "Ben, old boy, don't you realize that every reporter, special correspondent, feature writer, commentator, free-lance, and sob sister wants the same thing? You winchells are just one squad in an army; if we let you all have your way, you would kill off the poor jerk in twenty-four hours. Polly Peepers was here not twenty minutes ago. She wanted to interview him on love life among the Martians." Berquist threw up both hands and looked helpless.
                "I want to see Smith, Do I see him, or don't I?"
                "Ben, let's find a quiet place where we can talk over a long, tall glass. You can ask me anything you want to."
                "I don't want to ask you anything; I want to see Smith. By the way, this is my attorney, Mark Frisby-Biddle & Frisby." As was customary, Ben did not introduce the Fair Witness; they all pretended that he was not present.
                "I've met Frisby," Berquist acknowledged. "How's your father, Mark? Sinuses still giving him fits?"
                "About the same."
                "This foul Washington climate. Well, come along, Ben. You, too,Mark."
                "Hold it," said Caxton. "I don't want to interview you, Gil. I want to see Valentine Michael Smith. I'm here as a member of the press, directly representing the Post syndicate and indirectly representing over two hundred million readers. Do I see him? If I don't, say so out loud and state your legal authority for refusing me."
                Berquist sighed. "Mark, will you tell this keyhole historian that he can't go busting into a sick man's bedroom just because he has a syndicated column? Valentine Smith made one public appearance just last night -against his physician's advice I might add. The man is entitled to peace and quiet and a chance to build up his strength and get oriented. That appearance last night was enough, more than enough."
                "There are rumors," Caxton said carefully, "that the appearance last night was a fake."
                Berquist stopped smiling. "Frisby," he said coldly, "do you want to advise your client on the law concerning slander?"
                "Take it easy, Ben."
                "I know the law on